Chapter 45: Troubles and Tremors (Part 1)
The next evening, Thursday, 9 July
"Fräulein Maria?"
"Yes, Gretl?" Maria answered as the sat on the edge of the little girl's bed behind her, comb in one hand and Gretl's tangled mane of hair in the other.
"How long will Oma be staying?"
"You heard what she said." She dug the comb's teeth into Gretl's hair, though they were quickly stopped by a thick knot. "Until some time on Saturday."
"Can't she stay longer?" Marta asked, already in her nightdress on her own bed with threadbare puppy in her lap.
"She needs to be back to host your uncle." Oh, when did she say? "He'll be in Vienna on Tuesday."
"Can't he visit later?"
"I'm sure he's been looking forward to seeing her as much as you would be."
"I suppose," Marta whispered, her stuffed dog clutched closer to her chest.
"Don't worry about it," Maria said as she tried to smile. "You have tomorrow with her as well. Better to enjoy it instead of dreading when it ends." You should have told that to yourself.
The day had gone on for ages, centered around the Countess from the moment she stepped into the dining room where the children were already seated for breakfast with the faintest thought of lessons long forgotten. They couldn't be contained, endlessly asking their grandmother everything and Maria was content to let them, staying as far away as she could. To give them all some much needed time to talk and love one another, Maria told herself that again and again. But if she wasn't careful, her mind wandered back through the years, examining every detail of her short life with Georg, looking for any thread that would have led to where she was now.
Should I have known? she thought as they gathered in the salon that evening. It must have been lovely here once, if it was anything like this, Georg. The Countess strumming her guitar as the children sang, voices wavering as they searched for the proper notes. The games the children begged her to join. The laughter, the fresh happiness... I don't know how I could have known. I really didn't know you—and you didn't know me. But I never dreamt— A question from Brigitta fortunately pulled her from her unhappy contemplation. And back in the midst of the children, remembering her promise to Friedrich, another thought blossomed. Something to think on, focus on...And with a promise of help from Brigitta and Marta—both curious and asking why—perhaps even a little chatter to distract her. But even with something to look forward to, she had been more than happy to remind the children it was time for bed.
That should be good for a few days of work. Maria shook a few straggly strands of Gretl's hair from the comb. And keep me—
"Ow!" Gretl cried, trying to pull away from Maria but only sharpening the pain.
"Keep still, darling." She tightened her grip on the same chunk of hair a few inches from the girl's scalp, her next tug a little gentler. Or at least to be alone with my thoughts. I always tried to be alone when I was living in my uncle's house. And no matter how kind the sisters are at the abbey, I always feel a little on my own there. The comb's teeth bit at a thicker knot, so Maria pulled it free and began picking at the bottom. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But you'll have to learn to be careful if you want your hair so long."
"Were you?" Marta asked.
"Yes, when I was your age."
"Why not now?" Gretl asked, trying to turn around before Maria pushed her back.
"I outgrew it." Part of the knot relented and Maria returned to the top, now pulling the comb all the way through. I had to right then. "But—would you like to hear a story?"
"Yes!" they both shouted, Marta jumping down with her dog in tow and Gretl finally squirming free of Maria's hands and the comb. A few quick whispers brought the girl back to her lap, the next few jerks of the comb even gentler. Oh, which one this time? It doesn't matter to me tonight.
The girls didn't have an answer, but talked and shouted over one another, Gretl still trying to squirm away from her hands. Maria heard calls for the fisherman's wife eternally asking a talking flounder for something nicer; the princess whose long golden hair delivered both her captor and savior; the crew of barnyard animals stumbling across a den of robbers on their way to become musicians. But after the bickering calmed and she had Gretl's plait tied, Maria decided for them, another of her favorites. Now instead of asking what the old soldier's friends did before he met them ("What did he do before he learned to wear his hat like that?"), they were asking about the princesses and the shoes they wore out each night. What color were their dresses, were they pretty, how could they tear so many holes in their shoes even with so much dancing, how could the soldier be brave enough when so many other men had failed?
But with sentence for the twelve enchanted princes announced by the king, Maria finally persuaded the girls to lie down, Marta and her dog back in her bed and Gretl clutching at a stuffed rabbit of her own. It still wasn't all that easy for her to actually walk through the door, the last questions of the evening following her.
"Does Oma really have to go?"
"Why can't we go with her?"
