A/N: I tried to research retail/consumer habits for the era, location, and class of the von Trapps, but that proved difficult. I thought Elsa in particular would be a fan of 'sophisticated' (or yuppy :o) shopping—'modern' department stores, as opposed to a public market. I ended up probably Americanizing and modernizing the concept, which I find disappointing, but which I hope you all can stand for this chapter and the next—but as always, any criticism is welcome :o)
I'm so glad the Elsa part didn't scare anyone away! Thank you all so much for the kind feedback; it's inspiring. Speaking of which, a part in here (oh, guess which :o) was directly inspired by Amy Flo's opinion of a certain puppet.
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from Chapter 6Mutely, gazing at her with laughing eyes, his hand lifted to pull the straw out of the children's governess' hair. Her smile was warm; her hair, soft. His fingers were brushing her temple when the Baroness walked in.
*
Chapter 7
"My goodness," Elsa announced, appearing in the doorway. She moved forward beside the Captain, who, startled, was turning away from Maria. "Georg, what is the meaning of this?"
Georg chuckled, offering his arm to Elsa. "A show, my dear. And you're invited. And no, before you ask, you can't get out of it."
"A show?" Elsa replied, startled.
"Brigitta, it appears," he explained confidentially, "plans to be an actress. Will it do, Bridget?" he asked, raising his voice to his third eldest daughter, who was across the room, looking incredulously at something she was pulling out of a box. "I didn't think you wanted a puppet show, but I couldn't seem to get much else at this time of year." He didn't bother to add that the idea of puppetteering had struck him as so particularly amusing, that day their Fräulein had faced him head on, that he'd thought he'd rent the marionettes anyway, just to see if she could possibly make any use of them.
"This girl doesn't have any pupils," Brigitta said, disgust in her voice as she looked at the marionette.
"I think she's pretty," Marta said, lifting a hand to the marionette's dress.
"I think she's horrific," Brigitta said stoutly. She paused thoughtfully, and added, "I quite like her."
Georg began to laugh in earnest, watching as Gretl—wound alleviated by Liesl's kiss—pulled on the beard of one puppet, and as Friedrich scowled at Brigitta's marionette and lifted the dress, encouraging Brigitta, in turn, to kick him in the shins. "How did you get it, father?" Liesl asked, one of the cross-sections of a goat marionette in her hands as she peered down at it, her expression amused and charmed.
"Oh," the Captain replied airily. "Take requests like this to Max. That's why you love him, isn't it? He's the man who can get things. He always knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who can get him something, and that's how he gets by at all."
"Oh Georg," Elsa remonstrated, tapping him lightly on the chest. They were now back in her playing field. The children, their laughter, their jokes, Georg's obvious and pure delight—these she did not know.
"I heard that, Captain von Trapp," Max said, entering the room with a smirk. "Now you have to admit, Georg, that I am useful. You can't threaten to turn me out on my backside any more for leeching."
"We were discussing that this morning, darling," Elsa told Max gaily, laughing. "Georg was simply determined to get rid of you, but I convinced him you had your uses."
"Oh Elsa, my dear, I'm glad I have someone looking out for me in this cruel world," Max told her wryly, shaking his head. "No thanks to Georg."
"It's true. I believe he said you were—what was it?—a barnacle on his bathtub." Elsa, laughing, turned her head back to Georg, to share with him her little joking deception. Georg, however, wasn't paying attention. He had moved away from her, and was now squatting down to look Marta in the eyes.
"Well, Marta," he was saying jovially. "It's your turn today, isn't it? What were you thinking of doing?" His attention had quickly refastened on his children as she teased Max, and across the room, Elsa's laughter fell silent, her face smoothing over into an accommodating smile.
"I want—" Marta began, but broke off as she realized that most of the other children had stopped what they were doing to gather around her father—and to find out how they would be spending the day. Marta bent her head to her father's and was silent; she'd always been shy.
"Well, poppet? What is it?" he asked, his voice gentling, hand on her chin to bring her to look at him. Marta smiled sweetly and was silent.
