A/N: I started to revise this chapter to publish it here, and it became too long, so I had to divide it in two parts. If you read it before in the old forum, you´ll notice that it was expanded. Part II is coming in the next few days. Georg and Maria, finally - enjoy!

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The Sound of Music Chronicles

Part II

Interlude

Chapter 07

A nightcap – part I

"The most powerful symptom of love is a tenderness which becomes at times almost insupportable."

Victor Hugo

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"Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship."

Oscar Wilde

The day with the Eberfelds was rather pleasant.

In the end, even Max had to revise his opinion and conclude that the Baron´s castle was not so decrepit after all. Rumpelstiltskin would envy it! To Georg, it was like going back a few weeks in the past, when he had his worries with the children, but when their governesses were easily dismissed from his mind as soon as he sent them packing.

Nowadays, Georg still worried, and it was all the more upsetting because he could not get rid of governess number twelve, troublesome Fräulein Maria. It was as if she was some kind of sorceress who put a spell on him: he wanted to send her away, he needed to, but he simply could not! Frankly, there were times when he wondered if things had improved at all, but then he remembered his children singing Edelweiss and quickly changed his mind. Sorceress or not, the least that he could do was to give the Fräulein and the Reverend Mother his trust, at least for a while.

However, spending a day with the Eberfelds in their idyllic castle had been at least pleasant interlude before he focused his full attention in his family again. They laughed, they gossiped, they drank wine from the Baron´s cellar, straight from the family vineyard in the Steiermark, which was known as one of the best in Austria. Needless to say, he flirted shamelessly with Elsa, and there was even the time for some heated moments in the garden maze while Baron and Baroness Eberfeld were busy showing Max the Castle´s notorious… torture chamber. It was all so refreshingly delightful that it became impossible to refuse their kind invitation to stay for dinner as well. By the time Georg von Trapp and his guests returned to the villa it was late in the evening, pleasantly inebriated, the children and their governess had already retired.

After bidding good night to Elsa and Max, Georg decided to linger in his study, which was something he normally did after everybody had gone to bed and the house was silent. He intended to stay there until he was overcome with lethargy - it was usually the only chance he had to get some decent sleep during the night, without waking up in a cold sweat, after having dreamed he was next to his beloved wife in that cursed hospital bed, holding her while she let out her last breath. Or, more specifically, as it was tonight´s case, finding himself unable to remember her face, only to start chasing a "phantom of delight" – in Wordsworth very appropriate words - around the house, the lovely creature who tormented him by keeping her face hidden, but who was so alluring that he woke up wishing to feel their kiss on his lips...

No, he would not allow that to happen again. He could not, for the sake of his mental integrity.

That evening, as it was not infrequent, his body was tired, but his mind was fully awake. He predicted he would have more trouble than usual with falling asleep. Every little noise he head coming from every corner of the house was enough to put him in a state of alert – perhaps another consequence of the disturbing dream of the previous night. A clock tickling, a door carelessly left ajar, footsteps…

Footsteps?

There should not be any footsteps at this hour!

It was one of his sacred household rules; he had strictly forbidden anyone to wander in the hallways after hours. He had no wish to be surprised by anyone during his nocturnal activities. There were a number of very good reasons for it, and one of them was his own pride. The last thing he wanted was to be seen at his worst, during when nothing he did was able to assuage the pain of his grief. In those moments it was all there, clearly etched in his face. Unlike the tortured opera ghost in the celebrated Leroux novel (1), he needed no mask to hide his scars, they were there for all to see. The least he could to would be to spare himself of that.

The unwelcome noise was persistent enough to bring him into a full state of alert – a natural response after years of strict military training. This was no ethereal apparition invading his dreams; this one was not walking so lightly that it appeared she floated above the ground. He was wide awake and this was very real, the steps were heavy, noisy, belonging to someone who wasn´t making the least effort to be silent.

