A/N: firstly, thank you so much for all the reviews, I love reading each and every one of them and they encourage me to write faster! This chapter explores Georg and Agathe's past a little bit but everything is purely fiction for the sake of the story. I know it was Agathe's grandfather, not her father, who invented the torpedo but I've changed this again to suit the story, and I've altered names etc as well. enjoy!

Hit by another wave of sea sickness, Maria had gone in search of the children and a comfortable place to sit, insisting that she would be perfectly fine and that Georg should stay out on deck. If he was honest with himself, it hadn't taken much persuading - he longed to look out onto the inky black canvas for at least a few more minutes, watching the choppiness of the majestic waves as they crashed against the boat, soothing his troubled soul as he found himself alone with his thoughts.

He allowed himself to close his eyes, to block out the bustling activity of the crowded deck around him and take a deep breath of good, clean, salty sea air. If he imagined hard enough, he could almost convince himself that he was stood atop one of his U-boats again after having broken the surface to watch the sun creep behind the horizon. On one or two occasions, he and his comrades would gather the few bottles of beer and whiskey leftover from the latest, debaucherous adventure at the nearest port, smuggle them back onto their U-boat and crack them open under the stars whenever they next surfaced.

Those memories were the fondest, the tranquil nights above water when all was still and he and his comrades could laugh and talk and forget that a war was raging, staring out to sea entirely unable to decipher where the black waters ended and the night sky began. Many of the friends he'd spent those evenings with had later died in battle, some of them drowning or burning to death before his very eyes. And it had all been for nought, he thought bitterly. Austria had lost its navy and along with it, he had lost his calling. He had lost his beloved sea.

He wondered how many submarines would soon be scouring the depths of the very ocean they were currently sailing on. Perhaps the water was swarming with them already, lurking underneath the murky depths just waiting until the order was given to fire deadly torpedoes at the nearest enemy ships. Or ships full of civilians. Ships like this one.

He prayed the Navy of the Third Reich hadn't yet made it as far as the channel, for if they had, then the very boat they was currently standing on was quite literally sailing through dangerous waters.

"Almost peaceful isn't it.."

Georg snapped out of his reverie to find Max stood by his side, looking up into the twilight sky and observing the pinkish clouds as if he too was being confronted by fond memories.

"But for how long.." Georg frowned, the lump returning to his throat, "there's surely far worse to come.."

"Now what kind of talk's that.." Max chastised with a frown, meeting Georg's eyes wearily. The latter opened his mouth to offer a bitter retort, but he was cut off abruptly by the deafening roar of propeller engines coming from above, causing both men to suddenly throw their heads to the skies. The other families milling about the deck ducked with cries of alarm as several RAF fighter squadrons darted through the clouds overhead, soaring intimidatingly into the distance and fading from sight as quickly as they'd appeared.

"Jesus.." Max muttered as the planes became minuscule specs on the horizon and the crowd around them cautiously got to their feet again, calm gradually restored.

"Rumour has it the RAF and the Luftwaffe are waging their very own war in the skies," the impresario muttered to no one in particular, "the British media are calling it the Battle of Britain."

"The Luftwaffe is the strongest air force in the world," Georg snarled, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "so God help the RAF if it's true.. And God help us if we're about to lead my family head first into another damned city ravaged by war.."

Feeling his scowl deepen, Georg allowed himself to contemplate for the first time exactly what they might find in London when they finally got there. He'd always known, deep down, ever since war had been declared, that he would be risking his family's safety by bringing them here. London was a ticking time bomb but he had hoped and prayed that they would arrive before the city was torn apart by warfare. When Paris had been so viciously attacked however, he had known there was little hope for finding safety in London. But the fact still remained that he had very little choice in the matter. His money, Agathe's inheritance that she'd left to the children in her will - it was all in England's capital and it was, quite simply, the only key to his family's freedom.

"The only war you should be worrying about right now, my friend," Max broke the charged silence, tugging at his mustache cheekily, "is the one that's sure to break out between you and Baroness Whitehead during this little family reunion!" He elbowed his friend in his good shoulder playfully and took great satisfaction in the small hint of a smile suddenly playing at Georg's lips.

"Ah yes, the old fire-breathing dragon," Georg retorted with a gleam in his eye, much to Max's delight, "She's harmless really," he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, "it's all in the past... And once I was given the title of Baron she came round to the idea of her daughter having married such a.. What was it she called me? An undignified rake?"

