Chapter 22: Exit Plan

Heavy drapes were drawn over the library's windows, and no lamps were lit within. The fire in the grate gave off only a dull orange glow. After the snow-blinding glare from outdoors, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and even then, Georg had to search the room before locating her. Maria wore a somber, deep-gray dress of fine material but plain design, and her wild bright curls been tamed into a bun that sat low on her neck. If not for her pale cheeks and slender hands, her presence could easily have gone unnoticed against the dark background of a richly tapestried armchair.

It was his first glimpse of her since last night's disaster. She had been absent from breakfast, an offense which, in the distant past, would have been the cause for a delightful round of bickering, but under the circumstances, was not only understandable but probably preferable. For after last night, how would he ever look her in the eye again?

From the expression on her face, it was clear that her thoughts were far away. Georg watched her for a minute or two, having not the least idea where to begin. When he noticed her fingers playing with a brightly colored scrap that had been hidden in her lap, it was a relief to have a topic of conversation.

"What's that you've got there?"

"Oh," she said tonelessly. "I'm learning to knit."

Hadn't he bragged to her about Agathe's knitting? He felt a pinch of remorse at the thought of her trying to emulate her predecessor.

"No doubt you'll be a natural, being able to sew the way you do."

"Doubt it." She held up her handiwork – a misshapen, three-fingered mitten, by the looks of it – and then dropped it back into her lap.

"Well, that doesn't matter, Maria." The absurdity of this conversation was intolerable. "Look, Maria. About last night, I am truly-"

"Don't." She cut him off, never taking her eyes from her lap. "Don't speak of it."

"But-"

"I know you want to apologize, Captain. Georg. But the best thing you can do is simply to let it go. Please."

Although Maria wouldn't look at him, he could see the fear in the taut line of her spine. Between that and the knitting, he felt his resolve soften. He was tempted to put their conflict aside, but he reminded himself it might be weeks before another opportunity for a private conversation presented itself. Instead, he would try to be as gentle as possible.

"Maria. Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, I'm going to tell the children that we are married."

"I'd rather you didn't do that."

"I realize that, but I'm at a loss to understand why." He tried to keep the edge out of his voice. "You asked me for time, and I've given you that. The children are devoted to you. John and Mathilde have welcomed you with open arms. Perhaps you think that I – I mean, as for Agathe, I can tell you with complete certainty that I've made my peace with – she's gone, Maria. Are you going to punish me for having loved her?"

"It's not-"

"And after last night, I wouldn't blame you if you never spoke to me again, but you also can't deny that you and I have a history. Going back to the very beginning. Then that damned party, when you ran away from me, and having to leave Austria, and the forest, and – look, I'm not very good at this kind of thing. I never had to - But I've tried to tell you that it's not like anything else I've ever – I'm not even the same man anymore-"

He sputtered to a halt, understanding from her face that the torrent of words hadn't budged her an inch. If she'd even been listening.

"I'd think twice before you tell them, Georg. Because if you do, then I'll tell the Whiteheads that you took advantage of me. That you forced me, last summer, and that's why we had to marry."

Her soft tone of voice did nothing to diminish the shock: the little governess was attempting to blackmail him?

"They won't believe you. I'm the father of their grandchildren, the devoted husband of their beloved late daughter, a decorated national hero, and a born aristocrat. Just to name a few reasons."

"To hear you last night, you had it that no one expects anything better from you. And I'll also tell them-" she hesitated.

"Don't threaten me, Maria."

"All right then, I won't threaten you. I'll plead with you instead, Georg. You ought to like that. Please. Please, don't tell the children that we married. It's just going to make it harder for them when I leave."

Surely he'd heard her wrong.

"Leave?"

"I'm going to leave England. Just after New Year's."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's the hardest decision I've ever made. I love the children so much! But I need - I want to go home."

"Don't be ridiculous, Maria. You can't leave. Not now."

Her eyes went wide with alarm.

"W-what do you mean, not now?"

