31st December, 1892 — Sugarplum NYE’s gala, London

Next year, he was resolved. Next year, he would marry. But if he married, it would not be to just anyone, no, it would be to –

Miss Dashwood, of course. Why not? Endymion had met her at her debut this summer, and had called her a kindred spirit then. Indeed, every conversation they had shared since had been perfectly pleasant, so why had this never crossed his mind before? She was perfect. How had he not known it at once? And – well, if she was perfect, then it stood to reason that she was equally, undoubtedly, perfect for him.

At any rate, it was obvious to him now, having handed his empty glass away and looked up and caught her eye nearby – what eyes! – that there was no one else on earth for him. Poppy, red: consolation. (There it was: she was his consolation.) Poppy, white: Sleep. My bane. My antidote. (The bane and the antidote. That sounded like love, entirely.) How could he have been so stupid not to see it until now?

He felt – dazed, and delirious, and deliriously happy all at once. He had not taken his eyes off her, but his feet had begun moving of their own accord, a few swift strides to find himself before her. “Miss Dashwood,” he breathed, half-overcome just by being so near her. “I’m so glad to have finally found you.”

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Poppy Dashwood/Basil Foxwood

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy was having a wonderful evening. Everyone seemed to be in such a splendidly good mood tonight. Perhaps with an adieu to 1892, there was a sentiment of promise, hope even, that rung within the ton at the prospects of 1893. Poppy herself felt as much. She was glad to have completed her first, rather successful debut season. It was a relief, considering all the chaos the year had entailed, and with that now behind her well… there was a sweetness tinging her thoughts on what might perhaps come next. Like a cherub heralded wind, perhaps 1893 would bring with it the much coveted proposal she imagined she was hedging toward? At least from one of her suitors, surely. The thought made the brunette wrinkle her delicate nose. She hated to be so calculated, and frankly being captured - a bird in a small cage - did not resonate in that particular moment of triumph. But a triumph it remained; she knew the ultimate goal was close upon her now.

Brushing these thoughts aside as she refreshed her drink, Poppy let her hazel gaze flicker across the guests in the immediate surround. The decor was incredible, even if it did give her a bit of a stomach ache just at the sight. Perhaps distraction could be found in the comfort of a familiar face. Poppy paused, a brilliant smile stretching across her face as she caught the eye of one Mr. Dempsey. What a delightful solution to her little distraction problem!

The gentleman approached, evidently pleased to see her as well, and a small laugh escaped Poppy at his greeting. “What flattery, Mr. Dempsey,” she chirped playfully in return to his quip. It was honest, something she’d always appreciated about him. “I’ll admit, you do have impeccable timing.” With a little tilt of her head, the brunette appraised him. “I was starting to find myself at a loss of agreeable company, and you’ve swooped in to save the evening.”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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© Fox

“I am entirely sincere,” Endymion protested, perhaps a little more earnestly than necessary – Miss Dashwood was only teasing him about flattery, he fancied. But he couldn’t bear to think she would find anything less than utter truthfulness in it. He would not have said it if he had not meant it with every pore.

Still, he could only beam at her following praise: impeccable timing; talk of his saving the evening. Although, silently, he admonished himself for only being agreeable company: how mediocre and average a word. Agreeable! No, that was not what he wanted to be to her: he wanted, rather desperately, for Miss Dashwood to decide that he was her soulmate, her reason for living, her bright star.

Well, Endymion supposed, he could not find that out if he did not devote himself to her this evening. Save the evening, as she said: he would throw his heart and soul into that, and hope that she would come to love him for it. He felt – nervous in a way he did not usually, all his hopes and fears foisted on a few delicate moments, his life in her hands. She was surveying him, and Endymion felt the weight and power of her appraising glance, his cheeks warming under it. Spontaneously, he reached across and took up her free hand, trying to smile as lightly as he usually did.

“And if that is so,” Endymion said, his tone airy but really not joking at all, “then I am determined not only to make this evening agreeable to you, but to make it the most – delightful, memorable, romantic, splendid evening of all.” He squeezed her hand to impress this upon her as a promise. Their first dance at her debut had been a start, but now that he knew he was in love with her, this evening would have to be far, far more unforgettable, and – oh dear, had he said romantic out loud?

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Mr. Dempsey’s little protest fell on Poppy with a ring to it that made the brunette turn towards him more fully, the whole of her attention on the gentleman. He looked… perfect affected. While there was not, in essence, a curl or button out of place on his usually agreeable person, there seemed something about him she couldn’t quite place. Poppy often liked to admire Mr. Dempsey from afar when she spotted him across the dance floor or whilst she was mid-conversation. He was a dashing sort with endearing mannerisms. Everything about him made her smile, even when he was not talking to her, directly. To see him here now and so much in earnest almost made her blush.

Instead, Poppy smiled at the congenial brunette. “I know you are,” she trilled, gently. “Sincere, I mean. It’s what I admire so much about you Mr. Dempsey, in this world of half-truths and coquettish dalliances.” She was surprised, but not put off, as he took her hand then. It felt a touch forward, but Poppy trusted Mr. Dempsey in a way she rarely trusted most gentlemen. So, setting her sights once again more fully upon him, she set her drink aside and placed her now free hand atop his own, holding hers.

