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Chapter Eight

There was something different about Georg these days. He seemed distracted, even more than usual. This seemed to be true, even as she found him to be strangely more amendable than usual. He took her to concerts, to dinners at extravagant restaurants, accompanied her with much less protest to social engagements he would usually have despised.

Just the other day, Georg had telephoned her in the evening to dress her best, then picked her up an hour later for a surprise dinner at Vienna's newest Michelin starred restaurant. He'd been particularly attentive that night, ordered a bottle of vintage champagne for no reason whatsoever, and they'd had a lovely time dancing the evening away, despite his scorn for dancing.

Elsa Schraeder couldn't quite put her finger on it. She had him exactly where she wanted him, and yet she found herself thinking wistfully of the days when he'd still lived in Salzburg. The early days had not been easy. Georg would be present one day then gone for weeks, retreating into a space impossible to follow unless you measured in alcohol per volume. And then there were the visits where he'd dash off on her without so much as a warning, rushing back to Aigen to deal with some family crisis or another. But each time Georg emerged from his drink induced oblivion, each time he returned defeated from Aigen, Elsa was there. It wasn't that Elsa had to work particularly hard, she only had to wait. And slowly, things had improved. When he was in town, Georg would frequently drop by her house early in the morning for a coffee or show up after dinner for a late brandy. They used to call each other on the telephone and talk long into the night. When Georg was present, he was on point; a titillating conversationalist who could be wickedly charming one moment and rousingly intense the next. Sometimes, Elsa might think he had all but forgotten he was talking to a woman, and in the next moment he'd be a perfect gentleman. Their relationship had always been unconventional, and she'd liked that. She imagined things would only get better once he moved to Vienna. But on the contrary, Georg seemed to become more reserved now that he was closer, less familiar, somehow. Elsa found herself second-guessing his intentions, and tried to convince herself he was simply following a more orthodox approach to their relationship. After all, he was a busy man, with seven children to manage.

And these days, when everything seemed to be going so smoothly, he seemed even more distant still.

She'd been so confident in them, so sure of their future together. They made a perfect couple, garnering admiration everywhere they went. Elsa had, for the first time since Arthur's death, felt assured of the way forward. And surely with her help, Georg had managed to put the darkness that'd consumed him for years behind him. But part of her wondered, would Georg always feel like a bit of a stranger to her? Was that the price they had to pay if they were to become each other's second marriage? That had not proved a problem the last time – Arthur had been devoted to her, and for him she had tolerated everything – and she never imagined it would be a problem with Georg.

She knew he was pleased to have the horses nearby again and went riding nearly every day – sometimes for a quick ride in the early morning, sometimes he'd be gone the entire afternoon. Perhaps having this release was what led him to be more agreeable with her social agenda, but it also seemed to be taking him further away from her. The hours under the sun had given him a very handsome tan, which she found greatly appealing. True to his word, Georg hadn't mentioned a word about Augusta, whether they had ever met or spoken, and Elsa did not dare ask. If something didn't sit well with him, he would have told her, wouldn't he? But deep down she knew – he would not.

Elsa hardly expected Georg to be excited when she called him in the evenings to make arrangements for Liesl's debutante ball. He'd never been one to exclaim over flowers or colour palettes – though he seemed to have impeccable taste despite his disinterest – but Elsa thought he could have mustered a little interest in the menu, or the excellent spread of hors d'oeuvres she'd devised. He didn't have much inclination to mull over the guestlist either, claiming she knew Vienna's circles better than he. He had only been adamant she not invite anyone with affiliation to the Nazis. The only thing Georg had shown any interest in was the wine list. It all left her feeling incredibly uncertain by the time Liesl's appointment with Herr Gainsberger rolled around.

But Elsa pushed forward determinedly. If the ball went well, if she could give Liesl the night of every young woman's dreams, then he would see, the world would see, that Elsa Schraeder could be an excellent mother to his children. Surely that was now that missing piece? Surely then, no one would question her place by his side. Not him. Not her.

