A/N:  Once you get past the first paragraph in this chapter it's all smooth sailing; I promise you it's what you want.  And if it is or isn't please tell me what you think because it's really nice to know.  I'm going to be out for a while, but maybe I'll work on the fic a bit during the TWENTY-ONE HOURS of traveling I'm about to do if you all seem to want more :o)

Thanks to Amy for ruminating with me about the night cap. 

I had to do an ungodly amount of research just to find the name Selzak.  Thought y'all would find that immensely interesting.

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Chapter 11

The Captain unbuttoned his jacket and removed it methodically, laying it carefully over the back of one of his chairs.  Elsa had acted so strangely, he was thinking.  He could still feel where she had kissed him, a warm, burning spot on his temple.  Half of him had wanted to follow her down the hall, to turn her around and press her to him—to kiss her fully and fill himself with her scent, her image, her eyes.  He had known then, somehow—as he knew more firmly now—that it wouldn't fix anything.  Frowning, Georg looked away from the bed and went to stand beside one of his windows.

What had happened, then?  He had been laughing in a subdued sort of way after Gretl, her excited 'It'll be my first party, Father!' still in the room after she had gone.   Max had been busy drinking and Elsa had fallen into a peculiar silence. 

'I'm so glad you've finally decided to throw me a party, Georg,' she had murmured suddenly, into the lengthening silence.  'And it's a proper introduction for me, don't you think?'

'Hm?' he had replied.  'Oh, naturally.  The children will enjoy it, at any rate.'  Gretl's comment had reminded him of how little his children had had of their old life since their mother had died; Gretl had seen none of it.  She would be the belle of the ball, Georg had thought sardonically—that is, if he let her, which he wouldn't.  Inwardly, he had chuckled.  His children might think he had gone soft—but a bed time was a bed time.  Liesl would scowl and want to stay up.  Her little Fräulein would smile and tell her: "next year, maybe," in that light, encouraging way she had of hers.

'A sort of:  Elsa, meet Georg's Salzburg.  Salzburg, meet Elsa,' the Baroness had gone on, looking at him rather curiously—both brows raised, her eyes searching his face.

'As if they didn't already know you, my dear,' Max had interjected, waving his hand and pouring himself another glass from the decanter.

'But your friends don't know me, Georg; I think I mentioned that,' Elsa had replied, looking at the Captain, ignoring Max.  Abruptly she had tilted her head and smiled.  She'd reseated herself on the divan where she had sat when he had sung to his children, and gestured to Max for her own glass. 'Your little song was lovely, Georg,' she'd informed him, then.  She had glanced for a moment to the corner, the spot between the luxuriously converted stove and the marble topped dresser, and then away.

Georg hadn't seen the direction of her gaze.  He'd only just turned his head, his eyes suddenly focusing on her.  'My little song?' he'd asked, a smile tugging at his lips.  'If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to insult me, darling.'

She'd laughed heartily and coyly looked aside.  'Well, you're not Selzak, darling; we all know that.  I was telling Max how I wished I'd had my harmonica.'

Georg had blinked several times, not sure whether to laugh or scowl.  'Please don't tell me you can play harmonica,' he had said finally.

Elsa had laughed again.  'I said I wished I'd brought it, not that I play, darling.'

'Oh.'  Georg nodded, his eyes once again falling away from her face and wandering thoughtfully around the room.  His gaze had been introspective, not really seeing the room before him—but his eyes had landed on the guitar, and then his gaze had focused.  He had smiled a little, remembering Maria proffering it to him, remembering the full and guileless smile on her face and in her eyes as she had said, 'The vote is unanimous.  You, Captain.'  There had been a hint of mischief in her eyes, too; he was sure of it.  She had wanted to hear him play—and she had known that his initial answer would be an emphatic no. 

He should have known.  He had been watching her as he poured Max a glass; she and the children had had that look about them, as if planning something devious.  He just hadn't expected it to be . . . He hadn't played in years; the very idea had caught him off guard.  'That was a very very long time ago,' he had told Maria; it was past; it was over; it was no more.  It was not a part of his present life.

And yet there had been the little Fräulein, insistent.  Had she known that her smile—Brigitta's smile, and Gretl's hopeful gaze, and Louisa's abashed wistfulness—would persuade him?

