"Your face is all red."
"Is it? I don't suppose I'm used to dancing."
Liar, you can't help but think. The first moment you laid eyes on her in your shut away ballroom she was bowing deeply to some imaginary dance partner. You don't believe, not for a single second, that the delightfully pink blush staining her cheeks is because she's not used to exercise. No, not the Governess who gives you a wide grin and a shrug when you catch her racing down hallways and sliding down bannisters, nor the Governess who sometimes comes to dinner with a smudge of dirt on her nose after an afternoon of chasing your screaming children around the grounds in a game of football. Not even the Governess who skidded into the dining room on that first evening, not even slightly out of breath.
It's something else, you think. You've seen this look before. Big blue eyes shining bright in the dim light; intense earnestness, sincere and open, filled to the brim with what you think might just be adoration. She's looking at you like she can see straight through you.
You saw it the night of the puppet show, the night she pressed her guitar into your hands and asked you to sing for your children, for her. She had leant against that mock theatre, cheeks pink from exertion; the way she looked at you as you praised her ability to both wrangle this level of teamwork from your children and yodel had your stomach tied in one of your sailor's knots.
"They're your children, Captain."
That they are. However, by the look you could sense Elsa boring into the back of your head, you think the Fräulein might be the only person in the room to have missed how overly emphatic your praise was for their governess.
You led Elsa out of the room. The Fräulein followed. You had shut the door on the scene, metaphorically and literally, until you had the opportunity to replay the ten second interaction over and over in your head in the privacy of your study and spend hours mulling over if she thought the silly little nod-slash-bow you gave her was silly.
Then, with barely any time for you to understand what just happened, she's in front of you again with one of those sweet, genuine smiles on her face, her guitar offered in her outstretched arms. How were you meant to resist the eight of them? Your children looking up at you, begging you to sing; their governess gazing up at you like that? Like any man would have, you conceded. Guitar is not your strongest instrument (piano and violin, however, are different stories), but you made it work. You sang to them a lullaby your nurse sang to you as a child. A love song to your motherland.
She'd looked at you funny then too. Smiling blue eyes and a halo of blonde hair; pressed against the wall she looked an angel from one of the frescoes on your ballroom walls. It was like she was trying to blend herself into the scenery. She had failed, of course, it had become increasingly more often that your eyes could find her anywhere.
And then all had changed. She'd almost frowned at you, and not for the first time you had no idea what was going on in that funny little head of hers. She looked confused and pensive, and dare you say it, almost scared. A lesser version of the way she had looked at you just now when she'd pulled away from you, like she was frightened of her thoughts.
You saw again it later that week, the night you pressed a glass of her favourite drink into her hands without a second thought, not even bothering to ask her if she'd like one. It was during one of those meetings you have three evenings a week, the two of you alone in your study and she'd tell you all the wonderful things she'd learnt about your children, all the wonderful things that she wanted you to know about them and just couldn't wait to share with you. You can't help but feel terrible even now that you missed the last four years of their lives and you need someone else to fill you in on how Friedrich liked red apples but not green ones or how many teeth little Marta has lost already.
She was wearing that light blue dress again, the one that makes your pulse quicken, the one made of the material that you spent almost half an hour deliberating buying for her. It was almost ten o'clock and you had risen from one of the plush armchairs and walked across the room to the small collection of bottles you keep on a shelf behind your desk. You'd poured not one, but two drinks absentmindedly. You hadn't even realised you'd pressed the glass into her hand until she stopped mid sentence and you were almost shocked at the sudden silence. She hadn't realised you'd been paying attention all those times Max cajoled her into having a drink after dinner. Of course you had though, Brigitta's not the only one who notices everything. Brandy with a little lemonade. She'd stared at you for a second, mouth slightly agape, before shifting her eyes to the glass resting on her knee before continuing. "What I was saying was..."
The moment was over, but you'd seen it. Her cheeks were flushed ever so slightly in the light of the fire. It was the same look though. Her eyes were as wide as they are now, the same intense earnestness, the same sincerity and appreciation. You just hadn't been sure what that look had meant.
You realise what you can see now in her eyes. You think she just might be in love with you, or at least, has some kind of crush on you. You don't know if she's realised it yet. You wonder if she's even been in love before; ever been held before, the way you held her just now: like she's the centre of someone's universe and the only thing that matters at all is the feeling of her hand in his. The thought makes your chest tighten and your stomach drop. You remember what it's like to be twenty-three years old. You were certainly no nun-to-be, not by a long shot, but you remember those overwhelming urges to be close to another person, to touch them and-
"That was beautifully done. What a lovely couple you make."
Elsa.
Your stomach drops again, your heart races, and you think this must be exactly how Kurt feels when Cook catches him sneaking more food when he's meant to be in bed. Like you've had your hands somewhere they shouldn't have been. Your mind is racing a hundred miles an hour trying to comprehend exactly what just happened. You take Elsa by the arm and lead her back into the heaving ballroom.
"All that needless worrying, Georg. You thought you wouldn't find a friend at the party." This jibe (like it's predecessor) isn't as subtle or as sweet as she thinks it is. Perhaps that was it's point. You opt to give Elsa the benefit of the doubt.
Still, you can't stop yourself from looking back towards the courtyard as if the Fräulein is still there frozen in time, gazing lovingly at you with her hands obscuring her pink cheeks. You wish to God your heart would stop beating so damn fast. If anything, you're the one not used to dancing. You miss the the look Elsa shoots you, not realising she's on exactly the same page as you, if not a paragraph ahead. She know exactly what's happening here, even if you do not.
"Bit chilly out tonight isn't it?"
It had rained from mid morning to mid afternoon and anyone would have thought Cook had forgot to prepare desert by the way your children had moped around the house. Yes Marta, the party was still going ahead. No Gretl, no one was getting lost or deciding not to come after all because of a little bit of rain. The rain earlier in the day had resulted in a clear, star filled sky but the air lacked the humidity that was a staple of European summers, and though probably still around eighteen degrees, the air had a chill.
"Oh I don't know, seemed rather warm to me."
You're starting to lose patience, but ever the gentlemen you smother your growing irritation. You whistle a tune through your teeth and smile at her, one of those disingenuous, potentially withering toothy smiles that you you normally save for sassy, disobedient subordinates. You really can't wait for this night to be over.
She appears at the doorway and you half chase her out of the room in a somewhat detached, dignified kind of way (but not at all). You're half way to the door when it hits you. You're in love with her too.
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