Fräulein Maria, heretofore employed in trying to calm the children, smiled down at Marta, coming to stand on the other side of her. "Come now, Marta," Maria began encouragingly, "what have I said about speaking up?"
Marta smiled reluctantly up at her governess. "I want to go shopping," she announced, and was promptly quiet again.
Georg raised his brow at Maria. He could be upset, he supposed, that their Fräulein could get his children to talk when he himself still couldn't, but instead it touched him. He was glad, somehow, that they loved her. They trusted her; they had someone to rely on, when he wasn't there—though he had resolved that he would always be there, if they needed him, in the future. Yes, their Fräulein was good for them—but her methods with them amused him, all the same. "What have you been telling her about speaking up, Fräulein?" he asked archly, straightening, amused suspicion in his eyes as he looked once again into her own.
"To speak up when spoken to, naturally," she replied, sharing with him the lurking gleam in her eyes. He paused for a moment, merely looking at her, and then began to smile, a slow chuckle building in him at the affected innocence in her reply.
"Well!" Elsa exclaimed suddenly, smiling as she stepped closer to the children. "Shopping. At last, one of you picks something I know how to do."
The children were muttering over Marta's request. Georg hadn't noticed. Blinking, he turned back to his daughter, and Fräulein Maria turned to settle the children, who talking amongst themselves and building in volume. "Shopping, Marta?" the Captain asked his daughter. "Why on earth do you want to go shopping?"
"She wants to be a lady, and she said she should shop for her own dresses. Haven't you heard her say that before?" Brigitta said, rolling her eyes.
"I'd rather puke," Kurt said, nose wrinkling.
"Don't," Friedrich admonished.
"I'd rather puke on you," Kurt told him, and the children were then all talking at once.
"But you know I need a new dress, Father," Liesl was saying. For her turn she had wanted to go out to dine—'at a sophisticated restaurant, Father.' He had taken her alone, a simple—very expensive—father/daughter meal, but only after scowling at her dress for a moment and asking whether she didn't have another one.
"I want a pink one, like Liesl," Marta explained. "One that's twirly."
"I hate pink," Louisa said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"You hate everything," Brigitta told her derisively, and Louisa stuck out her tongue.
"I'm sure I'll know where to look, darling," Elsa was confiding in Marta, bending down to look the girl in the eyes, brushing aside wayward hair from Marta's face. Marta, in turn, was looking uncertainly at her father.
Georg, startled, looked down at Elsa. He'd promised her the day, he realized suddenly. For a moment, it had almost slipped his mind. The finer feelings she awakened in him—a wry amusement, a delicate serenity, an admiration for beauty, elegance, wit—genuine hilarity had made him forget. Even his desire had been somewhat quelled—children, for better or for worse, could have a habit of doing that. It had been such a long time since he had laughed aloud.
He stood for a moment, considering Elsa—who had, on one lonely Viennese night, when lords and ladies were laughing and he was drinking darkly in a corner, made him laugh, made him want and ache all at once, made him even love again. Georg made a snap decision. "It may not be possible, Marta," he told his daughter seriously, smiling gently. "I've promised the day to the Baroness, you see, and I'm not sure she wants to spend it shopping."
"Georg, for shame!" Elsa exclaimed, apparently delighted. "Look at her face; she's crushed. We must do what she's asked for now, Georg; you've got yourself in too deep.
"Why Elsa, my dear," Georg replied, with a small, close-lipped smile, "you would have me spoil her."
"Unmercifully," Elsa agreed, apparently certain of her own course. "What do you say, lovely?" she asked, turning back to Marta. "Would you like me to help you find a twirly pink dress?"
Marta blinked at her for a moment, and then looked up at her father. "I want Fräulein Maria to come," she said simply.
Elsa laughed half-heartedly and stood straight, while Georg chuckled softly, shaking his head. He went to take the Baroness' arm. "I'm not sure your Fräulein would want to come, Marta," Georg told her. "She seems to be a better swimmer than a shopper." He swallowed a smile and glanced at Maria.