It had felt like accepting an offer to go back in time, to remember when his mother and his first tutor had taught him how to find the notes and strum the instrument, to use his deepened voice properly and sing the foolish, passionate thoughts that had seemed at that age to want to burst through his throat.  It had given him to remember later years, seeing a young, gorgeous blonde woman, keeping time with her foot to music that wasn't there at a stuffy dinner party, demanding song, demanding dance, and idly wondering, with a wink in his direction, if young sailors sang at all?  And to remember years even beyond that, when he had been married to that very same beautiful, laughing girl for more than a decade, and she had become his lover and his life and the mother of his children—and that there had been days, sitting next to her, when he had sung to his children, looking at them all around him and loving them with a pride and a joy that had only recently been reawakened in him.

Looking at her, her out-stretched arms, her instrument, her bright and smiling face, it was impossible to refuse her, in a way, Georg had mused.  Even before her guitar was in his hands he had known what he was going to play, and his fingers had gone straight to it on the frets, even before he remembered the notes themselves.  It had been in his mind since that day on the hill-side, when they had gone to the mountains to satisfy Louisa's demand for a picnic.  Out there, the words had naturally fit the tiny, quaint—undeniably beautiful—flower, but they had also oddly seemed to fit his children, playing in the country-side, and Maria, both a friend and mother to them, cherishing and capturing the spirit of this land he loved so much.  Edelweiss . . .

The words were still in his head.  It was the Third Reich, he knew, the threat of shadow over-spilling onto that sun-dappled country-side, the dread of the future that made Edelweiss so precious in his mind now, like a memory—or a promise—of something good.  Standing alone in his room now, and weary, Georg rubbed his temple, passing a hand before his face and closing his eyes.  He saw the image of a pair of blue ones earnestly meeting his own and snapped them open again.

He closed the window, shutting the night air out, and restlessly sat down in the chair opposite his bed, staring at the pristinely made-up sheets and comforter, the single, shallow pillow.  He bent to systematically remove his boots, one at a time, trying put the shadowed future out of his mind for a moment.  He summoned again to mind those moments of happiness, singing of edelweiss in front of his children. 

It had never been Agathe's favorite, but Brigitta, as a baby, had never been willing to stop crying for anything else, and he had taught the words to Liesl himself.  Gretl had been watching him with wistful fascination.  She must have never—or hardly ever—heard him sing, or play.  Brigitta had remembered; her eyes had been bright with unshed tears—the same went for Louisa, but she would never admit it, not in a million years.  Kurt, hard as he tried, hadn't been able to keep the smile off his face—there had been that lurking, shy grin, and Georg had found himself smiling at it, smiling at Max, whose brow was furrowed as he politely listened (still upset, Georg determined, about the loss of the Von Trapp Family Singers before their very inception), and laughing a little at Maria, who he had been so sure would smile back.  Happy to meet me, he'd thought mischievously—because whenever she met his eyes these days she was always smiling.

There was a youthful simplicity in that gaze.  Oh, Maria was not a child; he knew that, somewhere in the back of his mind.  Her vivacity, her optimism, her fresh outlook and her readiness to challenge what should be changed were not merely simply youthfulness or inexperience.  He did not think of her so simply, because the fact of the matter was: she had changed things.  She had the right of it, he believed, or at least the right of something.  Her hope—her zest for life, her vivacity—were not due to any lack of understanding.   There was a wisdom in her simple attitude that eluded him, that was even a maturity he longed for. 

But he hadn't been thinking all that, singing to his children earlier that night.  He'd simply known, when he met her eyes as he sang, that he hadn't wanted her to learn to stop; he hadn't wanted her to hide herself behind any polite smile of indifference; he hadn't wanted her to be afraid to meet his eyes, afraid to stare, afraid to look too much, lest someone be watching.  He hadn't wanted their friendship to be polite, fair-weather, or nominal.  With her he had been confident in a strange sort of way that it could be pure, true, and simple, as it was with his children.  Bloom and grow, little Fräulein; he had been thinking, even as he sang it, much as he had thought a week ago on the hill-side for his own children.  The thought had pleased him, even as he considered the beautiful shape of her neck, her jaw, her lips . . . her slight flush in the heat of the room.  Bloom. . .