"Well – ehrm," he fumbled, "I mean that if by home you are talking about Austria," irritation temporarily pushed aside panic, "then of all the foolish notions you've ever surfaced, this is the most absurd yet. Have you read the papers, Maria? Listened to the radio?"

"Why no, I haven't," she said sharply. "There's this little problem of the language, you see."

"Of course," Georg conceded. "Let me spell it out for you, then. The Germans have Austria in a chokehold. People disappear for the slightest offense, or for no offense at all. Half of the Church is collaborating and the other half has vanished. And in case you've forgotten, Maria, you helped me escape. Go back to Austria and they'll have you in jail so fast your head will spin. And a jail sentence might not be the worst of it. No, Maria, whether you like it or not, I am your husband, and I am not sending you back to Austria. It's absolutely out of the question."

His attempt to frighten some sense into her only backfired. Maria rose to her feet and stuck her chin out at him, that seemingly defiant gesture that, he'd long ago learned, masked her fear.

"Very well, then. I'll go to Shanghai."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You told me once that they take everyone else's sinners there."

"Sinners?" He felt his hands harden into fists. "Is that what you are? What we are? Sinners? Because we didn't marry in church, is that it? May I remind you that your Reverend Mother was the one who - do you mean to tell me that you are ashamed of having lain with me? Because it's a little late for that."

"I am not ashamed."

Her tone was defiant, but she was doing everything she could to avoid looking at him.

"Then you're just running away again? The way you always do?"

"I'm not a coward, either."

"I know that," Georg struggled to stay calm. "I know you're not a coward, Maria, because you were brave enough to face down Zeller, to get my children safely out of Austria. Brave enough to follow me into the forest and out of Italy, remember? You didn't give up on me. Which is why I am at a loss to understand why you would give up on me now. Give up on us now."

"It's not that, Georg. It's just that," the tilt of her chin grew more resolute, "I've been dishonest, to both of us, and utterly unfair to you. We both know that our marriage was a sham."

"A sham?"

"A sham," she echoed. "You didn't want to do it either. Or have you forgotten?"

"A sham," he repeated, and then again, afraid of what else he'd say otherwise, "a sham." By now, panic and anger and shock roiled his gut. He felt the emotion cresting, knew for certain that another minute spent in her presence would result in disaster, that he would say or do something even more desperate than he had last night, and then it would be too late to salvage things. As though it weren't already.

"I knew you wouldn't understand," she declared, slouching back into the armchair.

"You're right about that," he said brusquely. "I don't. What I do know is that this interview has come to an end. I'll – ehrm – I'll take the matter under advisement, along with giving consideration to any further actions that may be required, and only at that point will we – ehrm – resume this discussion," he finished stiffly. Georg wasn't sure why he'd addressed her as though she were a junior officer, especially since he could hardly dismiss her. Instead, he dismissed himself, turning smartly on his heel and marching from the room.

As though he had no choice in the matter, his stocking feet took him up the majestically curving stairway, across a grand gallery and down a broad corridor, until he was facing the door: a door he hadn't once chosen to open, not even after six weeks in England. Grimacing, he stopped himself from knocking and let himself in.

He was surprised to find it in such good order, furniture polished and dusted, fresh flowers scenting the air. As though its occupant would return at nightfall to get ready for the evening's entertainment. As though its occupant hadn't left her room, her home, and her country behind, eighteen years ago, to marry a young Austrian naval officer. As though she hadn't been dead for more than four years.

Their visits to England had been rare, so Georg hadn't been inside Agathe's girlhood bedchamber more than a few times in all the years of their marriage. Still, it was a comfort to be here. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small carved wooden box and spilled its contents out onto the bureau. He laid aside the medal, brushed his fingers tenderly against the photograph, and poked at two rings that lay nestled against each other: one small, one large, both dark with age. Finally, he took the third ring – misshapen and discolored – and rolled it meditatively between his fingers.

Perhaps he ought to let her go. If that was what it would take to make her happy-

"Georg?"

"Mathilde?"