"Who the hell is up and about at this hour?" he grumbled, as he started to follow the sound, making his way towards the source of the noise – the kitchen -, with the intent to scold whoever had disturbed his peace. His anger gave way to reason when he was half way there. Maybe a nightcap would help, he thought. Maybe the mysterious kitchen raider would prove not to be such bad company after all…

He wondered briefly who his fellow insomniac could be. Max, maybe? Hardly likely. Max would not be concerned about not waking up the entire house, but the impresario had the irritating habit of sleeping like the dead under any circumstances. A full attack of an enemy fleet would not wake him up. Most likely, it was not Elsa either, who did walk graciously as if floating on air. However, she would ask her own maid to fetch something for her if she needed something and never come down to the kitchen herself. Smirking, he thought that he doubted that his elegant would-be fiancée had ever set her dainty feet in a galley in her entire life! The children had the habit of invading the kitchen now and then, but in the middle of the night they would go to their Fräulein, who would certainly…

He stopped cold when he saw her there at that very moment.

Oh yes. The Fräulein.

The governess was sitting at the kitchen table, in the act of pouring a steaming liquid into a china teacup. She wore the same bizarre nightgown he had the night she arrived, this time with an unattractive robe of an unspeakable color over it.

What had he been expecting? Silk and lace?

She was a postulant from Nonnberg Abbey completely out of her universe, wearing clothes that even the poorest among the poor in Salzburg rejected. He doubted she had anything in her wardrobe resembling the gauzy, flimsy white thing that the lovely apparition in his dream was wearing. Not that it was something a prospective nun would ever wear, in any case. The formidable Sister Berthe would look the poor Fräulein in the dungeons of Nonnberg - if such a place existed - if she saw her wearing something like what his imagination had fathomed for the woman in his dream.

Musings aside, he took the opportunity to watch her for a moment or two, before making his presence known. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, oblivious of her surroundings.

At first he thought she was crying, but almost instantly he realized his mistake. For the first time since he had first met her, the little Fräulein did not look well. She looked tired and overwrought – that undoubtedly a consequence of a shopping spree with seven children. Her nose was red, as if she had repeatedly sneezed – another consequence, this one of a dip in his lake. The sight tugged at his heart, and he felt for the first time this absurd need to comfort and protect her somehow... as absurd as the notion was. Well, the least he could do now would be to advise her to go back to bed, for she did not look well. Later, there would be time for reprimanding her for the little transgression.

"Good evening!" he greeted softly, before he could stop himself.

"Captain!" she exclaimed, clutching one hand to her heart. "Oh dear!" Clearly, he had spooked her, but he chose not to apologize.

"Hah! I was wondering who the other insomniac in the house was. Now I know. I must say that I am not surprised, but I thought I was the only one here who had developed the habit of wandering around the house in the middle of the night like a ghost or – raiding the galley," he said quickly, resorting to cynicism to drive away such inappropriate thoughts.

"You know – uh, you do look terrible," he blurted.

What was the matter with him? He could have punched himself for that one. Agathe would certainly kick his shin, he remembered, wincing. He wasn´t used to behaving so appallingly with a woman, no matter her social status was. It did not matter that the unfortunate comment was about her health, not her general appearance. He had been brought up to be the perfect gentleman, and that was what he tried to be all the time. Yet, he did not recall being so blunt, not even with his wife. Well, it was just one more in the endless string of irrational behaviors that this governess triggered on him.

"Thank you," she murmured, rolling her eyes in amusement – a surprising reaction, he thought. There was also just the perfect amount of sarcasm, something that, as he discovered, was not so atypical of her at all, whenever she was provoked. Nonetheless, her reaction relaxed him – the governess was in no mood for bickering that night, and he intended to keep things that way.

"You do not look your best tonight either, I should add," she murmured acidly, drowning her words in a large sip of her tea. Well, he more than deserved the barb, he had to acknowledge. He acknowledged something else as well: it was very subtle, she was quick, but it was very noticeable – her eyes narrowed as she scanned him, from head to toe, but never venturing above his neck. Whatever the result of her assessment was, she kept to herself – her eyes fell to the blasted teacup again, and she shrugged.

"Mmmm," he muttered, wondering what to make of her peculiar reaction. He was anything but vain, but he knew wasn´t exactly, unkempt, he rarely venture outside his bedroom looking less than presentable. What was it then that was so extraordinary?