Frowning, the Captain stood, jerking at his tie to yank it off and let it fall unceremoniously to the floor.  Pulling at his shirt to open up the collar and let the air get in, he padded over to the sideboard in his room to  pour himself a liberal amount of the cognac that stood at the ready.  Still scowling slightly, he took the decanter by the neck and brought along a glass in the other hand, bringing both over to the side table beside his chair. 

Elsa, he reminded himself, disgruntled.  Yes, Elsa.  It was only natural that the Baroness would throw him into confusion, he supposed.  She was certainly more worldly and sophisticated than . . . He took a mouthful of the drink and sat down again, his look still dour.  Whenever he thought of Elsa, he felt himself grow anxious.  He wanted to marry her.  He loved her.  And she loved him, in her own way.  She had taught him how to feel again.  And yet . . .

Elsa's eyes had met his across the room as he sang—on that last, contrived, overly-sentimental line before he began the repeat: Bless my homeland.  He had been thinking, naturally, of seeing Elsa on the hill-side, when the words had first come to him last week—he had been thinking of edelweiss, of his children playing, of their little Fräulein, teaching them to sing and laugh and live.  As he had sung he had smiled at the memory, and Elsa had smiled back, brightly and gratefully.  It had been a nice moment between them, a warm moment.

Singing, the song, his children—they had put him at ease.  It had seemed right.  Elsa could be his wife, and a mother to these children.  And yet he and Elsa so often seemed to miss one another—just slightly, just a little bit each way, as if he was headed in one direction and she in a slightly different one.  He didn't expect it to be the same as it had with Agathe—in fact, he didn't want it to be.  But why couldn't anything in his life, for once, ever be easy?

'When do you think this old house will be ready for a ball, Georg?' Elsa had finally asked, into the silence that had followed her assurances regarding the dreaded harmonica.

'Soon,' Max had replied, finishing the last of his wine with a contented tap to his stomach.  'I want to get everyone used to the idea of the Von Trapp Family Singers.  Once all his friends see how very charming they are, Georg will certainly consent, and naturally, make me a boatload of money.'

'I most certainly will not,' Georg had answered absently, still pondering over the guitar in the corner.

'But when, darling?' Elsa had persisted.

Georg had blinked, eyes finally returning to Elsa.  'When what?'

Elsa had laughed a little, tossing her head in an exaggerated sort of way.  'Are you going deaf, my dear?  You didn't sound it when you were singing a moment ago.'

'I'm glad my humble offering met with your approval in some respect,' Georg had retorted, smirking, eyes now fixed on Elsa's.

'Humble?  Add a voice like that to seven children's and the last thing any offering will be is humble.  Ho, Georg, you stand to make a fortune off it as well.  Not as large as mine, naturally, but then again, you already have one, so you need it less.'

'Of course it did, Georg,' Elsa had replied simply, ignoring Max altogether.

Max had pursed his lips together and sighed, looking from Elsa to Georg and back again.  'Very well then.  I can see when I'm not wanted,' he'd concluded, rising.

'Can you?' Georg had interjected.  'I never noticed that quality in you before.'

'I'm wounded to the quick, Georg.  If your beds were not so comfortable, and your breakfasts not so delicious, and the service not so remarkable, I might just take leave of this house right now.'

'If only you would, my friend,' Georg had said mockingly.  'If only you would.'

'I don't have to stand for this.  I'm going to march right into one of your excellent guest quarters and have a tremendously comfortable night of sleep—and wait for better things on the morrow.  Good night, Elsa.  Georg—sleep on it, and don't throw away the opportunity of a lifetime.'

The Captain had waved a dismissive hand at him, but Max had already gone, out of sight before Georg could deny it or make a retort.  'That little zealot,' he had mused, shaking his head in the direction Max had gone.

Elsa had shifted, smiling restlessly.  'He's right about one thing, at any rate, Georg.  Your children really are wonderful performers.  I quite enjoyed their little show earlier this evening.'

'Yes,' Georg had agreed, laughing.  'They're very talented, when they put their minds to it.  I'm just glad Fräulein Maria is around to put their minds to it, instead of letting their creativity find other . . . outlets.'  He had been thinking of the beetles Louisa had planned to put in Elsa's room, chuckling.