He was waiting for them at her house when she returned home from the couturier with Liesl. At least Elsa was making good progress with Liesl. The girl was pleasant and delighted by everything. She'd had Rolfe pick her up and drop them off at Gainsberger's atelier this morning, on his way to a meeting downtown. He had always been somewhat of a shy and quiet boy, but Elsa was interested to see Liesl's lively and outgoing chatter about school and friends seemed to bring him out of his shell. Like her father, Liesl too, had trusted Elsa's tastes when it'd come to designing her gown, but at least she'd seemed excited about it.

"The dress is just spectacular, absolutely worth of a princess," Elsa told Georg now, pouring herself a drink from the bar cart. She did not normally drink in the mornings, but Georg was lounging on her couch, tumbler in hand. "But then, the runner is white, and I'm terribly afraid it'll dull the colour of the material," she mused as she sat down next to Georg.

He turned to her with a smile and a sure quip on his tongue. Not to be distracted, she preempted him with a look, letting her hand rest lightly against his knee. "Wait. I know just the thing. We'll sprinkle petals along the runner. I'll bring a swatch for the florist to colour match – yes, that'll balance things out nicely."

Georg raised his eyebrows, shrugging feebly, but Elsa only laughed. Pity, with his sharp eyes and quick mouth, he could never get away with acting the clueless man.

Liesl sat down in a chair across from him. "Oh, I know sleek and fitted is all the rage now," Elsa told the room at large, having already told Liesl the very same, "but Gaisberger knows just what he's doing. Nobody will be able to take their eyes of you, my dear."

Liesl smiled. Elsa peered at her. Under that peaches and cream skin the girl did look a little peaky, Elsa decided, and called for Lena to bring refreshments. She'd forgotten how tiring the couturier could be when you weren't used to it. All those fittings and all that standing, a bewildering array of choices that needed to be tried and tested.

Georg smiled at his daughter, suddenly looking very much like a doting father. "Did the two of you have a good time?"

Liesl nodded. "Yes, father. But I never imagined it would be such hard work. I don't think I should like it very much if I had to do it all the time."

Georg roared with laughter – Liesl had evidently said the right thing – and even Elsa smiled indulgently. Tastes change over time. Il faut souffrir pour être belle. Beauty is pain, and Liesl would learn that soon enough.

"Do you think Louisa can be convinced when it's her turn?" Georg asked Liesl, still chortling.

"She'd hate it," Liesl said emphatically. "Baroness Schraeder will have to be very persuasive."

Georg met Elsa's eyes. "Extremely persuasive," he added, winking at her.

Louisa, Liesl had told her, was her next oldest sister, and from what Elsa gathered was something of a tomboy. She did not much relish the idea of dragging an unwilling girl through a dress fitting, but she still had a few years before she'd have to think of that. If it came to that, she added.

Georg seemed to be in a good mood today. He'd stood to give her a warm kiss as they'd walked in, and he'd draped an arm loosely around her shoulders as she'd joined him on the couch.

"Speaking of persuasion, Georg, I did want to speak to you about something." She gave him her best entreating gaze. She knew he would see through it at once, but also knew he wasn't immune to its effect.

"Anything, darling."

"I sent out most of the invitations this week, only I learned just today that Herr Zeller is in town, and – "

"No Elsa." His voice went from indulgent to sharp in an instant. "I'm not having Nazi sympathizers at my daughter's party."

"But darling, he's not only the mayor of Salzburg, his influence is becoming – "

"One of the best things about no longer being in Salzburg is not having to deal with that moronic sycophant. No, Elsa, I will not allow it."

Elsa sighed inwardly and wished all of a sudden he didn't care quite as much. Military men, they were all so patriotic. Arthur too, had loathed the growing Nazi movement.

She laid a hand tentatively on his arm. "Georg, couldn't we possibly set aside politics for one night?"

"Set aside? How do you propose I set aside who I am?"

She recognized the steel in his glare. Elsa paused, knowing she needed a different tack. She wanted Zeller at the party. He was the most prominent man in Vienna, these days. "It would be a great snub not to at least send an invitation while he is in town. And darling, there's a good chance he won't be around for the party."

"Call me spiteful, but I wouldn't mind snubbing Zeller in the slightest."

"Oh Georg, I know you don't care for him. But it will tarnish the whole event." Georg frowned, and Elsa flipped her trump card. "You wouldn't want Liesl's ball to be remembered for that, Georg?"

