Written For: sinkauli in Classic Movie Exchange 2024

The terrace looking over the lake and the mountains beyond was the only part of the core estate where she truly felt at home; the rest of it was too grand for Maria to feel like she belonged in it.

Or at least, that was how it had felt when she'd first arrived. She had a place here, now, and the respect of the children and the household. Even the Captain—severe and angry as he'd been at first—had come around. She still felt like she might accidentally break some vase or chair that cost more than the house she'd grown up in, but even that was fading.

Maria still loved looking at the mountains more than at any part of the manicured, perfect grounds. But she didn't feel homesick for them in the way she'd expected to.

"Ah! Fraulein Maria. I thought I might find you here."

Maria turned to watch Captain von Trapp stride out of the house to join her. "Yes, I do love watching the sunset over the mountains."

"Where are the children?" He sat on the bench next to her.

"The little ones are in bed, and the older ones have a half-hour to read or do something quiet before it is time for them to be in bed." It was not a wide bench, and he was very close to her—perhaps she should have moved to make room? But she didn't want to, though she couldn't say why, and it would be awkward at this point, anyway.

"You're not worried about what they might get up to, left to themselves?" He sounded dubious, which Maria had to admit was reasonable given what the children could get up to, and had in fact done to and around previous governesses.

"Only small mischiefs, of the harmless sort," Maria said.

"You trust them to be able—and willing—to make that distinction? They certainly haven't before."

"They respect me, and love me," Maria said. "They're not trying to drive me off, and they care about what I think of them."

"How did you win their respect so quickly?" Captain Von Trapp asked. "The love, I understand—you are kind and gentle. Who could help loving you? But they have had kind governesses before, and they did not respect them. It simply made them easier to steamroll."

"Many people confuse kindness with softness," Maria said. "Or think people kind merely because they say nice things about people, whether or not they ever actually do anything to help. I think kindness is about choosing to care for others. It's certainly not the same as being a doormat!"

The Captain snorted. "You could never be that."

"No, I couldn't," Maria said. "There have been times in my life that I've tried, because it would have been so much easier to simply do as I was told, but I never managed it for long."

"I can't imagine you ever doing what you were told," he said with a smirk.

"I did try," Maria said. "I've always wanted to be good, and to do the right thing, but it's always been harder for me than it seems to be for others."

"Is that how you knew what to do with the children?" he asked.

"I think so." She also found herself thinking about what the Mother Superior would say or do, because she had always admired the abess's wisdom and compassion. But mostly, she thought about what she would have wanted at their age.

"What, exactly, have you done?" The Captain shook his head. "I don't think anyone wants to go back to the endless round of new governesses whenever the children scare them off."

"No," Maria said. "Not even the children." They'd been doing it to get their father's attention; they would much prefer it if he stayed, and they didn't have to resort to such extremes.

"Frau Schmidt told me that you do not punish them," the Captain said. "Not ever. Not even when they've been particularly bad."

"I don't," Maria said. "I remember too well what my own childhood was like."

"Were you punished very often?" His voice was … not soft, but gentle.

"Oh, yes," Maria said with a laugh. "I was a very wild child. Easily distracted. I could never seem to do what anybody wanted me to, and my mother in particular would get very angry, whether I'd meant to disobey her or merely done it by accident. My father didn't care for it, but he viewed the discipline of girls as a women's matter."

"I was punished, as a child, but I didn't mind it," the Captain said. "It didn't happen frequently, but when it did, I deserved it. My family was very strict—as was my school—but I thrived under the discipline."

"I didn't," Maria said. "Mother always said she was trying to teach me a lesson, but I never learned the lessons she was trying to teach me."

"What did you learn, then?"

Maria turned the question over in her mind. She'd been thinking about her childhood a great deal, since she'd gotten the assignment from the Mother Superior. What could she tell him, that would help with the children when she left in the fall? Night was falling, and the air had a chill. But she could feel the heat of his body next to her. She shivered.

"Oh, how thoughtless of me," the Captain said. "Here." He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, still warm from his body.

"I don't need it, really," Maria said, blushing; she hadn't been cold, she didn't know why she'd shivered.

"I insist, Fraulein."

"Thank you." She could smell his cologne, and she had the wild urge to bury her face in the jacket.

"What did you learn, from being punished as a child, if you don't mind telling me?" the Captain asked.

"Many things," Maria said. "I learned that no matter how hard I tried, I was going to be punished anyway, so there was no point in even trying to be good and do what my mother wanted. I was never going to be the daughter she wanted me to be. I learned that I didn't want to be anything like her, that I had to find a way to be myself no matter what she thought of it. I learned to avoid her, to spend as much time as possible away from our village, and dream of the day when I wouldn't ever have to go back."