"Ehm - the galley?" she asked abruptly frowning, still besotted with whatever was inside that teacup, for she still had not looked straight at him.

"The kitchen," he said, having forgotten for a moment that she wasn´t at all familiar to the naval jargons that sometimes slipped so easily into his informal speech from time to time.

"Oh. No, but… I am… I mean, I was only…" she stuttered.

"…planning a mutiny, Fräulein?" he provoked. "Again?"

"No, I… I´m sorry, I… If you excuse me, Captain, I…"

She made a motion to get up, but he stopped her with a gesture. "No, no, no. Stay where you are and enjoy your tea. It will do you good, under the circumstances. In fact, I think I'll have one myself, if you don´t mind."

"No. I mean yes, of course I don´t mind."

Fräulein Maria looked down. It was unsettling to see her like this, so withdrawn, the veritable force of nature that she was, and, at the same time, so… fidgety. Her restless fingers tapped against the outside of the porcelain cup she held in her hands and his attention was immediately drawn, not to the teacup, but to her hands. He had never paid any particular attention to her hands before – he never had any reason to, why should he? They were simply governess´s hands – an insignificant governess, he reminded himself. Yet, they were naturally elegant, long fingered and not quite what he would have expected to find in a farm girl, probably used to hard work. On the other hand, naturally, they were not exquisitely manicured like Elsa's hands. Fräulein Maria kept her fingernails shortly trimmed, and there wasn't the slightest hint of nail polish, or any other concession to vanity. The skin was marked here and there by tiny cuts and nicks, a testimony to her active life, climbing trees and mountains, picking wildflowers and things of that sort. In her right hand, just below her thumb, he saw the unmistakable imprint of… a small child's teeth.

"Gretl," he thought, smiling.

"I am curious - what sort of concoction is that?" he asked her, with the intent to force her to break her silence, pointing to the warm liquid she was staring at so intently. Her fingers stilled.

"Oh this? Just an old family recipe," she sighed. "Peppermint, honey and… hmmm… a few other things." She did sound bad, her voice hoarse and he grimaced in reaction.

"You do sound as terrible as you look," he muttered, impulsively.

There – he had done it again! What was it about the little nun that, if he forgot himself, he would resort to extreme familiarity when speaking to her? He wasn´t usually so… so honest. It was the kind of thing he would say to a very close friend such as Max, or to one of his children until a couple of years ago, but not to Elsa, and, least of all, never to a mere governess!

This time, however, his careless remark seemed to strike some kind of forgotten female chord deep inside her, perhaps some small glimmer of vanity that the life in a convent hadn´t managed to suffocate. She cleared her throat and murmured another ironic "thank you," this time clearly showing her displeasure through the tone of her voice.

Nevertheless, the Fräulein´s next actions baffled him. When he half expected she would start an argument with him because of his ungentlemanly remarks, his governess, instead was suddenly overcome with one of her verbal outbursts. Apparently, sore throat or not, she could talk endlessly, incessantly and without any kind of control about whatever came out of her mouth, but she was not fond of repeating herself, he realized with a smirk. It caused him to wonder if, for her, talking wasn´t a form of self-defense, a way to cover her inadequacies, and if she did not hide behind it like he hid behind his dark wit and sarcasm…

Whatever it was, he did his best to keep his attention focused on her uncontrolled words as she began to give him the complete recipe of the suspicious brew she was drinking. She began by naming an unlikely mixture of herbs and spices that could be appealing separately, but not together in the same brew. Whatever it was, a good dose of brandy would make it easier to swallow. He wondered what she would think if he suggested that. He wagered that not a single drop of alcohol had ever touched her lips.

Peppermint and honey…

He wondered if one could taste those if he kissed her. Her lips were now moist and slightly swollen because of the hot tea she had been drinking. For the second time in just a few minutes, he experienced another absurd reaction, this one entirely different than the one before. He no longer wanted to merely comfort her, he wanted to kiss her, like he had wanted to kiss the woman in the dream, kiss those moist, peppermint sweet lips that…

"Captain!" Her voice brought him back to his senses.