His mother-in-law stood in the doorway. He felt his face flush with guilt, like a schoolboy discovered where he shouldn't be, but her warm smile quickly put him at ease.

"Do you come in here frequently?" he asked. "I mean, you must – the flowers."

"I do," she replied wistfully. "I find it helps," and then after a moment, "What's wrong, Georg?"

"What's wrong? You really need to ask me that?"

"But it's not Agathe that's troubling you, Georg. You've been different, somehow, ever since you got here. More at peace with things. No, it's your little governess, isn't it? Such a lovely girl. The children adore her."

"I do not wish to discuss my personal affairs in this manner, Mathilde!" he snapped, and then feeling guilty for losing his temper at this kind-hearted woman, he added, "The children do adore her, yes. It's just that – well, she can be a bit of a headache." He strove for a disinterested tone, and knew that he had failed.

"Don't be too hard on her, Georg. She's in love with you, you know."

Shame weighed on his shoulders.

"I – ehrm - I know."

"And you're in love with her, aren't you?"

He dug his toe into the carpet and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Have you told her so?"

"I didn't have to," he burst out. "She told me." It was embarrassing, but a relief, too, to unburden himself. "But apparently her feelings have changed. I've tried to ask her about it. I've even threatened her, God help me. I've tried everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything. It's not like I can marry her. I've already done that!"

Much to his surprise, Mathilde laughed. The sound was oddly fitting in this roomful of sad memories.

"Georg," she said. "Your mother was a wonderful woman, as is your sister. You've had two wives, and I know first-hand what an outstanding husband you were to Agathe. You're a very good father to five daughters, not to mention two fine sons. And from what I hear – don't bother denying it, it's all over Europe – you're quite popular with the ladies."

"Now look here, Mathilde-"

She silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"But for all of that, Georg, dear heart," Mathilde said gently, "you don't know very much about women, do you?"

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Although her heart throbbed with sorrow, Maria forced herself to sit perfectly still in the great armchair, staring into the smothered fire. She told herself, quite irrationally, that as long as she didn't move at all, it would be like none of it had really happened, that things could still go back to the moment before she'd told him everything. Well, not everything, but nearly so. There was no going back now.

She'd intended to wait until after Christmas to tell him she was leaving. But maybe it was for the best, happening this way. She'd anticipated her departure from the moment they'd arrived in England, had thought of little else for days, had dreaded it even though she couldn't quite work out when or how it would take place, and it was almost a relief to have set things in motion herself instead of waiting for him to take the first step. It was also advantageous to have broached the subject while he was mired in regret about last night.

Last night – but she couldn't let herself think about that.

So there she sat, for how long? It might have been three minutes or three hours, but eventually anguish subsided to a dull ache, and she was able to rise and leave the library, just in time to encounter Liesl returning from her afternoon at the neighbors. The girl, all pink cheeks and silvery chatter, was bubbling over with delight. Louisa and Brigitta, having been infected by their sister's excitement, pranced manically about the foyer.

"Everyone was so kind – the most wonderful music room – her dress was – little cakes - there was a boy – flowers - her hair was just – lovely girls - champagne – they're going to – oh, can I, Fraulein Maria?"

"I'm sorry, Liesl, can you what?"

"Go caroling with them tonight. Lady Winchester invited me."

"Oh, I don't know, Liesl." Maria pinched her nose between her fingers. "I suppose you ought to ask your father."

"But she can't ask Father," Brigitta said. "He's gone away."

A fist clutched at Maria's heart.

"Away?"

"I mean, for the evening. I heard him tell Grandfather that he had some – I don't know, some kind of errand to do, and that he might have to go as far as London for such a complicated matter, and not to expect him until late. Do you think it has to do with Christmas gifts?"

"May I, Fraulein Maria?" Liesl begged.

"May you what? Oh! Well, in that case, Liesl, you ought to be sure your grandmother approves, but I don't see why not. You can wear your-"

And then Maria was absorbed by the blessed distraction of the children, swept into the current of questions and squabbles and laughter and a Captain-less supper and singing and reading by the fireplace and sending Liesl off and bedtime routines, all the while trying to ignore the bright ache in her chest.