He was quiet. Maria didn't look at him to see how he had taken her words; she stared out over the lake at the mountains she could still faintly see the outlines of.

"Is that why you entered the abbey?" he said at last. "Was it your escape from your mother?"

It was Maria's turn to think in silence. "I felt the calling of God, bringing me to the abbey. But I might not have been so eager to follow it, if I had not been looking for a way out. I was not grieved, at the thought that I might never see my family again."

She'd never told anyone else that. Not the Mistress of Postulants, not any of her fellow postulants, not the priest who came to take their confessions, not the Mother Superior. But here, in this quiet darkness, it felt easier to say. Somehow, she knew he would not judge her for it.

"There has to be order," the captain said. "There has to be discipline, and learning to do things the right way."

"Yes, of course," Maria said. "But tell me, captain, in the Navy, what happened when one of your sailors didn't respond well to being punished? If the methods you were used to didn't work on him?"

"It depends on the circumstances," the Captain said. "But usually, I would get him off my ship one way or the other."

"I see," Maria said. She'd thought it might be something like that. "The difference between a ship and a family, though, is that you can't do that with your children."

She could feel him jerk at that, and she thought he might be turning to look at her, but she didn't turn to him. "To answer your question, I care about them, and pay attention to their thoughts and feelings. When they need help, I help them. I praise them when they do something good, and when they struggle I find ways for them to be successful. Because they know I respect and care about them, they respect me and care about what I think of them. They want me to be proud of them."

Maria turned to him. "They want you to be proud of them, too. They want you to respect them and care about them. But you can't do that if you're not here."

"Not the way you do it, certainly," he said slowly.

She turned back to the lake, enjoying the beauty of the night. The mountains were hidden, now, and even the lake she could only see glints of in the moonlight. But the stars were beautiful above the trees.

Maria breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of his cologne.

They sat in silence. Not the silence of the cloister, where you couldn't speak—or sing—whether you wanted to or not, but the silence of being present, of enjoying the evening and the company.

"Were you lonely, as a child?" the Captain asked at last.

"Oh, yes," Maria said, a bit startled. "I was always odd, and staying out of my mother's way meant staying out of the way of everyone else, too—she was friends with all the women in our village. But up in the mountains, I had the sky and the trees and the brooks for company, and I loved them."

"Not the same as having friends, though."

"No."

"I was never popular in school," the captain said. "I was friendly with all the other boys, but … not close with any of them. They respected me, and wanted me on their team for games and things, but somehow I was never invited home to visit, or share confidences. And once we were out of school, I never thought about them again."

"In the abbey, I missed the mountains, and being able to sing whenever I wanted," Maria said. "But I didn't miss anyone from my home."

"It was the same in the Navy," the Captain said. "I was very well-respected, and liked, but somehow I never formed any close friends."

"I was only in the abbey for six months, before coming here," Maria said. "And of course in the abbey you can only talk when it won't distract people from their prayers. We do a lot of praying. I've gotten to know God very well, but not very many of my sisters. Though I'm closer to them than anyone back in my village."

"Oh?"

"We have our own daily concerns, of course, but we're less distracted by the world," Maria said. "And we're trained to think deeply about things, so it's easier to talk about things that really matter, instead of just gossiping about whose goat got into whose garden."

"It's hard to have conversations about things that matter in Vienna," the Captain said. "There's not much to do other than gossip and amusements."

"Then why do you go?"

"Because I'd rather be lonely in a crowd," the Captain said. "Because it's a distraction, and something to do now that Austria has no navy."

They sat quietly together for a while.

At last, Maria shook herself and stood. "I should see that the older children go to bed," she said. "Thank you for the loan of your jacket. It was very kind." She inhaled the scent of it one last time before taking it off and handing it to him.

"You're welcome," he said, putting it back on.

"Good night," she said, and tore herself away, running up the steps to the verandah.

Baroness Schraeder was standing at the stone wall by the stairs. "Oh!" Maria startled. "Excuse me, Baroness, I didn't know you were there. If you're looking for Captain von Trapp, he is just down there." She pointed back at the captain, alone on the bench.

He had turned to see them, and at this he nodded to the Baroness.

"Yes, I know," the Baroness said.

"Good night," Maria said, bobbing an awkward curtsey. She felt the oddest urge to apologize to the Baroness, though for what she couldn't say.

"Good night, Maria," the Baroness said.

Maria walked inside, heading up to the wing where she and the children lived. She took the stairs two at a time. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten while she and the captain were talking. It was past time for the rest of them to be in bed.