"Mmm?"

"Are you well?"

"I'm sorry, Fräulein, I was - far away." No, not really, of course, he had been right there with her all the time, closer than she could possibly imagine. "I must be more tired than I realized. Did you just – uh - say something?"

"Yes!" She rolled her eyes impatiently. "I was saying that I know I am not supposed to wander around the house after hours but sometimes I can't sleep and… oh – oh – oh - hold on a moment…" She sneezed, quite loudly, covering her nose with a handkerchief.

"Gesundheit!"

"Thank you." She took another large sip of the fragrant tea. "This is terrible, you were absolutely right. You see now? I needed to do something about this and my sore throat, otherwise I won't be able to even speak to the children in the morning, let alone teach them yodel…" She stopped herself suddenly, looking slightly guilty, as if she was just about to betray a secret. He resisted the temptation to ask her why on earth she was teaching the children to yodel.

"That would be quite torturous to you, wouldn't it? Not being able to speak," was his biting remark.

"That won't happen, Captain. I was fine all day, as a matter of fact, but after dinner it got worse again and I just had to do something about it. People like me can hardly afford the luxury of being sick," she retorted absentmindedly, then sneezed again, three times in quick succession. "That is why I always take good care of myself."

He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the old temptation of simply yelling at her. What was it about that girl and her unique talent for disturbing him and stepping in his toes? Didn't she know that after three years of grief, sickness was still a delicate subject to him? Didn't she guess? His wife always took good care of herself and in the end…

"How could she know?" a voice in his conscience spoke, a voice just like Agathe´s. It was enough to soften him. "Calm down, Georg. She cannot know about what you have been though, it is not her fault. She speaks whatever is in her mind, things that simply are there."

He sighed.

"Everybody gets sick once in a while, Fräulein, it can hardly be called a luxury. Baronesses or governesses, social class has nothing to do with it. Even the aristocracy isn't immune to anything – no one better than I know that," he said drily, starting to open some pantry doors below his head, not without noting that her face had paled, as she obviously became conscious of her faux-pas. "Now, where the devil does the cook keep the teacups?"

"Second door to your right," she said stiffly. "I'm sorry; I meant no offense to you, Captain. I have work to do here, God´s errand, remember? Since I always took care of myself, I would be in a lot of trouble if I were bed ridden. Trust me, not unlike you, I learned it the hard way."

There – a perfectly logical, rational explanation. But why he could not help himself, he had to question it?

"I doubt it. If you had, you should have thought twice before jumping into a cold lake," he said.

"The boat tipped over, I did not jump. I fell." she defended herself, vehemently. "Besides, I did not know the lake was cold, it was a particularly warm day…"

"It´s molten snow from the mountains, what else did you expect, Fräulein, a tepid bathtub? However, this is hardly a good argument in your favor: you did know the lake was cold the second time you jumped in it."

"I wouldn´t have to if you had helped me to secure the boat!"

Georg braced himself to hear the rest of her accusations, but they never came. He couldn´t help but briefly imagining why hadn´t she mentioned the most obvious cause of her distress, that he hadn´t allowed her to go inside and change into dry clothes, demanding her to stay until he lashed out his fury at her.

"It is still beyond me, how you managed to accomplish that shipwreck," He kept rambling about the incident, all of a sudden finding her annoyance utterly… charming. "The water was calm, there was no wind, and the lake looked like a mirror. Even a mud-duck could manage to sail in those conditions."

Her answer was to roll her eyes and look heavenwards, then at him. "There were seven children with me on the boat. We were not sailing, we were rowing. And I have no idea what a mud-duck is."

"A shallow water sailor," he spat, impatiently.

She remained silent, while he poured himself cup of her tea, and then sat next to her. He took a large sip. The taste surprised him.

"This is…" Her eyes widened, expectantly, and he did not disappoint her. "… unexpected. It is not as vile as I thought it would be!"

"Of course it isn´t! My aunt used to say "if it doesn't taste good, it won't cure you"."

"That is utterly absurd, of course, I am sure you realize that!"