Maria shrugged at him, smiling, and looked ruefully to Marta. "I really know nothing of it, Marta. The Baroness could surely find you something lovely. Wouldn't you like that, darling?"
At Marta's crestfallen look, Elsa laughed. "There's no way out of it, Maria; you must come along," she said, dropping Georg's arm and moving closer to Maria. The children were beginning to chat again—probably discussing the merits of pink and shopping, Georg thought, as he listened to Elsa make overtures to the governess. "They quite adore you, you know," she was saying confidentially, "and I don't blame them. I do believe I frighten them."
"Oh, I don't think they do," Maria replied hastily, and Georg wondered if he had just heard the Fräulein tell her first half-truth. "Besides, the children do so want to get better acquainted with you, and I really don't know the first thing about—"
"All the more reason to take you," Elsa insisted. "And my dear, you need an evening dress. You are quite a talented seamstress, but there's a certain wonder to store-bought clothes. You wouldn't know unless you've tried them."
Georg listened with raised brows—to a conversation he normally would not have found the least bit interesting—but Elsa, giving a governess fashion advice. . . well, it was simply something he'd never thought he'd hear. Amused—but a trifle impatient—he at last broke up the murmurs of his children and the adults with a stern, decisive voice. "It's settled, then. Fräulein, you will join Marta, the Baroness and I, and we will go buy you your dress, Marta—you too, Liesl," he added, seeing a protest building in her face. "Max? You weren't doing anything today, were you?"
"I—" Max began, brows lifted.
"Good," Georg interrupted him. "You can see to all this mess, and help the children set up the rest of their stage." Max, looking abruptly disgruntled, managed half a scowl, half a grin. "Frau Schmidt will tend the children," Georg told him wryly, laughing, "and Friedrich, you're to tend Max—he needs all the help he can get. You should change, Fräulein," Georg went on frankly, surveying Maria, "if you're coming. You too, Liesl. And you, poppet," the said, grinning down at Marta, "will ride in the front seat of the car, if you like."
*
"Which, then?" the Captain was asking his daughter, as he leant over Marta to look in the case in the jewelry store with her. A couturier Elsa knew by reputation had already been paid his visit. Measurements had been taken; orders had been made, all handled by Elsa's deft hands and maneuverings, Liesl's curious inspection, and Marta's pleas for a truly ridiculous pink contraption that her father wouldn't buy her. Fräulein Maria had watched the conversations between Elsa and the couturier with the fascination with which a man who is tone deaf listens to opera, and Georg had regarded the goings on with an amused, indulgent look.
Elsa, though satisfied, had then suggested that they inspect a department store or two as well, and Liesl had heartily agreed. They were in the store one over, going on about their business. Marta, however, was exhausted, and Maria—not very interested in the shopping anyway—stayed with her little charge. The Captain, having very little to do in a woman's dress shop, opted to take the remaining ladies to the jeweler's—with a cock of his head and a hint that Marta might see something she liked.
"This one, Father," Marta replied. Marta was pointing into the jewelry case, and Georg bent again to get a closer look, and suddenly laughed aloud, startling his daughter.
"Don't you think it's a bit—excessive, Marta?"
She looked at him questioningly. She was pointing at a huge tiara, studded with at least thirteen diamonds. Maria, standing a bit away, was stifling her own laughter. "You don't like it, Father?" Marta asked, disappointed.
Georg looked skeptically down at his daughter. "Isn't there anything else in here you like a little better? Perhaps something a little—smaller?"
"Well . . . " Marta said thoughtfully, biting her lip. "There are these." She pointed at a pair of heavy earrings with golden clasps.
Georg sighed. "How about a nice locket, instead?"
