A/N: As always, if you have any criticism or advice, don't hesitate to give it (especially on the Capt in this chapter.  I think Georg's behavior in at least one part of this chapter is questionable—and perhaps not in character.  It's bothering me, but I don't know how to deal with it).   Ingrid, I definitely like the suggestion of more one-on-one days with Georg and his children—in this fic or some other, I'm not sure. imnotacommittee, I'm so glad you noticed the 'their little Fräulein' business.  I'm afraid you haven't seen the last of it yet, though. 

Thank you for the loveRly reviews—some of the later chapters are getting hard to write and it's nice to know they're wanted.

(and that people actually like the 'brick-by-brick' method!—which I still fear is boring.  Thanks, Jelpy :o) 

*

from Chapter 7

"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.

*

Chapter 8

Georg's eyes were still on Fräulein Maria—though she had looked down to Marta, smiling teasingly at her—when a saleswoman commandeered their attention.  "Captain von Trapp?  Fräulein Maria?—Excuse me," she fluted, making a little half-step. 

"Yes?" he asked, brow lifting.

"The Baroness Schraeder and Fräulein von Trapp have directed me to escort Fräulein Maria next door.  Your assistance is required, they say," she added, nodding at Fräulein Maria.

"My assistance?" Fräulein Maria queried, surprised.  She glanced back at Georg and Marta questioningly.

Georg chuckled.  "Don't worry.  We'll still be here, Fräulein."

"Where is Fräulein Maria going?" Marta asked, frowning.  "I want to go too."

"What's this?  A traitor in the ranks?" Georg retorted, smothering a smile and jiggling her in his arms.  "What, you don't want to stay here with your old dad?"

"Only for a little while, Marta," Maria was saying, half laughing.  "And you said you were tired of looking at dresses and fabric."

"I want to go with Fräulein Maria," Marta replied stoutly, and Georg sighed and put her down.

"Go on, then," he told her, mock sternly.  "Go with your Fräulein."  The Captain watched her governess take his daughter's hand and follow the saleswoman across the slick, marble-tiled floor out of the door.  Just like Louisa, he was thinking.  She had always wanted to do everything with her mother. 

Georg started.  Not 'just like Louisa.'  The Fräulein, after all, was just the governess.  A peculiar one, he'd admit—as the children had hated all the others.

Not just a governess, then, Georg conceded.  More like . . . a member of the family, strange as it was.  Yes, that was it, Georg decided, recalling that odd feeling of rightness—moments before, when she had stood beside him, his child in his arms—that he hadn't been able to explain.  It was why he was already beginning to take her for granted, he supposed, why he'd taken to assuming she'd always be there.  The way she interacted with them was similar to the actions of an old friend, an aunt, a sister. 

Georg smiled.  Fräulein Maria was already getting dragged around by Elsa or Liesl or both to go shopping, like Max.  Except Max enjoyed spending other people's money, and Georg was certain the thought had never entered the little Fräulein's pretty head.  She had relinquished her ground gracefully—and rather assiduously, Georg had noted—over to Elsa at the couturier's, remaining silent and composed in the background—unusual behavior, for anyone who knew Fräulein Maria.

'I never pictured you for a wallflower, Fräulein,' Georg had told her jokingly, when Marta had at last been somewhat appeased and finally looked as worn out and sickened by the whole business as her governess.

'Oh, I don't mind it,' Maria had assured him, smiling whole-heartedly.  'The Baroness certainly knows what she's doing.'

'Don't you find this entertaining, though?' he'd asked, laughing.  She'd looked more numb than after a day spent swimming and climbing trees.

Maria had looked at him thoughtfully and shrugged.  'Nice clothes were only ever good for looking at and getting dirty, when I was a child."

"Ah," Georg had replied.  "You prefer—play clothes?"

Maria had laughed.  "Well, yes.  And a habit, I suppose, if I ever make it to that."  She'd grinned again at the Captain's raised brow.  "I am very plain, sir.  I don't suppose you'll ever see me in any other sort of uniform.'

'Or straight-jacket, Fräulein?' he'd queried, teasing, referring to her label of the children's uniforms.  But his question wasn't all facetious.  Whenever she chanced to remind him of it, it always surprised him to recall that Maria was still a postulant.  She seemed far too vivacious and affectionate to lock herself into a life of such quiet devotion, such regulated love for a singular being.

Maria had looked half agitated in response, remembering their argument of some time ago.  'I did ask your forgiveness for that sir; I do apologize.'  She had been so flustered.  Georg smiled in remembrance.

Deuce take it, where were they?  As much as he loved his daughters, the next time one of them suggested doing something like this he was going to pack them off for the day with Elsa or their Fräulein and wish them good riddance.  He detested standing around, and that was precisely what he was supposed to do when he took a lady shopping—stand patiently while she dithered around with the sales clerks and tailors.  The Captain shook his head minutely and strode out of the jeweler's, his expression haughty—not the least because he had just realized that he was smiling to himself as he stood alone in the middle of a public store.

