A/N: Sorry for the repost.  I changed my mind and agree with you, imnotacommittee, that Maria would have been taught Latin.  This is closer to what I originally had.

A/N: Sorry for the wait on this.  Much thanks to those who nagged me for it; that's why I'm posting it :o)  I'm having a bit of trouble on the next chapter, so if you do or don't like this chapter, please tell me, because they kinda connect.  I'd love to hear anything anyone as to say.

A small note: I have no idea as regards the Captain's or these children's education.  I know that back in the day all kids were supposed to learn Latin, but I don't know for certain when and where that was.  Anywho, I'd already written it in there by the time I started reconsidering, so 'alea iacta est'.  Don't worry, there's no actual Latin in this. :o)

*

Chapter 9

The news hadn't seemed to be good for a long time.  Very few were worried.  National Socialists were overjoyed, actually, and young men who didn't know any better could sense the stirring of some kind of adventure better than most of the uninformed.  Many were accepting.  'What's going to happen's going to happen,' Max had said—and it had been the greatest form of slander because it was the tenant of so many.  The rest didn't know what was happening and didn't care.  There seemed to be so few who knew what was about to happen and wanted to do something to stop it.

Georg resisted the impulse to slam his fist into the radio.  His jaw set in a hard line, he flipped the switch to off and moved to look out the window, out where it was bright and green and the sun shone carefree, where the movement of armies and the rise of a mad man in the Rhineland seemed impossible, or not to matter.  Gone, a voice was saying in his head.  This will all be gone, and the sun will rise no more.  What made him even more angry was that the sun would go on, rising and setting, even if his whole world collapsed.  He'd rather it didn't.  Again, looking out those pristine panes, he mastered the impulse to break something.  Swallowing a sigh, he lifted the latch on the window and breathed in the morning air.

It was one of those mornings.  One of those mornings when you got up and wished that someone was lying beside you, one when you opened your window and sucked in air that had a bite of something to come, you felt the restless sense of something missing.  Georg von Trapp had been feeling it often, lately, since he'd returned to Salzburg, but the threatening dreariness on the radio, this unbearably fresh morning, defined the feeling in his head, made him acutely realize it was there.

It was on mornings such as these, when it was too beautiful to truly countenance the gloomy goings-on of man, that he thought of Agathe—it was the only time he wasn't able to stop himself.  She had been beautiful—a sweep of honey-yellow hair, gray eyes, the fragile white skin of a woman lovely by her very nature.  She had been refined, elegant—the perfect wife of a baron, a captain, and an important personage, but underneath she had had a sort of hidden joy, a sense of mischief—a wealth of passion, that sometimes the Captain feared Elsa lacked—and most of the time, knew Elsa lacked.  It was the want of those rare glimpses of the girl in Agathe that had depressed him the most, after her loss, and it was on mornings such as these, when he needed them most, that he remembered. 

He had left off wanting her back, because he knew it was impossible.  He did not let himself want her back.  That did not mean he wanted nothing, though.  Georg shook his head.  None of it bore thinking about.

Restless, he left his bedroom and moved down the hall.  Stopping as he had before outside the school room door, Georg watched his children once again.  He liked watching them unobserved—liked seeing them unself-conscious, Friedrich paying the goofy, uncalculated attention he did to his siblings when he wasn't trying to be their protector, teacher, or simply a man older than he really was, Gretl placid and quiet, working on her reading with her tongue between her teeth.  They filled him with a sense of pride—these children were his, of his own blood, and they loved him. 

Perhaps he had a secret sense that told him that when everything that belonged to him was stripped from him, these children would still be his.  Or perhaps he thought that in possessing what he loved most and wanted, he needed nothing else, no matter what would come.  Either way, his children belonged to him in a way that was paradoxically mutual: he was their father; by law, he owned rights to them.  But they, in turn, were his salvation, and they were his all the more because he was also theirs.   He knew that it was not so very far-fetched to believe that one day he might have to give up his life for theirs—and this, he already knew, he would do.

Georg strode in the room, and sat next to Kurt, who was making paper airplanes instead of working his figures as he ought.  Brigitta and Marta were reading; Liesl was working on writing something and helping Gretl at the same time; Louisa was frowning down at a blank sheet of paper.  "Father?" Friedrich asked, looking up and hastily covering up the doodles scrawled down the sides of his papers.