"Well, the dragon certainly wasn't wrong," Max replied with mirth, eliciting a sheepish grin from his friend, "though I was talking more about her opinion of your recent broken engagement.."

"Ah.." Georg blanched, "well she did think Elsa and I were a good match, but quite frankly my mother-in-law's opinion on my romantic endeavors is the least of my worries."

"Naturally," Max nodded resolutely, "and if I recall correctly, you used to take great delight in doing whatever it was that would elicit her worst possible opinion."

They shared a wry chuckle before a somewhat charged silence fell between them again, both brooding over the unspoken topic that neither of them had yet dared to approach.

"Will it be hard for you.. " Max eventually broke the tension with a whisper, his voice grave with concern, "returning to Agathe's home.."

Georg cut him off with a curt nod, his jaw set heavily in frustration and his eyes darkening, "It will always be hard," he murmured, downcast, "But it's no longer painful. It's no longer unbearable."

Max clapped him on the back then in comfort, knowing all too well what his friend meant. The memories that were bound to haunt him when he entered the Whitehead's home - a home he hadn't set foot in since Agathe's death - would surely be incredibly difficult to face. But the difference was he had Maria by his side now, a truly remarkable young woman who had proven herself to be Georg's equal in every sense of the word. Not only would she be his rock, Max knew, but she would also encourage him to look back fondly, rather than shy away from his once painful memories. If Max was honest with himself, he knew that Agathe would not have been as resilient during such treacherous times as these. She had been brought up in luxury and while she certainly hadn't been a snob - far from it - she nevertheless didn't fare too well outside of her comfort zone.

Maria on the other hand, though Max chastised himself for comparing, had only ever known luxury during her time at the von Trapp villa, and even then she had been merely a bystander. She was certainly no stranger to misery, heartache and poverty and she demonstrated an unwavering strength when confronted with such burdens.

Georg had loved and cherished his first wife with all of his heart, that much had always been certain. When it came to Maria however, it was quite plain to see that not only did he love her desperately, but he also needed her desperately, in a way that he'd never needed anyone else before. And Max had no doubt in his mind that his friend would always need her, until he took his last breath.

The children had been over the moon to see their Oma again, and the elderly baroness had wrapped them each in a bone shattering hug with tears of relief pooling in her eyes. She'd even wrapped Georg in a warm embrace, murmuring something about desperate times and water under the bridge. He'd found himself lost for words - their relationship had been somewhat frosty in the early stages of his courting Agathe but after they'd married and as the years had ticked by, he and his mother-in-law had grown to tolerate each other - even to like each other. She'd resented him somewhat for leaving a heavily pregnant Agathe at home each time he went away on another mission, but she'd also understood his fierce sense of duty, her husband being a sea-faring man himself. Robert Whitehead had invented the torpedo after all and the baron could do nothing but sing his son-in-law's praises.

When Agathe had passed, Georg hadn't been able to face the memories he knew he'd be confronted with if he saw his in-laws again. He couldn't bare to visit the family home where he and Agathe had spent so many summers with the children when they were very young. And so after her death, he would send his brood to the Whitehead's villa in Vienna whenever the in-laws were visiting in Austria, and though Robert's telegram would always insist that Georg was more than welcome, Georg would politely refuse.

His only correspondence with the Whiteheads over the last four years had been to discuss the children, or to talk directly to Robert about the Royal Navy's U-boat mechanisms, which Georg had agreed to help with before war had been declared.

In light of his inexcusable neglect, Georg had expected a tirade of anger and bitterness from the woman he once referred to as the fire breathing dragon, much to Agathe's chagrin. But the elderly woman instead looked utterly relieved to see him, concerned for him as only a mother would be for her son, and it moved him deeply.

What stirred him the most however, and caused the ever growing lump to form in his throat again, was the way Magaret Whitehead had welcomed Maria into her home. He wasn't sure what he'd expected from his mother-in-law with regards to his new wife, but he certainly hadn't foreseen the kindness with which Magaret had gripped Maria's hands and pulled her into a meaningful embrace. He had warned the Whiteheads of course, when he'd made contact with them about fleeing Austria - he'd explained that he'd be making his way to London with the woman he loved and that this woman was not Elsa Shraeder, as they had initially assumed. They'd fled Austria before any form of reply could be received and so he had predicted that Magaret would be frosty at best and absolutely outraged at worst when they finally arrived. Affectionate displays, especially towards new acquaintances, were simply unheard of in the British aristocracy, particularly in the Whitehead household - and Georg simply couldn't mask his surprise.

