Chapter 9
Maria's troubles began with that kiss.
Her mind returned again and again to the kiss they'd shared, which had been over before she'd realized it was happening, leaving her with only a hazy, uncertain impression of the whole experience. How could such a formidable and powerful man have had such a light, gentle touch? How could his mouth, which she'd so often seen turn thin and severe with stern disapproval, have felt so soft, so luxurious?
And afterward, he'd broken away from her so quickly, too quickly, before she'd even had a chance to respond. Had she done something wrong? She was mortified at the idea that her relative inexperience might have put him off. "Innocent as a rose," she scoffed at herself, disgusted. It was a shame, because she was shy, but she was curious about things, too, and would have liked to learn more about what was supposed to happen next.
For the rest of that evening, he'd seemed awfully amused, and he didn't try to kiss her again, or even hold her hand, before leaving the next morning. Of course, there wasn't much opportunity for anything like that. They'd agreed not to tell the children about their plan until they'd had a chance to get used to the idea themselves. It had all happened so fast! They were going to be married. Maria only hoped that, wherever it was he'd gone off to, he wasn't having second thoughts. For her part, she wasn't thinking about much else.
It might have been easier if the children had known of her arrangement with their father, because it was almost impossible for Maria to act as though nothing had changed.
"How long will Father be gone this time?" Gretl asked wistfully at dinner the very first night.
"A month or two, darling. But we'll write him every week, and he will write us when he can. Of course we all miss him-"
"It's not the same thing for you," Brigitta informed her severely. "He loves us."
As though Maria needed reminding.
"Why don't we ever get to see the Baroness?" Marta broke in.
"Why would she want to see you?" Friedrich jeered.
CRASH!
The conversation was halted by the clatter of Maria's heavy, ornate fork hitting the porcelain plate that lay before her.
"Your father is not in Vienna," she said faintly. "I don't know exactly where he is, but he is not in Vienna." She felt the older children's eyes on her, puzzled, and she forced herself to pick up her fork and return to her dinner.
Yes, it was definitely a challenge, keeping their secret from the children. It wasn't any easier around the staff, who kept up a lively stream of gossip about when – not whether, but when – Captain von Trapp would marry Baroness Schrader.
With the older children back in school and only Gretl to supervise during the day, Maria had time on her hands. She did her best to keep busy, but somehow, every day, every conversation, everything she did, led her thoughts back to her Captain.
One afternoon, she wandered into the kitchen, hoping to be of some help to Millie the laundress, a perpetually flustered woman of advanced years, who was easily overwhelmed by the household's demands.
But not today. "Oh, thank you, Maria," Millie said calmly, "but everything is in order for the moment. The children's laundry is already done. And this is the last of the Captain's until he returns from his trip." She gestured to a basket of neatly folded shirts that lay at her feet. "With him away, there's much less work for me, you see."
"How can that be?" Maria laughed. "He is only one person!"
"Yes," the laundress said, "but one person who wants clean sheets on his bed every night, and at least three starched shirts daily."
"Millie," Frau Schmidt interrupted disapprovingly. "That's not the type of gossip we encourage around here. And you know perfectly well," she said, more confidingly, "that the man feels he's entitled to his comfort, after all those years underwater in submarines. The dirt, the smells," the housekeeper shuddered. "No wonder he can't abide disorder in any form."
Millie nodded. "True enough, that. Well. Time for me to get upstairs and put these things away."
Maria leapt to her feet. "Please, Millie. Let me help you. I have plenty of time, with the children gone," and before her suggestion could be rejected, she had the basket of shirts in her arms and was speeding up the back stairs, to the Captain's suite. When she pushed open the big double doors, she felt a flicker of guilt about snooping where she didn't belong, but then she reminded herself that – although she could hardly believe it - these were going to be her rooms, too. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Her hands were trembling as she threw open the wardrobe, which looked exactly as she might have imagined it: orderly rows of bright-white shirts; suits hanging neatly; other clothing arranged with military precision. She was putting away the last of the shirts when the sleeve of a jacket brushed against her cheek, flooding her with memories – memories of two times he had opened his arms to her, when she'd found comfort in his embrace. Instinctively, she buried her face in one of the shirts, but all she got in return was the fresh, crisp scent of starch. It didn't smell like him at all.
With a nervous glance over her shoulder toward the empty hallway, Maria surveyed the neat shelves of clothing, until her eyes fell on a worn blue jumper, the exact color of his dark eyes, in the softest wool she'd ever felt. She closed her eyes and held the garment to her cheek, breathing it in, and for a moment it was as though she was back in his arms again. Then, shocked at her own mortifying behavior, she tucked the jumper under her apron and stole across the house to her room, where she stashed her loot under the bed.