"Where is your Fräulein?" Georg asked, glancing around the room.

"Oh.  She went out."  Kurt was hastily turning back to his work, but Friedrich was tapping his pencil nervously and several of the others were looking at him with some measure of curiosity, alarm, and wonder.  He did not often come into the school room.  In the days before Fräulein Maria, it had usually only been to call one or the other of them out on something he had discovered they had done.

"Don't let me disturb you," he told them, waving a hand.  "Go on.  Work."  The hesitantly turned back to their papers and books, and Georg watched them for a while.  Presently, he began to drum his hands on the desk.  "Do you know where she is?"

"No, she didn't say," Brigitta said, closing her book.  "She had that 'I have an idea' look on her face, you know, Father?  We never know where she goes when she looks like that."

"Oh?" Georg replied, brow lifting.  He remained looking critically at Brigitta, who, under his stare, looked to one side, then the other, and began reading her book again.  "And do you know when she'll be back?"

"Is she in trouble, Father?" Louisa asked, frowning.

Georg looked at her sharply.  "No, Louisa, she's not in trouble."  He raised a brow, lips pursing.  "I hardly see how that's any of your concern, though."  The children silently went back to their reading, writing, and figuring, and Georg waited.  What, exactly, he was waiting for, he couldn't say.  He had come to see the children, not their governess.  Why did they always seem to think he would be angry at her?  Did she think of him that way?  There was a certain thread of tension in the room now, and Georg found himself frowning.  So much for finding peace in the happiness of the children.  They thought he was going to maul their governess, for God's sake.

In that moment, Fräulein Maria pushed open the door and began in a bright voice, "Well, children, I can't—oh," she finished suddenly, her voice dropping off as she took in the sight of the Captain.

Georg slowly stood.  "Good morning, Fräulein Maria," he murmured.

"Er—good morning, sir," she replied, nodding.

"Please continue," Georg said, much as he had to the children.  He waved his hand, feeling no more explanation for his presence really necessary.  "Go on with what you were about to say."

"Oh.  Well, er . . . that is—"

"Fräulein?" he asked, tilting his head with a bit of surprise.  She seemed flustered to see him there.  In a way, it pleased him: she was so . . . amusing, when at a loss—but he found the idea that he could possibly intimidate her distasteful.  She may be the children's governess, but he had a great deal of respect for her.  He didn't want her—or his children—thinking that he considered her an inferior, or thought of her as less than she really was.  In fact, because of his children and the gratitude he felt toward her, he wanted her to . . . well, like him, if that was the word.  Georg smiled at her.  "I assure you this is not a review.  I wouldn't know where to begin to judge your progress."

"Oh, it's not that, sir," she assured him, and Georg nodded.  "The truth is I was just . . . well, I was looking for you, Captain."

"For me?" Georg queried, surprise evident in his voice.

"Louisa's translating," Maria was explaining, gesturing.  "And to tell you the truth, I never made good marks in Latin.  I think it must go completely over my head.  But Louisa says she's to begin it in school this September,--a very classical curriculum, it seems," Maria interrupted herself, laughing a little, "and I thought perhaps she could get a head start—except that it's quite complicated, you know, and I thought that maybe you—could—or—I don't know—I'm not sure if you—"

"Latin, Louisa?" Georg questioned, turning towards his second eldest daughter.

Louisa scowled and Fräulein Maria supplied: "Hm.  Yes, Captain.  She was having trouble with some conjugations."

Georg was silent for a moment.  "Louisa, why didn't you just ask me in the first place?"

"You know Latin, Father?" Brigitta asked, at the same time as Marta piped: "Is Father going to help Louisa do school work?"

Georg locked his hands behind his back, brows lifting as he surveyed the people in the room.  "I seemed to have hired a governess," he said, "who lacks the proper qualifications.  The next time you have questions, Louisa," he went on, gently, strolling toward Louisa and placing a hand on her shoulder, "don't hesitate to ask me."

Louisa looked up at him stonily, and said only: "Fräulein Maria is a good governess."

Georg chuckled and turned to catch Maria's eye.  "Is she, indeed?" he asked the governess, his wry half-smile only in his eyes.