'. . .Yes,' Elsa had agreed, slowly, her eyes seeming to search his.  A relative silence had followed.  Elsa had been watching his face; Georg himself had been thinking of his children's outlandish puppet-show: the dancing couples, the scene changes that Gretl and Marta had pushed out and effected, Brigitta's solos, which had made him proud, their Fräulein's occasional hurried directions on top of the children's singing, which had made him laugh, and, of course, for the love of God, all that yodeling.  Whatever had possessed Max to order puppets to fit the Lonely Goatherd had had some measure of insanity in it.  And Maria, with an enthusiasm whose extent was serious and effect was light-hearted, had pulled it off.

Georg smiled, the cognac forgotten at his elbow.  He had been wrong.  Some things were easy.  Being with his children was easy now, as it never had been before.  Their simple and almost disproportionate joy when Max had told them they could keep the puppet-show had amused him to no end.  Love them, Fräulein Maria had told him.  Love them.  She had taught him how. 

He'd realized that so many times in the past few weeks.  He'd wanted to tell her, wanted to show how grateful he was to her, wanted her to know, as he had wanted her to know in the schoolroom just last week, how greatly he esteemed her.  Tonight had been just one more example of how indispensable she'd become, how she'd harnessed the irascible enthusiasm and excitability of seven children and put it to creative use. 

She'd come out from behind the stage, an expression of theatric exhaustion on her face, and had met his eyes and smiled.  'Well done, Fräulein,' he'd told her, and it hadn't seemed enough to convey all he was feeling.  The bit of fatigue in her face had disappeared, her expression brightening.  'I really am very much impressed.'

She'd shrugged, arms open, earnest modesty in her gesture.  'They're your children, Captain,' she had said.

Yes but . . . He hadn't known them; he hadn't seen their merit; he hadn't allowed himself to see it and it was she who had opened his eyes to it.  In that moment, and for the first time since after he'd returned from Vienna, he'd wished that she wasn't his children's governess.  The seven of them were permanently attached to her hip, and he never got the chance to speak seriously with the woman alone, to tell her sincerely and completely of his gratitude for her and respect toward her.

It was just as well, he had supposed in the next moment, catching sight of Elsa and making an awkward sort of bow to the little Fräulein.  He had wanted to say more to her, but his pride wouldn't have allowed him to self-deprecate completely anyway; besides which, conversation between them was not necessary in that respect.  The governess obviously knew what she had done for this household, or she would not have spoken to him so stridently on his return to Vienna.  She was capable of a great many things, and she appeared to know it.

Apparently, Elsa had known it too.  'My dear, is there anything you can't do?' she'd asked, her voice doubtful.

'I'm not sure I'll make a very good nun,' Maria had replied promptly.

That had set him to laughing.  It was continually surprising, whenever she chanced to bring it up, that she was a postulant.  She was entirely too vivacious, too passionate, too pretty, too . . . A nun?  No.  When he thought of it, the word 'waste' came to mind. 

Georg was not smiling now.  Glowering down at the liquor in his hand, Georg absently swirled the glass.  It wasn't right or fair to think of it that way, he knew.  A nun was as much as a woman as any other woman, except that she would never—never . . . It was simply that a marriage to God didn't seem the life for Maria.  Even her faith was boisterous; her devotion was not the quiet kind.  It was whole-hearted and vibrant, and given with so much passion and ardent fervor that sometimes the idle cynic in the back of his mind wondered if God Himself could stand it. 

It was just, he supposed, that she could make some man incredibly happy someday, and that lucky fate shouldn't be denied so that she could live alone without other human beings.  Georg took a large swallow of the cognac and let it burn all the way down his throat.  That lucky fate shouldn't be denied anyone.

'If you need any advice I'd be happy to help you,' Elsa had replied, obviously not as amused as he by Maria's comment.  

For a moment, that had given him pause.  The Baroness  was the last person—besides, perhaps, Fräulein Maria—who would make a "very good" nun.  Elsa had been making fun, obviously; it had been meant to be a joke—a very dry one, as Elsa herself hadn't acknowledged it.  She had gone on, striding confidently and gracefully into the foyer, where Max and the children had gathered.  Or maybe she hadn't listened to what Maria had said, and her reply had been merely thoughtless and absent-minded. 

And yet it had crossed Georg's mind that Elsa had been sincere in her offer; could she have possibly made it to a purpose?  But then he had dismissed the notion.  Why Elsa would be happy to help Maria be a nun was beyond him.  And then Maria had passed him, with a wisp of frothy blue and the smell of something fresh, and he had nodded awkwardly and decided all over again that she should never be a nun at all.