Maria had a secret. The night before her disastrous return to the Abbey, he'd helped her upstairs and stayed with her so she would sleep. But the truth was she hadn't slept at all, not for a moment. Instead, she'd lain as still as possible, absorbing everything she could about the strange new experience of lying next to another person, to him. In the middle of the night, without even awakening, he had reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She tensed, waiting to see what would happen next. But after a while, she relaxed against him, listening to the steady, reassuring thrum of his heart, until it was time for her to rise, quietly, dress, and depart for the Abbey.
Now, every night, while she waited for her new life to start, Maria slipped into bed, tucked the blue jumper under her pillow, and tried to fall asleep, all the while trying to imagine a future in which that remarkable experience might become a routine nightly occurrence.
And then there was that kiss. What was it about that kiss, anyway? It wasn't like she'd never been kissed before, after all. But in Maria's experience, any time a man kissed you, he immediately followed up with fumbled apologies that made you feel wicked, sad and guilty, even though the kiss hadn't been your idea in the first place.
Captain von Trapp – Georg, she reminded herself – not only hadn't apologized for kissing her, but afterward, he'd behaved as though the two of them shared a delicious secret. He'd made her feel wild and brave and important. No, he wasn't like any man she'd ever known, not Klaus or Kurt or anyone. Her Captain seemed to have come from an entirely different species.
She found any excuse to spend time in the library, not only for its comforting smells of books, leather and wood, but also for the heady memory of the first time he'd held her in his arms. One afternoon, she settled Gretl at the big library table with some exercises, and began hunting for science books for Friedrich. But the next thing she knew, she found herself revisiting the English-language shelf, and more specifically, the romance novel that had belonged to the Baroness von Trapp. The volume was easily spotted with its colorful binding. Maria flipped through the pages, hungry for something, but of course, the words were just a jumble to her. Then the book fell open to an illustrated plate.
A handsome, light-haired man in evening clothes bent over a woman wearing a low-cut, sweeping ball gown. Maria's eyes lingered on the image: the dark column of his pant leg tangling in the woman's skirts, and his big hand splayed across her back. The couple wasn't kissing, though; rather, the man's face was buried in the woman's voluptuous bosom, which threatened at any moment to overflow her bodice. Maria glanced down at her own neat shirtwaist, shook her head, and turned to the next illustration.
This one was more like it. The couple was nearly reclining on a large sofa very much like the one right here in the library, and they were kissing – not a decorous brush of the lips, but one forceful enough to have arched the woman's body against his, while her hands tangled in his smooth dark hair. Maria could almost feel his weight on her, and the silken slide of his hair through her fingers.
That night, she went to bed early, so unaccountably exhausted she could barely complete her usual routine: washing her face, brushing her teeth, saying her prayers, and tucking the worn blue jumper under her pillow before turning out the light. She'd only been asleep for a few restless hours when she woke to find her face burrowed in the soft wool, and her fingers where they shouldn't be, soothing an unfamiliar ache.
Turning on the light and slipping out of bed, she studied her face in the mirror.
"Hello? Where are you? Where have you gone?" Maria whispered to the girl in the mirror, the girl who had entered Nonnberg Abbey with a heart full of the purest love imaginable, only to have that love rejected and her hopes dashed.
What was she thinking, risking her heart again? Her Captain had offered her a sensible option: the protection of marriage without the passion. It was an offer she knew she ought to accept, but would not, even though she knew better: hadn't he warned her that he would never be able to return her love? No, he would continue to grieve for his wife, while Maria would find it more difficult with each passing day to hold her growing feelings for him in check.
But there was something Maria feared even more than a broken heart: regret. Regret that might only grow stronger with the passage of months and years spent in a marriage of convenience. Regret for having chosen the sensible option, made the safe, prudent, and mature choice, but at the price of denying herself something she barely understood, and craved nonetheless. The truth was – the certain, shameful knowledge she carried within her, an unquenchable flame that burned brighter every day – that she wanted him. Desperately. Enough to risk her heart.
Leaning closer to the mirror, she held her fingers to her lips as she practiced saying his name aloud:
"Georg. Georg. Georg."
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He'd left Salzburg without a plan, at least none he was ready to admit to. He passed the first three weeks sailing aimlessly around the Adriatic, mooring overnight on tiny, uninhabited islands, eating whatever fish he could catch and anything else he could forage, letting the solitude, the warm breezes and bright sun, soothe him. Then, one morning, Georg woke, knowing somehow that it was time, at last, to face his fears. He docked back in Trieste, packed his bags, and purposefully set out on the journey he suspected he'd intended all along.
The first letter didn't reach him until he was leaving Trieste. He briefly regretted the cumbersome arrangement he'd made to correspond through Lenz's office, but he reminded himself that he'd wanted to spare Maria the worries he knew would trouble her if she knew where his wanderings might take him.