"Losing your only daughter changes you," Magaret had bristled slightly when she'd noted Georg's gaping expression, "you'd have known it yourself years ago if you ever visited."

She had paused until Maria was out of earshot before she'd leaned closer to Georg, her eloquent British accent ringing in his ears, "while I may have approved of the match between you and Baroness Shraeder, what good is title and birth in times like these? It's the love of a strong woman that will give a man the means to survive."

Georg had merely stuttered in bewilderment. It seemed the fire breathing dragon had turned into a pussy cat! A pussy cat with alarmingly accurate observations...

It had been a relief to make it to London, though the journey had been just as treacherous as the last. The port at Dover had been mayhem, as expected, but they'd managed to board a train a few hours later, much to Georg's relief. It had almost felt as though they were finally leaving the danger behind them, but Georg had known better. And as they pulled into the capital city, it was to find that Agathe's birth place was almost unrecognisable. Buildings were boarded up, some reduced to rubble, shrapnel and debris littered the floor in places and children were being evacuated on every corner, naively excitable as they boarded trains and buses while waving goodbye to their weeping mothers. It had deeply unsettled him, knowing that he was leading his own children into a city that saw death and destruction as so incredibly likely, that they were evacuating their own youngsters. Newspapers adorning the news stands on several street corners had been splashed with headlines that talked of the so-called Battle of Britain - intense combat was breaking out in the skies over southern England and it was surely only a matter of time before the Luftwaffe turned their attack away from the RAF and toward British civilians.

"We can't stay in London for long," Margaret announced that night as the family began to light a few candles around the room to battle against the pitch darkness created by the boarded up windows, "it's not safe."

"Where will we go?" Maria asked in broken English, looking rather pale and cuddling a tired Gretl against her. Truth be told, she still felt a little ill from the boat journey, but she didn't want to burden the family with her unsettled stomach.

"We'll head to our country home in Northampton," Magaret explained, "Robert will be joining us there on leave for a few days."

Though long retired, Baron Whitehead had been commissioned by the Royal Navy to put his expertise to good use at the training base in Hampshire and had leapt at the chance to be of greater help in aiding the war effort. Against his protestations, Magaret had insisted on staying in London to wait for her grandchildren and Georg had been eternally grateful - if she'd left the city, it would surely have been impossible to find them.

"I didn't know you had a country home in Northampton," Georg frowned.

"We bought it last year," Baroness Whitehead snipped, "another thing you might've been aware of if you'd visited."

Georg could've sworn he heard Max snigger in the corner of the room but decided to let the subtle chastisement slide. He probably deserved it after all, he hadn't been the only one grieving after his first wife's death but he'd gone out of his way to shut his in-laws out.

"We'll leave in the morning," Margaret continued, "and then we'll at least be out of harm's way."

There was a general sound of agreement from the whole room before Baroness Whitehead called for the butler and asked for a spot of tea with bread and jam to be brought to the dining table.

"He's the only member of staff who's remained," Magaret sighed, nodding towards the butler as he left the room and pouring the tea out amongst her visitors, "the rest have all evacuated."

"How long has it been like this?" Max asked, gesturing to the boarded up windows.

"The destruction on our doorstep you mean?"

Max nodded.

"Weeks.." she muttered, spreading butter on a piece of bread, "until now the fighting has mostly been in the skies but air raids are surely imminent - that's why the government have ordered this evacuation scheme. They've tried to relocate as many children as possible. I myself have taken on two little dears in Northampton that were separated from their parents here in London a week ago. The maids are currently looking after them until we arrive."

Georg nearly choked on his tea at the thought of his previously frosty and rather snobbish mother-in-law allowing two unfortunate children from the slums of London to take refuge in her country home. This was the very same woman who had looked down her nose at him not twenty years ago for being nothing more than a grubby sailor. Perhaps war and loss really had changed her.

"Why can't they be with their mother?" Marta asked, her innocent eyes blown wide as she moved absentmindedly to Maria's side.

"Because they need to be somewhere safe darling," Georg soothed, "and Oma's home in the countryside is very safe."

"Oma," Kurt interrupted with a beaming smile, clearly influenced suddenly by the talk of mothers, "tell us that story about our Mother and the boat, it always makes me laugh!"