"Will Father let her come back?"
The last dulled Maria's hearing, the air stifling as she tried to smile and muttered for them to go to sleep, muttering their grandmother would still be here for one more day. She barely heard their little pouts as she finally slipped through the door and snapped the light switch off to plunge their bedroom into darkness. She waited for a moment, one hand pressed against her chest as it tightened, her heart drumming against her ribs. Just breathe, Maria told herself, running her hand up along one of her collarbones to the back of her neck to wipe away a fresh patch of sweat. There's nothing to do right now, unless you want to run away into the night. And I won't do that.
The lights were still gleaming beneath both the older girls' and the boys' doors as well as the one at the end of the hall where the Countess must be, but Maria walked past them both silently. It can all go back to the way it should when she's gone. Stepping onto the gallery, it was as muddy dark as the night before, the dimmed lamplight just enough to mark where the floor met the railing before it tumbled over into the hall. Rubbing at her arms, she peered toward the back of the house, to where it turned across the hall over the kitchen and the hallways that led to the terrace—the lake—the world under the inky night sky.
She took one step, then another down that way, away from the front doors. "I still don't understand what it was last night." Pausing next to one of the pillars, Maria leaned forward against the railing. Her own room wasn't so far away, across the hall and down the corridor that matched the one she had just left, its own rows of low lights almost beckoning her home. "Whatever it was, I know there are bigger things in the world to be frightened of."
Maria didn't quite run, but she broke into a fast walk, bracing herself for the turn at the first turn with an arm wrapped around another column. "That really was silly," she whispered. She stretched her arm out as long as she could, fingers clutching at the cold stone until her elbow hurt with the strain. Dropping her hand down to her side with a swish against her dress, she walked on, a little slower. "I've faced what scared me before—I can do it again, if…" The next turn was approaching, the corner deep in a shadow out of reach of the lights burning through the night. "If I have to." Hand on the banister again, the metal slid along under her hand, fingertips banging against the twisted iron beneath. I hope I don't have to. Maybe all I can do is wish and hope you stay away.
In another minute, standing in front of her bedroom door, Maria paused, not even turning the knob as she slumped forward, forehead pressed into the paint. Sometimes, it feels like there's no place for me. I can't go back to Vienna, I was the loneliest I've ever been in Innsbruck, the abbey has no real place for me, and I can't stay here forever. Her breath bounced back against her face, warm and damp. I wish I could still pretend, though. Maybe I can out here, but there's nothing in my room except my thoughts and worries. A quick sniff cleared her nose, suddenly stuffy as the pressure of a few tears she didn't want to cry built under her eyes. But I can't stay out here forever. She twisted the door knob hard—shoved the door in so hard it almost crashed against the wall as it swung. I won't let you in.
Despite the solitude pressing down like a horrible weight—turning on the light didn't help—Maria was determined to push the thoughts away. Her books would be no good; she had read them so many times over the years, even one of the histories wouldn't really hold her attention despite the rise and fall of empires and lands she couldn't really imagine. For a moment, she thought about running downstairs to the salon to retrieve her guitar—she had left it there for the Countess the next day—but she shook her head. Either her hands would remember everything a little too well or her fingers would fail and falter with dissonant chords rather than lovely harmonies.
"Well, at least I can start this," she muttered as she opened her wardrobe and reached to the back of the top shelf where she had put both her untouched fabric and scraps. "It might keep my mind off of things right now."
When the material arrived weeks ago, Maria hadn't touched most of it. How many dresses does a governess need? she thought as she unrolled the first with a few thumps of the wooden bolt across her carpet that night. Not many, though I would probably give them away when I'm back at Nonnberg when summer ends, the same as I will these. She had a different dress for each day of week—if she included the one she had worn that first day—and still probably enough fabric left for twice that!
If I hadn't felt from the beginning Franz thinks poorly of me, I would know it now. She tugged on the top two bolts and when they didn't move, she pulled a little harder. I don't think he'll ever like me—and I don't think I'll ever know what he wants in a governess. Another yank and they came loose suddenly, the front ends sliding forward—down and over the others and the edge of the shelf. Even two bolts of fabric were heavier than she expected, Maria grunting as they dropped like a rock into her arms. The one on top was dark grey, the other light blue, and both of their exposed edges wore frayed feathery threads. She pushed them back against her chest, letting one end drop into her hand as the end came free, already wrapping around her shoulder. "This will be plenty to start."