"Why—" Fräulein Maria met his eyes and shrugged, smiling at him.  "Why yes.  I suppose so, sir."

Georg laughed.  There it was, indirect, but he was reassured just the same.  As always, she met him as an equal, and even felt comfortable enough around him to tease him, in her challenging, forthright way.  He shouldn't have doubted how she felt—but Fräulein Maria was different than other women.  She was active, strong, and honest, where others could be apathetic, weak, and manipulative, but there was a certain naiveté, a certain innocence to her, that made him want to reassure himself.  Georg broke his gaze and looked down at Louisa.  "Show me," he commanded, gesturing.

Louisa, with somewhat grudging obedience, showed him the passage she was attempting to translate, and he sat down next to her, speaking gently and with an intimacy he knew he and Louisa generally lacked.  She was the most closed-off of his children, the one most unwilling to speak to him even when he had begun to take more notice of her—of all the children. 

She had been the one hit hardest when Agathe had died.  He'd always been close to Liesl, if not before the death of her mother, then after, because he had used her—the most mature among them—as a means of speaking to the rest of his children.  Brigitta had always been a favorite; the boys had merely had a connection to him due to gender; the little ones hadn't known their mother and though it was difficult for them, they were never depressed by memories.  Louisa, however, had been a needy little girl, and, remembering her beautiful, laughing mother, was a moody teen.

Gradually he could tell she became more comfortable sitting there next to him, because she finally began to express her frustration on the verbs.  "There are just so many," she complained angrily, sitting back in her chair and flinging her pencil aside.

Georg hid a smile.  "Temper, Lady Lou."

She looked at him, startled.  "I hate that name."

"You didn't used to," he told her, shrugging, and brushed her hair away from her temple.  After a moment—looking at her while she looked stonily away, he sighed and said: "You look like your mother when you get into a rage."

"I'm not in a rage," she said petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest.  And then, suddenly, wonderingly: "I do?"

"Yes," he told her simply, his knuckle brushing her cheek.  She did so look like Agathe—right down to the sprinkling of innocent freckles across the bridge of her nose—so much so that he looked away and remembered why, for so long, he had been trying to shut his children out.  Eyes glazed, staring across the room, Georg watched Fräulein Maria helping Marta with some recitations, continually interrupted by Gretl, who kept coming over to ask her Fräulein to how to pronounce one word or another.  Maria, looking harried, wasn't really making progress with either child, but both Marta and Gretl didn't seem to mind, and the look on their Fräulein's face whenever Gretl interrupted her once again was priceless.

"She didn't like Latin either, your mother," Georg told Louisa at last.  He remembered the times he had been reading and Agathe had entered his library, picking his book up out of his hands and leafing through it.  A short time later she would chuck it, announcing 'dear, it's all Greek to me.  I prefer French, darling'—and then her lips would be on his, and literature and translations had become another world, as far away as the sea.  Almost all his memories of Agathe ended in that way, which was perhaps what made it so painful—she had been so very loving. 

And yet now, watching little Gretl return continually to interrupt Marta and her Fräulein, he could laugh at it.  Somehow, the memory was dimmed—or lightened.  Now it seemed to bring only the happiness it should, without that aching sense of loss he loathed.  Chuckling, Georg turned back to his elder daughter.  "Perhaps females shouldn't burden themselves with such heavy material," he suggested.

Louisa's scowl deepened.  "Women can learn things just as well as a man," she announced.

Georg sat back, taking her pencil, regarding her sardonically.  "You're opinionated like your mother was, too."

Louisa blinked.  She thought for a moment and frowned.  "You were teasing me," she said finally, slowly.

Her father tapped the pencil on his thigh, gazing at her, as if measuring her up.  "Yes," he said at last, inclining his head.  "I was, Lady Lou."

Louisa glowered and grabbed her pencil, and went back to her translations with renewed vigor, careful not to look at him.  But from the way she bent her head, the way she let her hair fall back across her temple, he could tell his daughter was smiling.

Georg worked a little while longer with Louisa, making sure she understood the answers to her questions properly.  He liked this feeling of being able to help his children—why had he never done this before?  At last he stood, heavy hand falling to Louisa's shoulder.  "Have you got it now?" he asked her.