The letter itself brought him great pleasure. There was a note from each of the children – Louisa was dancing on toe now, Kurt had begun trumpet lessons, and so on. Then a few lines from Maria, nothing personal, only that she and Cook had planned to make jam, but the children returned from berry-picking with aching stomachs full of berries and nothing left in their baskets. She wrote of the evenings turning cooler and new shoes for the children. He studied her words carefully, as though he might decode some secret message in them, until he heard the whistle shriek, and he had to run for the ferry.
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The pale, cadaverous butler was as unflappable as ever. "Good afternoon, Captain," he said coolly, as though it had been hours, rather than years, since Georg had last climbed these steps and rung the doorbell. "Wait here," the man murmured, ushering Georg into the parlor before disappearing.
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait more than a few minutes - minutes spent studying the portrait hanging over the fireplace, while memories welled up all around him - before he heard the brisk rush of footsteps in the marble foyer and then there she was.
Tall, silver-haired and violet-eyed, as beautiful as she'd been twenty years ago when they'd first met, even though her face was now deeply lined. Her proud, erect bearing might have seemed intimidating, but any such impression was instantly erased by the warmth of her greeting.
"Georg! What a wonderful surprise! John is out of town, and he will be devastated to know he missed you." She kissed him lightly on both cheeks and gave his shoulders a squeeze. "What brings you to London? Are the children with you?"
"No. No, I'm here on business," he said, though this visit was, in fact, the only business he had in London. "I should have called first, Mathilde, I know, but it was a bit of an impulse."
"Don't be silly. I love our visits to Salzburg, but they're a bit frantic, aren't they, with the children running about? I'm thrilled to have you all to myself here in London for a change! Let me ring for tea," she said.
While she busied herself so, he turned back to the portrait. After everything that had happened this summer, he shouldn't have been surprised, but he was, nonetheless: that portrait invoked no stabbing grief, no fury, no despair. There was sadness, certainly, but also the warmth of remembered pride, excitement and joyful anticipation. It was in this very room that he'd wooed her, relinquishing his bachelor's life without a moment's regret, waiting long, patient weeks before attempting a kiss, though he thought he'd die of frustrated desire for her. He could practically taste that first, sweet kiss, so delightful that it had erased the pain of his broken arm.
"My darling Agathe. She will always be my little girl." Mathilde's voice broke into his thoughts. "So lovely, although no portrait can really capture her inner beauty, can it? I miss her so," the older woman said with a shake of her head. Georg had spent so many months and years avoiding the subject of Agathe that he was at a loss for a reply to this remark, but his mother-in-law saved him with a deft, "Now, Georg, come have a cup of tea, and tell me all about the children."
They spent a pleasant half-hour on that subject. "I had a whole packet of letters from them recently," Mathilde reported. "You are managing so well, Georg, and after all that trouble holding on to a governess, too! And you look content. Settled. Happy."
"Y-yes," he fumbled. "It would seem so, but-"
"You know," Mathilde went on, "when I saw you standing here, waiting for me, for just a moment, I couldn't help hoping that you were here with news. Good news."
"I don't understand."
"We've heard the gossip from our friends who were posted to Vienna. About you and Elsa Schrader. John and I were hoping that - well, Georg, you know what I've always said. Governesses are all well and good, but the children need a mother. I don't know this Baroness Schrader, but if you love her, I know we'll love her too."
He winced, envying other men, who did not have to contend with a mother in law who was constantly pressing them to marry. "I'm sorry, Mathilde. But your sources are outdated, I'm afraid. Elsa and I had an understanding of sorts, yes, but we called it off."
"I'm sorry, Georg. Are you terribly disappointed? Did you love her?"
""Elsa? What the hell does that have to do with it?" he snapped, before quickly mumbling an apology.
Mathilde raised an eyebrow and studied him for only a moment before announcing, triumphantly, "Aha! Because you found someone else! Someone you are in love with. Tell the truth."
"No!" he blurted, and then, "I don't know." Exactly what he'd told Maria. "It doesn't seem possible, you know…"
"How long, Georg?"
"It's been four years, Mathilde, surely you know that. Four years and three months."
"That's not what I meant. How long are you going to punish yourself? And your children? Not that Agathe's death was anyone's fault. But denying yourself any happiness is not going to bring her back. And she would not want you to-"
"Spare me the clichés, Mathilde," he said, trying to keep his tone light. After all, she'd been nothing but kind and generous to him, and Agathe had been her loss as well. "I've heard them all. Nothing can bring her back, so why not get on with life? She'd want me to be happy. Am I missing any?"
The older woman's dark eyes suddenly clouded over with grief. She rose and went to look out the window, where only a few traces of late-summer color lingered in the garden, before speaking in a low, controlled voice.