He stiffened, silent for a long moment. "Fine," he snapped. "Invite him. But keep him far away from me. And that large floral wreath you were going to hang by the entrance?"

Elsa started, surprised he had even taken note of it. "Yes, Georg?"

"I want that replaced with the Austrian flag."

Elsa nodded. If it would please him. Nobody would spend very long in the foyer anyway. The entire thing might have blown over had Rolfe not walked in at that very moment. Even Elsa, who had long ago given up trying to decipher the fashion trends of adolescent boys, could only stare in astonishment.

Georg felt restless, waiting for Elsa and his daughter to finish their shopping, although he couldn't quite figure out why.

Of course, he knew why, in the immediate sense. He'd been thinking about Maria, had felt something for Maria last night that had been completely unexpected. He did not know what to do about it, but he knew sulking in Elsa Schraeder's tastefully decorated sitting room plying himself with whiskey was not how he wanted to go about doing it.

But what choice did he have? Elsa had generously taken his daughter under her wing – had arranged a meeting with the couturier that had Liesl so excited she was awake by dawn. Georg knew this, because he hardly slept at all last night. The least he could do was meet them here when they returned.

He had been neglecting Elsa lately. Even before last night, he'd been preoccupied about the whole affair concerning her husband's first marriage, despite having assured her he wouldn't be. He'd been thinking about Maria, when he shouldn't have been. And then, all the discussions about Liesl's ball had left him churlish and on edge. Restless.

The truth was Georg had no interest in planning this party for Liesl. He was grateful to Elsa for her enthusiasm over Liesl's introduction into Viennese society, for her careful attention to detail, felt guilty for his lack of support. It was her way of doing all she could for him. But the fact of the matter was, the entire ordeal felt like an elaborate show of packaging his daughter up in a beautiful dress and delivering her into the arms of eligible upper crust men.

Bachelors dandies. Drinkers of brandies. What did she know of those?

Being asked to select music for the occasion. To pick a five-course meal for it and wine to pair. And wouldn't it be a marvelous idea to coordinate his boutonniere with her corsage?

It was stifling, and already Georg wished it were over.

It drove Georg to pour himself a drink while he waited. He let his mind drift to Maria, unsure whether thinking of her would bring a sense of relief he so craved, or whether it would make him feel worse.

He shouldn't have kissed her, that much he was certain. He had no business kissing girls who were the daughters of his contemporaries, taking advantage of her naivety, her complete trust in him. He could still feel her curling into him, her soft body melting into his as though she belonged there, as though, for the first time since he'd known her, she didn't have a care in the world. And he had found himself completely and utterly at her mercy.

That feeling of complete surrender had stunned him more than his body's response to her lithe form against his. That she'd slotted so perfectly against him – nestled between his thighs – and smelt of something earthly and feminine under that scent of laundry detergent had sent blood flooding into his lower belly. The only thing that prevented him from reacting then and there was the realization that she was uncomfortable so close to him, and he had to put her at ease.

Georg had not expected to feel that way. Did not know he was still capable of feeling that way. He supposed the increase in fresh air and physical activity of late had awoken a vitality he had forgotten he had. And it was not improbable, Georg thought, that the velvety twilight of her countryside and the gentle rhythm together on horseback might have led to that feeling of inexplicable tenderness between them.

Georg was certainly not out to seduce guileless young women. And surely Maria would be well on her way to the convent before she took an interest in a man of his station.

And yet, Maria's admission that she wanted to become a nun – it had his hackles up faster than he could react. For heaven's sake, was he, Georg von Trapp, jealous of this claim God had over her? It was madness, but the very thought of that vibrant, mischievous, damaged, sensual woman in his arms living life cloistered behind stone walls, hiding from the world, giving herself to serving God… it made him want to kiss her senseless – or kiss some sense into her.

At that untimely conjuncture, Elsa and Liesl walked in.

And Georg found himself feeling instantly guilty, the image of kissing Maria juxtaposed against a tired but triumphant Liesl, and Elsa looking breezy and beautiful in a coral coloured dress, obviously happy to see him.

God, what was he doing?