*

"Can I help you?" a clerk asked him in the clothing department store, advancing politely.

"Yes.  Is the Baroness Schraeder—"

"Father!" Liesl was entering the foyer to the store—perhaps looking for one of the saleswomen, when she caught sight of him.

"Liesl—no," he Georg admonished, walking over toward her.

"What—"

"I said no and I meant no," he told her sternly, taking her by the elbow and pushing on the door out of which she had come.  She was wearing the most horrific dress he had ever seen.  It was low in all the wrong places and tight in all the bad ones, and the material was so flimsy that wouldn't have mattered anyway.  Suddenly he was glad he had 'stood around' so long at the couturier's, so he'd know exactly what his children would be wearing.

"I was just trying it on, Father," Liesl protested, but followed him willingly back into the lobby area of the women's department.

"Were you?" Georg questioned, his tone sardonic.

"Well, yes.  I am sixteen, aren't I?  May I—"

"No," he said, with the firm authority that meant if she spoke another word about it, there would be further consequences.  His answer decisive and the issue closed, Georg glanced around the lobby.  It was only occupied by Marta, who was asleep on the divan, and Elsa, who regarded them both with amused curiosity, Fräulein Maria, who kept her silence.  It was this that gave Georg pause.  "Fräulein Maria," he said suddenly, staying Liesl from the dressing room with a hand.  "What is your opinion?"

Maria did not need to ask him what he was referring to.  She merely tilted her head and looked at him with her open, honest eyes.  "I think that you're her father, and that there are certain things you have a say to."  She raised her brows then, with that way she had of looking at him that meant she was going to challenge him, and do so in all innocence.  "I also think Liesl is sixteen and probably could make the decision of what to wear by herself."

Georg's brows shot toward his hairline; Liesl was lifting her chin and grinning surreptitiously at her governess.  Elsa was looking from one to the other in partial alarm.  "And what do you think of this dress, Fräulein?"  He gestured with exaggerated ceremony at Liesl's revealing frock.  "You, who we can trust to give your honest opinion?"

Maria looked over at Liesl and hid a smile.  "Liesl, I don't think it suits you."

"Really?" Liesl asked her, her face falling.

"Well, I should talk.  It's not as bad as that dress I wore when I first came to your villa, is it?" Maria replied, grinning, and walking over to put her arm around Liesl.  "But what little I do know of it is this: less isn't always better, Liesl, sometimes it's just less.  And there are advantages to being sixteen—and it's not necessarily that you can suddenly start to try to look older . . ." 

"I suppose I can wait a while for it," Liesl said, glancing with a scowl at her father, but with a look back to Maria that was all attentiveness.

Maria, smiling, was steering Liesl toward the dressing room.  "The point is—the wonderful thing is," she went on, "that at sixteen you can still look young, and are young, dear, and can wear those beautiful, flowing dresses the girls do without looking like you're trying to be someone you're not . . ."  Elsa was watching Maria persuade the child with an admiration that bordered on envy;  Georg observed the governess's skillful manipulation of his daughter with something akin to wonder.

Liesl was smiling along with her governess—a touch wistfully, but smiling nevertheless.  "You're saying I should take advantage of looking young while I can?"

Maria was laughing, still guiding Liesl toward the changing rooms.  "Exactly.  And perhaps by the time you can't, even your father will have come around."  She bent her head closed to Liesl's, and Liesl, laughing at something her governess whispered in her ear, opened the door to the adjoining selection area.

Maria patted her shoulder and closed the door, turning back to the room behind her.  "Fräulein—" Georg began, and shook his head, his eyes locked on Maria's.  He waited until Liesl would have gone down the hall and all the way into the dressing room, still not sure whether to be displeased or not.  Five minutes ago, Liesl had looked as if she was ready to throw a fight for that dress, or if not, to be upset by her own dutiful acceptance to her father.  Then Fräulein Maria had taken her arm and convinced her that not only shouldn't she speak against her father, but that Liesl herself didn't even like the dress overly much to begin with.  Georg wasn't sure whether to be grateful for or alarmed at Maria's influence over his children.  "I never pictured you much for manipulation," he said finally, his tone measured.

Maria pursed her lips and shook her head.  "Because I'm not.  I only told her the truth."  She looked at him, tilting her head minutely.  "Sometimes that and gentleness, Captain, work better than anger."  She did not quite say it pointedly; her voice was soft—but there was a firm nudge in the remark, nevertheless.

"You do have such a way with children, though," Elsa told her softly, from the other side of the room.