"There is no loss - none, do you hear me, not even in the silly wars you men love to fight- no loss worse than burying a child. There's your missing cliché, Georg. It is still a struggle for John and me, every day. So believe me, I understand. But I – I am an old woman. You have decades still ahead of you. Of course you will always have Agathe, Georg, in your heart, and in your children. But is that really enough?"
"You of all people, Mathilde." he grated. "Are you telling me to simply replace her?"
She crossed the room to where he sat, and put her hand gently on his shoulder. "Georg. Just because you've fallen in love with another woman, doesn't mean you loved Agathe less."
He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. It was a mistake to have come. What had he expected?
As though she could read his mind, Mathilde said gently, "Tell me. Why did you come here, Georg? If you came for my permission, you have it. If you came for Agathe's … she is not here anymore, dear heart."
Why had he come? To learn how his in-laws had managed to get on with their lives despite the portrait staring down on them every day? To be talked out of another marriage? Or into it? He was beginning to understand that matters of the heart were far more complicated than any military strategy. Avoiding Agathe's memory these past years had been difficult, but now that he had acknowledged and drawn comfort from it, living with her memory was a far greater challenge. There was no easy solution to his dilemma. On the other hand, was there any battle worth winning that didn't require a fight?
The next day, he left for Paris.
It had been eighteen years since their honeymoon, and as he'd told Elsa, he hadn't been there since. It was a very long time, but he could still feel the tug of Agathe's arm on his, and hear her chattering away in perfect French. Her French had always been better than his, which had irritated him no end. If Maria were here with him, she would need him to translate everything.
Where had that thought come from?
He paced the streets, wandered through the museums, strolled through the parks, lingered in cafes. Everywhere he went, he caught memories like fragile bubbles, considering each one gently before letting it float away. There were moments when a dark swell of emotion threatened to overtake him, to drag him under, but then there would be a memory – sparked by a glint of sunshine, a young woman's laughter, the colorful autumn foliage - that bore him through the worst of it.
If the days in Paris were devoted to Agathe's memory, the nights, apparently, belonged to Maria. He had no say in the matter: somehow, his mind had taken a very few impressions – the glimpse of her long legs when they'd danced, the accidental press of her round breast against his hand the day he'd first sung for her in the nursery – and assembled from them a lissome young woman who haunted his dreams. Georg awakened from those dreams sweating with shame and desire, but secretly grateful for even the temporary illusion that his craving for her could be satisfied.
He'd been in Paris for a week when another letter reached him. This one began with Maria's update: She had had it out with the headmaster, and Brigitta would, indeed, be allowed to study with a biology tutor, while Friedrich was moved up a level in mathematics. He felt a smile crease his face at the thought of the school's administrators, reeling in the aftermath of a sound defeat at the hands of his determined little governess – his fiancée, he corrected himself.
Once again, there was a brief note from each child, winding up with Gretl's message marching determinedly uphill: "I LOVE YOU FATHER." Her scrawl was so exuberant that he almost missed the faint postscript in Maria's hand:
"When will you be returning home?"
Just six words, pencil on paper, but Georg could have sworn he heard the yearning in her voice. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Either way, he was on the next train to Salzburg.
Hours later, though, when his train pulled into the Salzburg station, he asked the taxi driver to make a stop before dropping him at the villa. He noted with satisfaction that everything was just as it should be, the urn of white roses, the green plants, the polished headstone. He'd visited here only once or twice, very early on, but he found no comfort in it and hadn't returned in years. This place had been nothing but a painful reminder of everything he'd lost. An advertisement for avoiding her memory, and for encouraging the children to do the same.
Now, Georg shook his head at the very idea: what a foolish, doomed endeavor it had been for the last four years, to try and forget his first love! In the end, Agathe, as always, had known exactly what to do. She had found herself a place to rest easily, nestled comfortably somewhere deep in his heart, where she could stay forever.
Mathilde had asked him the reason for his visit to London. Minutes away from his journey's end, he still didn't really know the answer to her question.
But he did know this: something had loosened within, like a sailor's knot come undone, so that the sail could easily fill with wind, and guide him home.
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Thank you very much for reading my story. And for your kind and interesting reviews and PMs.
Thank you to callumrogers7, whose review drew a parallel between Maria's rejection from Nonnberg and her fear of rejection by Georg. I hadn't thought of it that way, and happily used the idea in this chapter.
This past summer, I spent a blissful couple of days sailing among small islands in the Adriatic, though there was nothing remotely resembling solitude involved, and it made me so happy to revisit those memories.
I'm in the worst of my work-crunch, so it may be a few weeks, but your words of support will definitely inspire me to power through and get back to this story. Warning: the next chapter will be very long. I could try and split it but I don't think it would work. So when, at long last, you see the update, make yourself a cup of tea and settle in.