Maria settled them side by side on the carpet, first unwrapping several feet of the grey cloth. This one was the heaviest sort that had been ordered, a little coarse and thick; the dress she had sewn from it was the one she had worn the least, really only some of those rainy days at the start of the month. "That should work well." She hadn't forgotten her quick promise to Friedrich in that little swamp of weeds the day before, to sort out something else for him for the moment so he wouldn't have to worry about that silly uniform. But I might as well do something similar for everyone else and start where I can. Even their oldest clothes are too nice for some of the things we've been doing these last weeks.
She pushed herself onto one knee, then onto her feet again and back to her wardrobe, the door still hanging open. The notions sat beside the fabric on the shelf—thread, pins, needles, thimble, scissors—were delivered to her by one of the maids the following evening, thrust into her hands like it was a terrible inconvenience. I still don't like how you looked at me either, Maria thought, spool of black thread and stabbed cushion balanced in one hand as she wrapped her other hand around the scissors' handles. I think you were the one I met that first afternoon. You didn't look as though you liked me, either.
Turning the scissors around and tucking them under one arm, Maria reached back into the wardrobe blindly, arm twisting around to the half still hidden behind the closed door. Her knuckles bumped against one of the hangers and one of her dressings hanging loosely, so she closed her hand around the sleeve and pulled it free with a swift tug. I just don't think I can start with you, Friedrich. She didn't worry about closing the wardrobe; she would need her nightdress before she crawled into bed. I don't know when I'll want to, Maria thought, her skirt flaring out around her knees as she dropped down next to her unraveled pile of fabric. I don't know if I'll be as lucky as last night.
After cutting a few large rectangular panels—stacked in piles of two—Maria laid her own dress flat on top and snipped out the first boxy pieces of the bodice. There was no precise shape—no form—but more than enough room for seams and darts. Flipping the top half of her dress aside, she slid the trimmed fabric away and reached for the next pair of panels, cutting two more matching pieces before she moved on to the skirt. This should do for Liesl and Louisa. They're both tall enough. Anything I have to change won't take too long. And children's play clothes aren't made to be kept nice anyway, they're made to be stained and torn.
Cutting the remaining pieces for waistbands and sleeves went quickly even as the sunlight dwindled over the horizon, the shadows crawling across the carpet as the window rattled gently with the night breeze. Yawning more than a few times as her eyelids grew heavy, Maria laid her first complete set of bodice panels on the carpet again. (She just remembered to check to see she had the outsides face to face.) She wiped away a crease right at the top; none of the children's clothes would be perfect—even her own weren't—but it wouldn't do to stitch across a clear wrinkle. From top to bottom, her same dress lying on top as a template, she pinned the heavy grey cotton fabric together, all in a line about half an inch from her dress's seam. It was familiar and rote, almost mindless—until she hissed with the sharp prick of one of the pins against her thumb. She pulled it free, trying to shake away the sting for a second before she pressed it between her lips. You would probably ask if I'm living in my own little fairy tale, Gretl. I know I told you that one once.
The little pain faded quickly as Maria finished with the first dress. She peeled it away from her own and the carpet carefully, another of the pins scraping her wrist as she folded the top of the shoulders down to where the bottom hem would run. Rubbing at her eyes with her forearm, Maria yawned yet again. "Just finish the second one," she told herself as she turned onto one knee, then onto both. She set her bundle of pinned fabric on her bed, now digging her elbows into her bedspread to push herself up—and pausing to scrub at one eye again, now with the back of her hand. "I don't know why today's so tiring," she whispered. "I suppose it's because night is coming." Oh, don't be silly.
Still kneeling beside her bed, Maria stretched her arm for the tall globe lamp on the table, swinging her hand wildly once—then again as she scooched her knees over the carpet. A little closer this time, she spun the short knob, the bulb flaring up harshly through the thick glass. "What time is it?" Sliding closer, Maria grabbed for her father's old watch, one of the few things from her old life that had crept from her bag over the weeks. She glanced at it for a moment—past nine and ready to be wound for the night—then shoved it away, her ribs tightening again in her chest as she braced her hand against the table's edge. "I don't even want to look at it right now." Her fingers hurt, her grip was so hard, and now it was a sliver of wood digging into her thumb. "Anything I had when I was there."