"But Liesl isn't a child," Maria objected, shaking her head again.  "I remember when I was that age," she went on, and broke into a smile.  "I was such a trial to everyone, telling them I'd already grown up—and now here I am, wishing I never had at all."  She said this with a hearty laugh at herself in her eyes and voice, opening her hands at her sides as if to say: 'see?  I can't help myself.' 

Georg's eyes were still focused on her, that same, steady gaze, as if to measure her up.  Perhaps he was trying to reconcile this little figure before him with the one who had so easily handled his own daughter when he could not.  She didn't look as if she had that kind of strength and wisdom in her.  She was wearing this little swath of a blue thing—as sheer and delicate as perhaps Liesl's horror had been, but cut in such a way that it was no horror—only simple.  Both of the women had been trying on clothes; apparently, Elsa had summoned Maria in order to finally get her to try something on.  Beautiful, really—the dress was.  He had never seen that color on her before.  She should wear it more often—except that governesses didn't wear things like that, shouldn't wear things like that.  "You look very pretty, Fräulein," he said abruptly. 

Maria immediately looked down at his words.  Blinking, Georg looked around, abruptly teasing and speaking jovially, as if to alleviate the sudden lull his compliment had produced.  "And you, my dear, look ravishing," he told Elsa, who laughed as his hand found her waist. 

"Really, Georg," she replied, pushing him away. 

"Really, darling," he imitated.  "It's a very striking dress.  Worse than Liesl's, and very striking."

"Georg!"

"You're allowed; you're not my daughter," Georg said, smiling mischievously as his hand grazed her cheek.  She really did look very lovely, he was noticing.  He was distracted, and yet—he had kissed her this morning; he had wanted her.  "Didn't I say it looked ravishing?"

"This old thing?" Elsa said, laughing again and half twirling under his frankly flirtatious scrutiny.  "I've had it for years." 

"And this 'old thing'?  What do you call this?" he murmured, his hand again brushing her waist.

"A sash, darling, and stop it," Elsa told him, still laughing.  She was genuinely delighted, smiling under his eyes, until she saw movement over his shoulder.  "Come now, Georg; spoil someone else.  Doesn't Maria look lovely?  I found several pieces I just knew would be perfect for her.  I have impeccable taste, don't I?"

"Yes—" Georg began, hesitating, as he turned back around to study Maria.

She had been about to return to the dressing rooms, to ask Liesl if she needed any help, but here she paused, face flushed, unsmiling.  "Thank you Baroness, Captain," she said, nodding to each.  "I really must—"

"Fräulein," Georg began, more to stay her than to say anything in particular.  He paused for a moment, looking at her, and then waved his hand indifferently.  "Whoever said that you were plain—they were wrong," he told her, his voice easy, paying the joking compliment the Baroness's observations had in fact necessitated, if he was to be polite.  Smiling, he looked around for Elsa, who came up beside him to link her arm through his. 

"Plain?  Who could say that about you, my dear?" Elsa asked Maria, with affected indignation.

Maria looked at her and shrugged, smiling wryly.  "Myself," she said simply, and made as if to go.

"You must buy this dress for her, Georg," Elsa announced decisively, staying her.  "You must buy it and the other ones I found for her."

Maria was beginning to protest, but Georg began to chuckle, looking at Elsa with a smile.  "Oh, must I?  And you'll want me to buy this get-up for you as well?"

"Oh Georg, don't be such a boor," she told him, swatting him on the arm.  "I won't have you buy me a single thing.  But you must buy Maria's dress, and the others I found for her, and the one I found for Marta—and every other dress Liesl wants, since you were so mean to her about that other one."

"Please," Maria interrupted.  "You've supplied me with enough fabric.  You've been more than generous, Captain—"

"But you need more of an evening dress, Maria, and the others looked so pretty on you," Elsa assured her.

"Elsa tells me you need evening dresses," Georg replied, shrugging.  "There's nothing I can do about it."

"But I don't want to be any trouble to—"

"Oh no, no trouble," the Captain said dismissively, waving her aside and looking around the lobby.  He found one of the sales clerks and waved her down.  "Put whatever she says to my account, Fräulein," Georg told the saleswoman, gesturing laconically back at Elsa.  "But not," he added, turning back to Baroness, "anything Liesl wants.  She's getting just one dress, and I have to see it beforehand."  Elsa laughed at him and went off with the clerk, beginning already to place orders.  Maria, however, grabbed Georg's arm to stop him from turning back to go find Liesl.

"Honestly, Captain, I—"

"Honestly Fräulein," he repeated softly, gently removing her hand from his coat and placing it in his own for a moment.  The Captain stood looking at her, his gaze suddenly intense and sincere, the sardonic teasing no longer on display.  "Honestly, Fräulein," he said again, looking down at her.  "It's the least I can do."  Then he squeezed her hand and walked the other way in his strident, measured step.

*