"But—"
"No," the Captain told her, straightening in order to look down at her with a familiar, stern expression. "No, absolutely not. You will not be allowed to go sticking baubles on or in your ears, thank you Marta." His daughter looked crestfallen—his children, particularly this one, could be so easily affected merely by his tone. He glanced up at Fräulein Maria, who shrugged at him as if to say: 'she's all yours, Captain.' Georg gave the governess a dry smile and looked down at Marta. "At least, not until you're older, poppet," he said more gently.
"How much older?"
"We'll have to see. Why don't you keep looking? Maybe after a couple hours you'll pick out something very little I might actually consider buying for you."
Marta then proceeded to pick out one expensive, gaudy, useless piece of jewelry after another, causing her father to continue laughing and shaking his head at her, a genuine smile of adoration creeping across his face when she was looking into the case and he was left looking down at her bent head. Marta herself was enjoying it, no matter how much he denied her. She wasn't used to be singled out; Gretl, being the youngest, often—even without trying—called attention to herself. Georg remembered the times when Marta was still the youngest, always a quiet baby, and Agathe still alive, holding the small, dark-headed infant in her arms. "What about that ring?" she asked, smiling up at her father. "It's not so very big."
Georg stood looking down at her for a moment, his expression lost in his suddenly somber thoughts. He blinked and smiled at her, and with an abruptly affectionate gesture, he picked her up in the middle of the department store—not very usual behavior for a man not given to public displays of affection. "You have tastes like your mother," he told his daughter, still smiling. Marta turned her head to look at him, a wondering smile on her face, and Georg could feel Fräulein Maria looking at him curiously. As well they should be surprised. He almost never spoke of Agathe.
He never let himself think of her. Years before the sorrow had still been too poignant—but now it was different. Now, looking at Marta's pleased smile and thinking of Agathe, his thoughts wandered toward the Baroness. He was glad Elsa hadn't minded spending the day once again with his children, but he was suddenly impatient. Inexplicably, he wanted Elsa here beside him with his daughter. He wanted to remember the feel of her lips and his hand in her hair, and forget this odd feeling of an absence. And yet, Agathe had been gone a long time; he had accepted it—why was he suddenly feeling this strange emptiness?
"Does that mean you'll get it for me, Papa?" Marta asked, breaking into his thoughts, asking him more out of habit than true desire.
"I don't know, poppet," he answered, not really thinking about his reply. "I don't know." Georg looked down at her as she settled her head on his shoulder. She was a bittersweet, beautiful weight in his arms, and in that moment, he felt as if he loved her so much he couldn't express it—couldn't stand it, even. "It's been a long time since you called me 'Papa,'" he said at last, his voice almost disappearing into her hair, his small smile lost against her head. Marta yawned and turned her head to the other side.
Fräulein Maria was laughing. "Marta, it's almost time to go home," she told her little charge softly, stepping up beside Georg to rub circles onto Marta's back. Maria glanced up. "She worn out, Captain," she told him, laughing gently.
"Yes," he said, eyes still on his little daughter. Maria's hand was soothing her, relaxing her until she was heavier in his arms. Marta's toddler years were far behind her, but she could still fall asleep as quickly as the best of them—and weigh more than twice as much while doing so. He would need to put her down soon. Smiling, he looked up at the children's Fräulein, meeting her eyes. It was surprising how right this felt—the weight of his own flesh and blood in his arms, beginning to breathe heavily, and her little Fräulein governess, simple and sure, knowing exactly what to do for his daughter, her own eyes clear, bright, and laughing. It felt, in the strangest way, like a family, and the emptiness was gone.
He already took their governess for granted, he realized suddenly. He'd accepted her, and so assumed she'd be there, doing the things she did that, like this, made the strange and somewhat painful process of coming to know his children again that much easier. She was truly—among other things, he thought, smiling inwardly—a gift from God. "Thank you, Fräulein," he found himself saying suddenly, gently, over Marta's head.
"I don't know," she replied skeptically, raising her brows and mistaking his meaning. "You're the one who's carrying her, if I make her fall asleep like this."
"I'm not asleep," Marta protested, yawning, and Georg and Maria smiled.
*