Maria let her eyelids fall, a breath of wind brushing across her face and tickling her lashes. Maybe I should be grateful that window never stays closed. I don't know if I could breathe right now. Without— "Ow!" she cried, something biting hard. Just a little twist of her hand had worked a long sliver deep into her muscle. She loosened her fingers, the splinter digging in a little farther. Teeth cutting against her lip, Maria yanked her hand away. It was a quick scramble to her feet and a spin around before she sat on the edge of her bed, hand turned over in her lap. She poked at the sliver gingerly, her skin stinging as the bit of wood pushed her skin up. "I suppose it's fitting here. Though I guess it was naïve, hoping I wouldn't have to know."
"Someday you'll learn not to ask questions if you don't want the answers."
"I didn't, but—I think I knew. But if I didn't really know, then I didn't have to." Another poke flattened the wooden thorn against her skin and swipe of a fingernail loosened it before she pushed it up and free. Standing up, Maria gave her hand a shake, the burn ebbing away as she walked to her little washroom. A snap of the switch brought the lights to life and...It was all the same: the off white tile spread across the floor, the porcelain basin, the towels hanging to the side...all of it just like yesterday morning. Before I knew anything.
Opening the tap, Maria ran her hands under the cool water, thumb stinging for another moment as the splinter washed away down the drain. She closed it with a squeal and wiped her damp hand across her forehead, her limp hair covering a layer of sweat. Even I look the same. Or I could, she thought as she caught herself in the small mirror on the wall. The same short hair and blue eyes stared back, but her face was pale and tired as she reached for one of the towels and wiped the last drops of water from her hands. I don't think it's just today. I'm tired of my secrets. Wondering about him all summer, Wondering if I should go, no matter what I told myself yesterday. Trying not to think about it all day today. The washroom door squeaked on its hinges as it closed lazily behind her, Maria just remembering to reach back to turn the light off. Either I go and never look back or...I stay and face whatever comes my way.
It's just the unknown, really, she thought as she crouched down on the carpet beside her bed again, the muted light from her bedside lamp beating back the darkness. What might happen when it happens. And no one here must know a thing. I think I'm just frightened of myself, of being angry if it comes to that. But I think...Years ago, as much as I wish now I had let him walk away that night, I would have always wished I said something—the way I did. I'll always wish I saw it through if I don't now, even if it's only to know the children are all right. I have to, for them and myself. She reached for the scissors. Why do I keep having to tell myself that? It's like I think I really will believe it the more I do.
Maria threw herself into the next round of preparation with fresh vigor—and a little more caution for her fingers and thumbs when it came time for pins. With her initial patterns for Louisa and Liesl both finished, she unrolled another few feet from the same bolt and cut it free, then another a little smaller, and finally one more the same size as the second. That will do for a start for Brigitta, Marta, and Gretl. I can just make hers a little shorter. As she folded up each piece of fabric, she laughed quietly. I think I'll have to make sure I leave room for your stomach. You still have your baby fat, Gretl. But that will come later.
With the panels for the rest of the girls' dresses piled up, Maria turned back and set them on her bed, pinned forms beside them. While all the dresses would be simple—a task well-remembered—sewing anything for the boys would be more complicated. I've never had to make anything for boys, she thought as she rolled the last of the heavy grey fabric around the wooden bolt. Something new to learn.
The next few minutes were a little flurry of putting things here and there: the uncut fabric back on the shelf where it had been, her pinned forms and the trimmed panels nestled on the chair beside the window alongside her borrowed notions. (Another attempt to latch the window held it closed for the moment.) She even laid the dress she had used for measurements over one of the arms instead of returning it to a hanger. And then it was time to ready herself for bed, to scrub her teeth and face, to rip her comb through her hair, to strip away her dress and shift and yank her nightdress over her head before the breeze could bite at her bare skin.
You're being silly, Maria thought as she leaned back against the bed frame's railing for a moment, her spine smarting. Nothing's different than it was yesterday. Except...I know it all is. As the day had worn on, as much as she tried to think about the children—their clear delight as they swarmed around their grandmother, the chatter as they always tried to pull her into the games and singing—Maria couldn't stop herself from thinking about the new world she could no longer pretend wasn't real. The shock had been enough to keep the implications at bay yesterday, but now she had to consider it all as that world grew quiet.