But eventually, she and her thoughts were alone in her bedchamber. Marta and Gretl were asleep, the older children were reading in their rooms, and with Georg safely out of the house, she felt as though she could let go of a breath she'd been holding for hours.

It must be something important, for him to have driven all the way to London. She wondered numbly if he might already be making the arrangements for her departure. Georg was, after all, a decisive, practical and business-like man. Keeping busy was his way of feeling in control; she knew that after watching him chop shedfuls of wood in the forest.

Not that her news hadn't affected him – she had seen his face change when she'd made her announcement, glimpsed the flicker of sadness beneath his confusion and barely controlled rage – but it was only natural, that melancholy bit that came at the end of a temporary pleasure, like a beautiful summer day, or a birthday party, or an evening at the Opera-

Pushing away her memories of Paris, Maria went about changing into her flannel nightgown and brushing her teeth, trying to think instead of the children. Because all of this trouble was for them, wasn't it? The children must never know that Georg had married her, an act which had, temporarily at least, made her their mother.

She'd been fresh out of Nonnberg, with less than a week at the villa, the first time she'd overheard Marta asking Friedrich, "Why doesn't Fraulein Maria marry Father? Then we could have a new mother!" She'd pretended not to hear, and had fled before hearing Friedrich's answer. But once the little girls got over their shyness, it was impossible to avoid the question, which they fired at her at least twice a week.

"Fraulein Maria, why don't you marry Father? I don't want Baroness Schrader to be my new mother! I want you!"

Fortunately, the older children would always break in at that point, self-importantly explaining about nuns and aristocracy and age differences and a hundred other reasons that their governess could never, ever, become their mother, and eventually, the younger ones stopped asking. Also fortunately, no one ever noticed Maria's cheeks turn pink when the topic arose, because it was so quickly disposed of.

It would break their hearts, all seven of them – and after everything else they'd experienced, too, losing their mother, and their home – to learn the truth, only then to lose her as well. No, once they knew she had been their mother, and for quite some time at that, she would never be able to leave them. Except that she would have to leave them, when things with Georg came to an end. As they inevitably would.

Maria went to the window, pushed aside the heavy drapery, and looked out at the silver spill of moonlight, how it made something magical of solid stone walls, snowy lawns and the leafless frames of trees. It had surprised her at first, heartsick and homesick for Austria as she was, that the beauty of God's creation could comfort her heart, even in an unfamiliar landscape.

She thought back to when she'd stood by another window, the one in the hotel by the sea, where she'd watched the sun move across the water until she'd made the decision to follow Georg to France. Now, stranded in frigid and foreign surroundings, Maria tried to summon up the confidence she'd had that afternoon, the certain knowledge that he loved her. Perhaps he did still love her, in his own limited sort of way. Why else was he insisting on revealing the truth of their marriage? Certainly, there were moments, just after making love to her, when he looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world.

But he hadn't said a word about it! Surely he should have, by now.

He had asked her for more time and she had given it to him, following him to France like a lovesick puppy, keeping her promise to herself to never nag or hound him. It was just that she'd been so hungry for him, a hunger she'd mistakenly thought could be slaked, so that in some hazy, indefinite future, if he couldn't keep loving her back, they would leave Paris and go their separate ways, wistful but sated.

But it hadn't worked out that way. On their journey to France, he had shown her the parts of himself that she could never have guessed at, with the unexpected result that she was more in love with him than ever. When he had simply assumed that she would accompany him to England, Maria, unable to resist a chance to see the children, had gone along.

This afternoon, in the library, she'd been tempted to beg for just a few more days, but the truth was, she was nearly out of time. And what good would it do when, inevitably, he changed his mind about her and sent her away? And even if, circumstances being what they were, Georg didn't send her away, she could no longer bear the prospect of never getting everything she needed from him. Maria now understood that, in following him from Italy, she had sentenced herself to a lifetime of settling for what he could give her and being reminded of what he couldn't.