She shrugged. "She was a farmer's wife, not a doctor."

"Mmmm." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I must admit that I wish I had her in my family while I was growing up because my grandmother used to say just the opposite," he chuckled. To his amusement, the governess shuddered in revulsion. "Tell me, am I detecting a slight taste of…"

"Just a few drops – ehrm - for medicinal purposes, of course," she clarified, quickly, undoubtedly afraid he would be angry at her for raiding his prized wine cellar as well. Not that she would have needed to do that, she would find what she needed right here in the kitchen. It was a known fact that the cook was particularly fond of the brand of schnapps with which she had laced her tea.

"Yes, yes, if course. All a part of your – uh - family recipe, I assume."

"Certainly!" she exclaimed, slightly offended. "Some would say that it is the main ingredient."

"I thought so." He chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I wonder if your medicinal tea would be more effective if you removed all other ingredients and only left the schnapps."

"But that would be wrong, wouldn´t it?" She frowned at him. "I have no wish to get… inebriated, Captain, just to be cured of my indisposition!"

Well, at least that partly explained her flushed face. H wondered if a slight cold was the only one of her discomforts at the moment. She kept tugging at the edges of her robe, pulling them tighter and tighter across her bosom. He felt sorely tempted to say that if she kept that up, it would rip in the back, but wisely he kept his mouth shut. Suddenly, he realized how wary and self-conscious she was around him. It was not only the tint of her cheeks, but there were other obvious, albeit subtle, signs as well, things that he doubted she would notice herself. For instance, that thorough look she stole at him right after his remark about her appearance, which was promptly and scathingly rebuffed by her. It was not something he would expect from her and he certainly had no wish to ever even consider brooding about the precise reasons why she was affected. Women usually reacted to him, which was a fact, something he had learned very well to deal with ever since he could remember. But her? The old truth remained: to him, governesses had always been sexless creatures, notably governess who were also future nuns. There was no reason why that should change now.

On the other hand…

It should have been a highly improper situation. It was supposed to be so – as incongruous and inappropriate as he could think of. The widowed master of the house running into the young governess of his children in the middle of the night… a future nun! No wonder she was getting restless, she must have more good sense than him!

What they should have done would be barely acknowledge each other's presence, and then quickly walk back to wherever they came from. What he should not have done was to sit with her in a kitchen table, throwing her a few unforgivably personal remarks, drinking tea and tell her a few stories his very eccentric grandmother… the same extraordinary woman who, one day, had advised him that the best way to find out if a bride was suitable would be to place a pine cone in her chair during an elegant dinner party.

"Well, in any case, I think you would make a fortune selling this to my crew if you were around when we still had a Navy," he noted, making an absurd effort to put her at ease in his presence, when propriety demanded that he got up and left immediately.

Nonetheless, he had no wish to leave yet, he felt powerless to do what propriety demanded him to do. He did not want their pleasant interlude to come to an end. Dimly, he became aware of something tugging at his heart, something almost unbearable in its intensity. Whatever it was, he wanted the feeling to linger only for a while, it did not matter how dangerous it was.

He kept talking, blabbering…

"You would not believe the things we had to eat and drink while we were at sea. Calling it "tea" would be utterly offensive. We had several names for it, none of wish I would allow myself to utter in the presence of a future nun," he continued, feeling suddenly lighthearted for the first time in years. She raised a pair of laughing blue eyes at him, but lowered them immediately when he returned her smile.

"Oh Captain, there is no need to worry. I would not be shocked, I am not that…"

"O-ho yes, you are - Fräulein," he reassured her, half knowing what she would say. "You have no idea how much you are," he added in thought.

"Mmmmm," she muttered.

He added some more tea to his cup, added one sugar cube and stirred it while he kept talking. When he finished, he noticed that it was her turn to be staring at his hands. Apparently, she wasn't interested in his Navy stories, because he had rambled on for a while and she had not said a word. It was not the second time he had noticed that, and again the fact tugged at his pride.

Was there anything about him that she would find interesting at all?

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A/N: (1) "The Phantom of the Opera", by Gaston Leroux.