The seven children she was to teach and mind, they weren't just children: they were her children. The question she had asked that first afternoon as Frau Schmidt muttered about the Baroness in Vienna, whether the children would have a mother again: they did, but it was her. "I don't understand any of it," she whispered as she stretched her legs out beneath the bedspread. They were a little sore from crouching on the floor and her knees had probably left a faint imprint on the carpet. "She said she keeps waiting to hear that you're engaged, but you—you can't do that. Or maybe you can, but you can't marry her."
Despite the bedspread and the warm summer air, Maria shivered, wincing as her shoulder blades knocked against the bars behind her. "And what good will that do? And I don't even know what to believe Vienna would think about that. If you were to be engaged to her and yet never marry." She yawned again, finally drifting down into her bed between the slippery sheets as she folded her hands together under her jaw. "But what good did it do then? I never could have come here. I don't belong here now and I'm just the governess." She dragged the bedspread higher, up over the top of her head. The lamp on her bedside table still burned bright, but she didn't want to even sit up to switch it off. "Would you have brought me here, when Liesl was...thirteen?" Her hands tightened, fingernails digging in. "You couldn't have done that so...why? Should I ask, if I ever have a chance?"
Maria's mind was fuzzy, her eyelids drooping as her limbs turned to weights. "What was the point of it, Georg? I could never really...come with you."
Across the room in his cot, her baby was fussing, little cries mixed with the faint whines that had panicked her those first few days and nights. Somehow, no matter how quietly he cried, Maria always heard her son, even woke with the noise in the middle of the night. But it was nearly dawn, a few hints of sun probably shining through the curtains at the window, almost time for her to be up herself. I don't want to get up just yet, she thought as she pulled her legs up against her chest—
Maria hissed, her breasts aching beneath her nightdress. Looking back, the discomfort during pregnancy had been easy compared to the pain now. Many mornings, she woke to find her clothes and the quilt damp with milk, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. And if she didn't hold him just so, her nipple grew sore in his mouth. More than once as she pushed him away when he began to squirm, she saw a few drops of blood mixing with the last traces of milk still sticking to her breast.
The cries were a little quieter as she turned over in their bed. I know, I'll be there in a minute, Maria thought as she pushed her hand out— Georg's half of their tiny bed was empty, just a mess of wrinkled sheets. "Georg?" she murmured, still not ready to open her eyes, just searching through the bedclothes. "Georg?"
"You're not tired of him already, are you?" She turned over, her long snapping back against her shoulder as she finally opened her eyes with a squint. Someone was standing over her, surely her husband, the little cries of their son right there. "I think he's done with me, darling." Maria threw the bedclothes aside, feet slipping on the sheet folded around the mattress as she pushed herself up and crossed her legs. "But he hasn't been crying for long."
"I wish I had heard," she murmured as Georg set the infant in her arms, the tiny bald head a dense weight on her elbow.
"You'll learn."
"Will I?"
Georg nudged one of her feet out of the way, then sat on the bed's edge, a familiar squeak rising from the springs. "Of course you will."
"How—" The tiny arms were flailing through the air, one stubborn fist smacking against her painful breast. "How can you be sure?"
He dropped his hand onto her calf, rubbing at the muscle the way he often had during the long months as her ankles swelled along with her belly. "You'll have to, darling." His hand rose up along her leg to her knee, right beneath the wrinkled hem of her nightdress. "He'll need you more than me for a while."
"Yes," Maria whispered as she caught the boy's hand, his body rolling forward against her chest. "I guess you'll be happier once you've eaten." Did her son nod? Now tucking a finger under his chin, she pushed his face up. His nose was narrow and a little flattened, and his pale cheeks were pudgy beneath a layer of baby fat. He wasn't really bald, but the reddish-brown hair was thin and short. And now, he was yawning, arms writhing in the air as he smacked his lips and opened his eyes—
Brown eyes. "What?" She held him out to Georg. "I—no, take him, please!"
Her husband's hand retreated from her nightdress, yellow stains thickening around his dirty fingernails. "Why? He needs—"
"No—"
"I don't want him!" Maria gasped for air as the shout broke from her throat and she jerked the bedspread down from her face. The lamp was still burning through the thick velvety night, twinkling behind the cloudy glass. She wiped a hand over her face, slick with sweat after...however long she had been sleeping. She rolled onto her back, the bedspread laying across her chest beneath her folded arms. Too warm for it now, but she couldn't throw it to her feet for a wash of cooler air.