"Yes, I think so," she replied.  She turned back to her paper, and suddenly paused.  "Thank you," she said quietly, and went back to her work.

Laughing silently to himself, Georg walked over to the couch, and grabbed Gretl's little hand before she could interrupt her governess once again.  "I think it's time you left off grilling your Fräulein, Gretl."

"Oh, really, Captain, we've got it under control," Fräulein Maria assured him—but she looked relieved.

Gretl was looking up at him, startled.  "But Fräulein Maria knows all the words in this book," she complained, plaintive.

"Well, perhaps I can help you," Georg told her, a half-smile saved for his glance at Maria, who was mouthing silent thanks.  Georg chuckled, wondering how long it had taken the governess to get his children to this point—where most of them, at least, studied quietly, and didn't leave snakes in her desk

Gretl looked doubtful.  "But Fräulein Maria—" she began.

Georg shook his head and rolled his eyes.  "We'll just sit right here," he told Gretl, sitting down on settee, next to Maria, who had Marta on her other side.  "If I don't know a word," he continued, with an exasperation that was more amused than anything else, "we can ask your Fräulein."  Gretl, seemingly content, settled down into his lap as he opened the book—an anthology of old Austrian folktales.  Georg looked down at the text and his daughter, suddenly feigning indignation.  "And when," he asked archly, "did your Fräulein get smarter than your papa?"

Gretl shrugged and looked up at him innocently.  "Fräulein Maria knows everything, Father," she told him simply, and began to inspect the picture that began the next story.

Chuckling, Georg looked over at Maria, already engrossed in helping Marta with her work.  He wanted to ask her if she knew that—that she knew everything—wanted her to look at him with disingenuous challenge in her face, or to look down, blushing, and laugh.  But her pretty, golden head was bent down close to Marta's, her light, musical voice was directed elsewhere—the length of her thigh, in her hideous, convent dress, was touching his, because this couch was too damn small.  "Once upon a time," Georg began immediately, not quite reading off the page.  "There was a little girl," he went on, and began, in earnest, to read to the child in his arms.

Gretl was a treasure and he knew it.  She was small, bright, beautiful—and she always laughed at his jokes, when she understood that he was making them.  It had always amused him about Elsa, too—she laughed at his jokes.  Gretl was laughing now at the story, the voices he was making for the heroine, the croaking witch voice for the antagonist.  This was yet another thing that he was finding he missed—long ago, he'd read to his children.  He could tell Brigitta remembered—she was stopping what she was doing, looking up and listening with half an ear.

Lesson time was drawing toward a close.  The older children were going about their own business, but Kurt was motionless, pretending not to listen, and Fräulein Maria and Marta had stopped their work several minutes ago, watching him with their open, attentive faces.  When he looked up, he caught the children's look, caught their Fräulein's eyes—caught her little, soft smile, and realized it was a look he hadn't seen before.  It was a warm look, a kind look—a grateful look, perhaps; he knew she wanted him to be close like this with his children, and yet, perhaps it was something more, a—

"Aren't you going to finish, Papa?" Gretl asked him, wiggling in his arms.

"You know the end, Gretl," he said, blinking, looking down at his youngest daughter.

"They fall in love and live happily ever after?"

Georg found himself glancing at Maria, and looked away, down to Gretl's bright eyes, which were commandeering his attention anxiously.  He stood abruptly and placed her on her feet as well.  "Yes," he told her.  "Of course they do."

"Of course," Marta repeated happily, smiling and settling into Fräulein Maria's arms.  Maria's smile changed into a different one as she looked down at Marta, and her expression formed into a laugh.  Georg abruptly made for the door.

"Kid's stuff," Kurt was announcing derisively, lifting his chin.

Brigitta scowled at him.  "I saw you," she accused; "you were listening."

"Was not," Kurt replied, and Brigitta chucked a book at him.

The Captain opened the door.  "You might want to keep an eye on your charges, Fräulein," he admonished Maria, not bothering to look at her, and walked firmly out.  He could hear his children's voices rising behind him as he strode down the hall.  He was not at all considering the small smile on their little Fräulein's face as she had looked at him; he was not at all considering what it meant.