Georg turned the empty glass on the table, tapping the rim and then turning it again.  He was restless tonight, he supposed.  Elsa had accused him of it, but he hadn't thought it.  Perhaps the Baroness was right; perhaps he was merely tired.  Perhaps that was the thing that had seemed . . . off, between them, tonight—why he hadn't been able to reconnect with her before they separated, despite that moment of smiling comfort when their eyes had met across the room as he had sung.

'Georg?  Are you feeling well?' Elsa had asked suddenly, into the silence after Max had gone.  'You are very quiet, tonight."

'I'm fine, darling,' he had replied, still thinking of the children's puppet show, of his gratitude toward their governess.

'Singing makes you restless, Georg; I can't allow it,' she'd teased, grinning.  He'd nodded absently, and her smile had faded into curiosity as she looked into his eyes.  "Have you been having trouble sleeping?—Or dreaming?"  She had laughed again then.  "Tell me it's not dreams, darling.  I'd hate to think I was keeping you awake at night."

"I've never felt better rested," Georg had replied, not noticing that she had been teasing him, not noticing that his response had been thoughtless in regards to her.

Elsa had blinked several times and then looked away, standing, suddenly looking uncertain.  "I'm rather tired myself, in fact," she had said abruptly, after a moment.  "I have a little headache.  I think I'll go to bed early tonight.  You know how I need my beauty sleep."

"No one needs it less than you, my dear," he'd said.  He had looked up at her, smiling, and had met her eyes.  Abruptly, his attention had focused on her again more fully.  She really had looked worn out, and he had stood, berating himself for not paying attention, for not noticing earlier.  He had closed the space between them, pleased at the sudden opportunity to be tender with her.  He had liked the idea of being able to take care of her, to treat her as if she was his wife and lover and they lived together, day-to-day, happy.  "Rest then, darling," he had told her softly, his fingers finding her temple.  His voice had been sincere, gentle.  "And I hope you feel better," he had added, as his hand fell away and his expression grew teasing, "or you'll never be able to survive yet another day with my children."

"Oh Georg," she had laughed, but her voice had been full and her eyes bright as she had looked up at him.  She had seemed . . . relieved, somehow.  Suddenly, and of her own initiative, she had leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, leaving him, somewhat startled, to watch her turn away and head toward her room.  It was then that he'd wanted to follow her and take her in his arms, but it had been because their parting had seemed so awkward to him.  He hadn't wanted it to be; he had wanted it to be comfortable, to be lover-to-lover in the way that she had made him long for.  Trying for that simplicity afterwards wouldn't have worked anyway.

Georg sighed and reluctantly poured himself another glass of cognac.  It wasn't fair to hope that his relations with everyone could be as simple as they were with his children, as simple as their little Fräulein governess had made it.  Perhaps that was the reason his eyes had drifted towards Maria's, instead of Elsa's, once again in the last bars.  He hadn't been able to help himself; he had been thinking of her, thinking of how singing like that drew him back into easier, more innocent times, how she somehow seemed a part of that, able to do that to him, bring him peace that way.  Like edelweiss, he had been thinking.  That way in which she had looked at him . . .

Georg stopped drumming his hand on his chair, recalling it, recalling the way she would occasionally turn her head, and accidentally catch his eyes, her own eyes bright, smiling in a way that was content, eager, and shy—it was an innocent gaze, a young one, a refreshing stare that was so guileless that he truly hadn't been considering the implications behind it. 

He thought about it now, and dismissed it, downing another taste of the drink at his elbow.  So what?  The governess could think what she liked. 

The notion he'd had while playing, that the song embodied both a hope and a memory, had struck him as overly-sentimental afterwards.  He'd laughed, chagrined, shrugging off the little Fräulein's eyes.  It had been a foolish offering, and there had been nothing in it.  He had just been glad he hadn't botched it and made and idiot of himself.  Offering to whom, anyway?  And then he'd tucked the guitar under his chin and been so relieved when Max broke the silence, because it set the children giddy, put Elsa to talking, and, eventually, sent Maria away.

Georg finished off the last of the drink, making his last preparations for bed.  In the morning, Elsa would be proven right.  He was having trouble sleeping; he was troubled by dreams he couldn't remember in the morning, dreams of something precious slipping through his fingers because he hadn't thought to hold on tightly.

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