She couldn't stay. She just couldn't. She had to leave, that was all there was to it.

He hadn't wanted to marry her. He had tried to warn her, from the very start and in every which way, that his feelings for her would never be more than temporary. That no matter what his body demanded of him, his heart was permanently broken – "I can't get past it," he'd told her once. On more than one occasion, he'd tried to repeat his warnings, a process so uncomfortable for both of them that he could barely get the words out and she'd hastened to change the subject to spare him.

But she had fallen even more in love with him anyway. "Falling in love," in English, hat was an idiom she'd learned about from Mathilde Whitehead's phrase book. The German expression was more straightforward, but "falling in love" seemed completely appropriate, because when you fell, you got hurt.

Grimacing, Maria let the drapery drop, blocking out the night sky and leaving her alone with other, more private thoughts, the kind you kept hidden from everyone, even sometimes, yourself. On that long-ago afternoon, standing by that hotel window, looking out at the sea, she'd been so innocent. Not technically, of course, having given him her virginity a few hours before. But she'd thought those first encounters had made her an expert at love and lovemaking, and how those two things were the same and different. Now she knew that she hadn't understood at all.

Maria had certainly learned a lot about sex since then; whatever the Lord's moral objections might be, she understood the purely practical reasons that He had made sex outside of marriage and procreation a sin, because she had experienced first-hand its power to ruin lives, break hearts and bring the world to a halt.

Last night, for example. She felt her face redden and her heart race as the shocking memories overtook her. Shocking, but not shameful: from the start, she had given herself to Georg because she loved him, and because she loved him, she knew perfectly well the only thing that he wanted and needed from her in return. Last night merely confirmed what they both already knew: that she meant everything to him because he held all the power over her, held it easily, and knew it. In the end, she had given him exactly what he required: she had lost herself completely.

And yet she couldn't regret it. If she lived another hundred years, there would never be another man for her. No one else could give her that kind of joy. But what he gave her in return, she had begun to realize, was not going to be enough. She would happily have traded away a tiny bit of it to hear him admit that he loved her, too.

From downstairs, there came the sound of the massive foyer doors opening and then closing again, the rush of voices: Liesl, returning from her evening out, the Whiteheads, Henderson the butler, and – yes, it was Georg. Her heart sank a little as the picture of his handsome face rose up before her, the way other people saw him: imposing, reserved, thoughtful, elegant. Perfect.

Making love with Georg always seemed to open up a crack in his otherwise implacable demeanor, a crack through which she had been able to glimpse the man she loved more and more with each passing day. But last night, all she had seen was distance, and disappointment, and confirmation of what she had always known would happen. And then the crack had sealed up tight.

As the clock crawled toward midnight, Maria reviewed her situation and reached the same conclusion she'd reached a hundred times before: making love with Georg was not going to be enough for her, not for a lifetime. Yet she couldn't get enough of him, either: tonight, like every other night at this time, she was overcome by longing for him. If her heart cried out for him, her body cried out for him too.

What harm could it do? She was already in too deep, and now that he was making her arrangements, this might very well be the last time. Maria pulled her nightgown over her head, threw open the bureau drawer and ran her trembling fingers through the silky pile of lingerie until she found one of his favorites from Paris. After she drew it over her body and resettled the big flannel nightgown overall, she slipped from the room and raced silently down the long, broad hallways until she stood at his door.

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I like the encouraging reviews and PMs, asking for updates, but the truth is I'm in the middle of a huge life transition and I don't to rush this, because writing the rest of this story (one chapter + an epilogue, and a lot of it is sketched-out already) will bring me comfort and joy during a bit of a tough time. (And I don't celebrate Christmas, either!)

There's a little Easter egg in here from my other fandom, see it?

I started out this story resolved not to ask for reviews, and hope that if you haven't reviewed, you've enjoyed the free pass. But I might ask, just once, at the end.

I don't own TSOM or anything about it.

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