You've been haunting me long enough. Every time I wanted to do something and had to remember why I couldn't. And now I can't even have a moment to myself to be ready for tomorrow, or the next day. Why can't I—why can't I just stay away from you? Even for the night? Maybe it's because I couldn't before. You were the one thing I thought I wanted and now you're the only thing I can't escape.
It was for the best. It must have been. She rolled over again and flopped onto her stomach, her face crushed into the pillow. If you could walk away the way like that just a few weeks after I—I miscarried, you wouldn't have been a good father anyway. I know that if you're willing to run away from the seven lovely children you have—already had! Maria wrapped her arms around the pillow, twisting it around against her body. No better than mine.
Friday morning was easier, though Maria woke sooner than she wanted, right as the sunlight was just seeping through the curtains. At least her sleep had been easy once she drifted off again, blank rather than some vivid dream. She showered quickly and early, trying not to scrub her skin raw. And when she picked her dress up from that chair and pulled it over her head, she turned on the overhead light—finally switched off the bedside lamp—and sat down with her sewing projects again. This time, it was the slow going of stitches and seams, her thumb safe beneath the thimble.
While the sun brightened—her bedroom warmed—the shoulder seams of one of the older girls' dresses appeared and a side grew beneath. She had to sew faster than she wanted to, faster than she had earlier this summer when she made her own! Maybe I should ask Frau Schmidt if there's a sewing machine somewhere, Maria thought as she tugged on her thread to pull the end of the seam tight. Even if I just try to finish without worrying about every stitch so the children can run around and be dirty in something, I think it will take so long. Or maybe I'm just worried I won't be done if—the Captain does come home. Her needle slipped against her thimble again, and Maria just yanked on the thread again. All the more reason to be done soon.
She just managed to reach the bodice's bottom when it was time to go look in on the children, her work gently folded and returned to the chair. Marta and Gretl were already running around their room with fresh energy, crumpled hair flying wildly behind them. It was only the reminder that they needed to bathe and dress to see their grandmother at breakfast that calmed them. And a quick—but cheerful—order for them to go start drawing said bath at least gave her enough time to go see to the other children. The older girls were nearly ready—Brigitta asking again what she would be helping with—and even the boys were grumbling, but dressed. Seeing Friedrich in his uniform once more only left Maria more certain about the task at hand as she returned to help the little girls, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she dodged the splashes and suds amidst shouts and giggles.
The children were an excited chattering mob around the breakfast table again, endlessly asking their grandmother questions about Vienna and their aunts and uncles, what they would be doing that day. It's this I'll miss, Maria thought as she finished her second bread roll with butter and apricot jam. Not this house. It's these children. If I can't stay past September, then I'll have to bring them with me as best I can. Every little moment.
So unlike the day before when she had kept to the edge of the salon as the Countess strummed her guitar and the children searched for the notes hanging in the air, Maria was right beside them, her stronger voice an anchor for them to cling to. Even the Countess seemed a little happier. Maybe she's just happy she doesn't have to keep asking me to join them. But mindful of her promise to both Brigitta and Marta the day before, Maria called them aside when their grandmother was busy with their brothers and asked them to come with her. (Frau Schmidt had handed her a measuring tape as the children rose like a wave from the breakfast table, just muttering that she didn't understand what Maria needed it for now. She hadn't really answered, nodding her thanks instead.)
In her bedroom surrounded by her fabric panels and pinned patterns after a quick detour past the schoolroom, both girls were full of questions as she wrapped her tape around arms and waists, measured from shoulders to toes. Why did she need so many measurements? ("I can't make you play clothes from mine. You're not tall enough.") How long would it be until their play clothes were finished? ("Not too long, they won't be that fancy.") Would the boys be annoying when she needed them? ("I hope not, but they are your brothers.") Could they help with anything else? ("Maybe, but you'll have to be careful.") Really, how long would it be?...
She sped through their measurements a little faster than she would have otherwise, the numbers scrawled across a page in the notebook snatched up from her desk hopefully legible when evening came. As excited as the young girls were to help and ask about this and that in the pile of notions, Maria still wanted to send them back to their grandmother as soon as she could. They're need to make their own memories, like me.