Georg's heart began to pound and Margaret's head snapped up to meet his eye, an apology waiting on her lips, "I.. I used to tell them stories about Agathe, Georg.. when they visited in Vienna," she explained, her voice softening sympathetically, "I apologise.. It just made them so happy."

"It's fine," Georg choked, "I would love for you to tell it."

"Really?"

"I insist," he answered truthfully, his heart in his throat, knowing exactly which story Kurt had been referring to. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Max that the memories were no longer unbearable - in fact they often brought a fond smile to his face, as though he were remembering an old friend. But even after four years, the ghost of his first wife hung in her family home like a heady perfume. Every room reminded him of her, every trinket, every photograph had a story behind it. While the pain had certainly ebbed away and he'd found the strength to allow Agathe's memory to live on in his heart without it ever compromising the love he felt for Maria, the difficulty of such a loss was still there when surrounded by so many triggers.

At the mention of their mother, the older children had eyed their father apprehensively, their faces creased with worry. After all, he had changed dramatically since he'd regained his memory, but it was still very seldom he would reminisce so openly about his first wife. Their youthful faces had visibly relaxed however, when they'd heard his consent.

It was only Maria who continued to watch her husband pensively, as Baroness Whitehead began her tale. Georg's eyes were downcast, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming agitatedly on the table top, and Maria was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness to know that he was struggling with his past demons. She'd briefly wondered, on their way over to England, how he would react to being back in the place that spoke so much of Agathe. Even the walls seemed to whisper of her presence, so much so that Maria almost felt as though she'd known the woman herself.

Georg had spoken of Agathe rarely throughout their short relationship - little tidbits here and there about her favourite food or a memory involving the children - and Maria had never demanded from him any more than he was willing to share. Hearing a story directly from Agathe's mother was fascinating, as though Maria were watching a reel play out a part of her husband's previous life she'd never been privy to.

"It was when your father was courting," Maria listened to Baroness Whitehead's tale with avid curiosity, her eyes never moving from her husband's anguished face, "your father had been granted some leave here in England and he came to spend time with us - we were all visiting at your great-grandfather's home in Devon at the time," the children listened eagerly, despite having heard the story countless times before, "your father, being the stubborn mule that he is, insisted on taking your mother out on the lake - no doubt to get her alone for half an hour," Georg gave a sad chuckle that broke Maria's heart, his eyes glazing over with memories.

"Well, your great-grandfather granted the request, much to my dismay, and we all watched from our places on the veranda where we were taking afternoon tea," the baroness continued, "I could see your father suddenly standing up in the boat from the corner of my eye - quite clearly attempting to show off," she rolled her eyes emphatically, "and you can imagine my abject horror when his larking around suddenly caused the little boat to entirely capsize! Your father fell headfirst into the water, taking your poor unsuspecting mother along with him and creating the biggest splash you've ever seen!"

The children roared with laughter and Maria's jaw dropped in disbelief. He'd chastised her so fiercely when she'd capsized his very own boat all those months ago back at the villa! And yet the rogue had done the very same thing in front of his intended's family not two decades previous! He'd made her feel ridiculous that day, sopping wet on the marbled floor, and all the while he'd made the exact same mistake back in his youth! The man was incorrigible!

She watched her husband's eyes gleam with mischief and his lips curl into a warm smile at his children's laughter, the previous sadness having been replaced with a fond nostalgia that suddenly bathed Maria in a comforting warmth. His eyes locked with hers then and he grinned sheepishly, knowing all too well what she was thinking, and Maria knew instantly - as the adorable dimples made their appearance on his handsome face - that she would forgive him his devilish hypocrisy.

"If I recall correctly," Georg grinned to his family, "Agathe found the entire ordeal rather hilarious."

"Well I certainly didn't!" Baroness Whitehead retorted, scandalised, "that beautiful dress of hers was entirely ruined! Her grandmother nearly had a heart attack!"

"And yet I still managed to win fair lady's heart," Georg winked at his beaming children playfully and Maria was confronted with an intense longing to wrap her arms around him, to pull him to her breast, to run her fingers through his hair and tell him how awed she was by his strength of character. All she could do however, was meet his eyes again from across the table with a look that spoke only of her adoration, silently willing him to understand that Agathe's memory would always be welcome. He smiled meaningfully then, as though they were the only two people in the room, as though she were the only woman in the world, and mouthed the sentiment she saw burning away in his softened eyes.

"I love you."