Elsa was an unselfish woman. She was generous with her time, and non-possessive with his. She never asked too much of him, and certainly never what he couldn't give. If he suddenly found that he had more to give after all, then it fell on him to give it to this woman, who had been infinitely patient with him, even at his worst.

This was where his life was, Georg had to remind himself. This was where it was heading. And he would do well not to be a cantankerous old man.

For Liesl's sake, he would put up with preparations for the ball.

For Elsa's sake, he would put up with that scum Zeller. Even he could understand that for her to throw a party and not invite such an essential guest was an impossibility.

But then Elsa's son Rolfe had walked into the room. Georg had met him on a few occasions. Rolfe was not an adolescent of many words or many expressions – not quite sullen, but not exactly an exciting conversationalist. Georg had thought vaguely that perhaps he ought to put in a little more effort getting to know the boy, but he hardly seemed to be home much, and Elsa rarely spoke about him. This morning, Georg felt particularly charitable. He might even have encouraged the boy to sit with them, were it not for what he was wearing. A crisp white shirt, an unmistakable black necktie. A uniform of the group that was formally banned in Austria, but hardly enforced and even encouraged.

Elsa's son was a member of the Hitler Youth.

"Rolfe!" Elsa and Liesl both cried at the same time.

Georg wasn't aware he had leapt to his feet. Wasn't aware of the look on his face.

He was dimly aware Elsa had risen at his side. Her heard her low throaty voice through the roaring in his ears suggesting her son show Liesl the new dahlias in the garden. He was vaguely aware of his daughter leaving the room, with that… Nazi.

And then Elsa was calling his name. Georg.

Georg.

Her face came into focus. She looked anxious, and he saw something in her grey eyes he'd never seen before. Fear.

Georg.

He took a deep breath, bringing his fury to heel with military discipline. "How long? How long has he been involved?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Did you know?"

Elsa hesitated. "I knew he was going to meetings. There was talk… But I didn't know it was so political. I didn't know he felt so strongly…" She sighed.

"It's illegal. That sort of thing has no place in Austria."

"Georg." Her voice was soft, placating. "He is just a boy."

His control slipped. "And I am just an Austrian."

She didn't blink at his whip-like retort. "I know you don't like it. His father wouldn't have, either. But darling, what's going to happen is going to happen."

"Elsa, just make sure it doesn't happen to you!"

"We're surrounded by it, Georg. We have been for years. German sentiment is everywhere. Rolfe hardly knows otherwise. He can't help it – "

"Oh yes he can! He must. You must."

She shook her head. She leaned in, trying to engage him, but he felt himself recoil. Elsa stilled, and he saw weariness cross her features. "I am just a woman, Georg. Just a mother."

Georg turned away and did not answer. Her words implored him to understand, following him across the room to the window.

I am just a woman.

That a woman like Elsa, in Elsa's social position, with Elsa's wealth, considered herself without agency, without power… did Georg really want to subject Liesl, subject any of his children, to such a society?

"If it were your boys – " She flinched as he turned to look at her. "What would you do?"

He scowled. Friedrich. Kurt. His boys would never entertain the notion that they were German. They knew – all the children knew – that their father had fought for Austria. Had bled for Austria. Would have died for Austria. They were Austrian, God damnit! But then, Rolfe's father had done the same.

Oh, but Agathe – his Agathe would never have asked him to be less than he was.

Georg turned back to the window. "I can't tell you what to do, Elsa." He no longer felt angry. Only very drained.

Old.

Lonely.

Captain Georg von Trapp had never feared dying, but he did not want to die alone.

He heard her soft footsteps crossing the room, felt her touch his arm. When he didn't pull away, she came up behind him, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He could smell her faint fragrance, feel her soft curls brush his neck. He didn't know if she had come for support, or to offer it.

"Please Georg. Let's not fight about this. It's my fault, I really haven't kept a close enough eye on Rolfe lately, with everything going on. I'll talk to him. This will blow over before you know it."

Georg nodded wearily. Poor Elsa. Always trying to find the right footing, in a world that was quickly disappearing. He felt for her.

She slipped her arms around him, and he closed his eyes.

But sometimes, sometimes I don't believe I know you.