But soon enough, they were all downstairs in the salon again, the Countess smiling and waving them back in as she continued to play Maria's guitar. She was in the middle of them again, Gretl wriggling in her lap while the older girls' voices clashed gently in the harmony they must have been practicing, the boys' holding steady. Or at least until Kurt had to gulp down a breath and Friedrich coughed as his voice cracked and their sisters tried not to giggle.
Those were the moments Maria tried to hold onto whenever the Captain crept back into her mind. (Whenever he did, she forced herself too call him anything but their father.) Friedrich laughing at his brother's silly jokes, now that they both forgot to be serious. Liesl forgetting to be nearly seventeen when the music ended for the morning and they broke into groups listening to their grandmother's stories—and then her patience with her younger sisters vanishing as Louisa laid down her rummy sets with an unrepentant grin. Brigitta was just as eager to tell the Countess stories as she was to listen to tales of old Vienna and travels all around Europe. And then Marta and Gretl...simply as wild and unrestrained as young girls were meant to be.
The evening was cool, so much so that they abandoned the dining room for the terrace. That was as much a novelty for the children as a picnic, all of them swatting at the gnats circling their plates and floating in glasses of sticky lemonade. Nothing particularly special, nothing to really note, but she was desperate to remember every detail, even the gentle squabbles that never managed to last more than a few seconds.
Beautiful, that was what it was Maria decided as Gretl dozed in her arms and the fireflies swarmed up and over the lake, their reflections sparkling in the water shifting in the gentle breeze. She held the girl closer and dropped a kiss onto her dark brown hair. Beautiful and wonderful and lovely and...unremarkable. Nothing much or meaningful, even memorable. But Maria struggled to commit each detail to memory, from that laughter to Gretl's dense body as it pressed the feeling from her arms and legs. I always want to remember this. And you can't ever take it from me if I ever see you again.
Her dreams were less complicated that night, if still sad. Now she sat behind her desk in her little classroom at the abbey, searching the faces in front of her for children she knew she wouldn't find. Remembering smiles and laughter and just a little hint of sadness whenever they thought of him.
Saturday was a little more somber, though. Just as she had insisted on Thursday, the Countess was preparing to leave, her staff readying everything for the drive to the Salzburg train station. The outpouring of pleas, the begging for her to stay, the tugging on her hands...All of it was kindly pushed aside with the gentle reminder that she hadn't anticipated coming at all, that their Uncle Robert and his family were arriving in Vienna on Tuesday and she had to be there to welcome them. By the time she and her staff left for the train station in two taxis, the children were quiet and reserved, even ready to sit down with their books for a rare Saturday afternoon lesson. Another evening of singing revived them, Liesl and Louisa playing the melody in turn while Maria sat with the rest, again trying to help them find some of the more difficult notes. It was easiest with the girls and none too difficult with Kurt, either. Her voice had always ranged further than anyone else's at least outside of a music hall, but that couldn't help Friedrich with the deepest notes.
"I think you'll have to ask," she began as he cleared his throat and began again. But she had to stop, fingers fidgeting as she pushed her hair away from her face; it was still too short for her hands to gain a hold.
"What?"
"I think you'll have to ask your father to help you." I know he won't and I don't have to be here to see it to be sure.
Sleep was difficult again that night, Maria waking again and again after just a few minutes though she never quite remembered what was haunting her sleep. Once or twice, she wondered if she was forcing herself to open her eyes before the worst could happen and she carelessly acquiesced to Georg's every desire in that tiny bed they had shared. She gave up trying to sleep at all when the sun was finally staining the sky, instead returning to the stitching that had occupied her every free moment the last days.
They were growing into plain dresses, the hems uneven with a few folds inevitably sewn into the seams. When she shook out the first finished frock, Maria had been mortified to find several inches where the stitches were too loose. But they would do for running around the grounds and climbing trees, even if they tumbled down with scraped knees in clothes with tears needing a patch. "It's what you should be doing now, children," she muttered as her needle whipped through the grey fabric as quickly as she could pull the thread. "Even if your father—wouldn't want it."
The tightness burned in her chest again. These last days with the Countess, the children gathered around her eager to hold onto every word and memory, he had been easy enough to push away whenever the warm glow of a family's simple joys licked over her like a fire melting the frost from her fingers and toes. But there would be no more distractions now. It's not too long until Mass. Another stitch, another tug of thread. I can give all of it to God then. I know You have the time and care for my troubles when no one else does. Not even me.