The response he gave pulled a brilliant smile from the diminutive debutant. Oh, how splendid this plan was! Poppy could always be convinced into an evening of delightful, splendid, enchanting fun. “Alright then sir,” she replied, a teasing grin flickering across her face. “You’ve set a tall order, but I find myself inclined to find out if it can be met. You do have quite the track record for memorable and delightful,” the girl laughed, gently. The word romantic skipped almost entirely from her notice, or was forced aside, as Poppy felt something in her chest constrict. So she settled upon the adventure of it. “What is it that you’d like to do Mr. Dempsey? I’m all yours.”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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© Fox

Oh, she admired him! Uplifting and disheartening in equal measure; by the end of the evening he prayed she would confess that she loved him, too. She had given him hope enough in the sentence: she did not care for coquettish dalliances. No, she had the soul of a pure romantic; they were perfectly alike. She put her hand upon his and he felt his heart thrill.

“I would like –” to kiss you, marry you, die for you, never leave your side from this moment on, “to take you to Paris,” Endymion declared. His face had lit up for a moment, at the thought – she wished to travel; he wanted to dance her away to Paris or to the waterfalls of Brazil or to see some beautiful sunset somewhere in the world and then chase the sun, seeing sunrise after sunrise of the new year and this start of their life together. How perfect it would be, Endymion thought, abruptly cursing himself for not having planned it out beforehand. He had been waiting for Poppy Dashwood all his life, so oughtn’t he have expected this moment to come? Oughtn’t he have been ready?

“But I haven’t got a portkey for us,” he admitted fretfully, raking his free hand through his hair in abject despair. If their perfectly romantic evening was already ruined, it was entirely his fault. “I’m a terrible fool.”

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy found herself both startled and incredibly excited by the sudden proposition Mr. Dempsey put forth! All her life she’d been waiting, almost as if for this moment, for someone to proposition this exact sort of evening. It was a whirlwind of an adventure, entirely uncouth and incredibly frowned upon but— how splendid, even so! Of course it would be none other than the dashing, lovely Mr. Dempsey who would be the one to think of it. Smiling at him with all the eager joviality she could manage, Poppy gave the brunette’s hand a gentle squeeze. She knew better than to accept, (and she hadn’t had quite that much to drink yet), but it was exciting nonetheless.

The following admission and Mr. Dempsey’s forlorn face tugged at her heartstrings then even as Poppy clocked the maneuver of his free hand running through his curls. (The gesture made her corset feel a smidge tight.) She shook her head gently at him and smiled. “Mr. Dempsey, I dare say I’ve waited all my life for someone to propose such a thing, but I must admit, I’m not quite dressed for it.” Lies, all of it. Poppy could be changed in a heartbeat, and she had no such qualms galavanting around the streets of a romantic city dressed as she was for a gala. But that was not the point. She didn’t want him to feel badly about it all. Besides, Poppy had someone here she very much wished to see at the cusp of midnight.

“How about we take a turn of the garden instead, and we can plan something quite dramatic for another evening?” A tease glimmered behind her hazel orbs even as the brunette laughed lightly. “But!” She added abruptly. “Do not ever call yourself a fool,” The stitch between her browns formed a small crease at the thought. “You are far more clever than most sir, and I shan’t have you disparaging yourself in my presence!” She almost gave a small hmph of impact at the end to mark a point.

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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   Endymion Dempsey

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© Fox

The shake of her head, no matter how gently it came, pierced his heart and his hopes – the rejection was coming. He was right – I’m not dressed for it, she said; but how gracefully she had wounded him, to pretend that was all! – a spontaneous trip to Paris was not to be. But before Endymion could wither away to the depths of despair, Miss Dashwood had offered him another window, afforded him a consolation prize that was, itself, invaluable.

“The garden it is,” Endymion agreed happily, suddenly all alight again – fond eyes; wide smile; his arm offered to her with an easy flourish. It did not even dampen his spirits altogether when she frowned at him. Because dear, dear Poppy was only defending him, even to himself, and that was why she was the best person in all the world. She had called him clever, the darling thing, which he knew wasn’t true, but it warmed him anyway. Her presence, already, was a heavenly comfort – so delightful that if she had ordered him to do nothing but disparage himself, Endymion would have been just as honoured.

He inclined his head at her softly to show he was listening and would take her word as law there, and then offered her an unusually shy, guileless smile. “Very well, Miss Dashwood,” he promised, as he led them through a set of double doors to the quieter garden, sparing no attention for anything but her. Once they were in the garden, Endymion fell to a stop and met her gaze directly with another look of imploring earnestness. “You should know I would do anything for you.” What did she want to do now? He would do it; never mind the garden, he would follow her to the end of the earth.

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy could have laughed again in relief as it seemed her darling Mr. Dempsey regained himself at her words. Whew, that had been close! She hated the idea of his being miserable or unhappy… It tugged at her heart in a way Poppy wasn’t sure she was prepared to admit, attached as she was to the man. It was silly. They were just… friends after all. (Oh how she seemed to have a great many of those these days, she thought in frustration.)

Still, the brunette followed cheerily as they moved towards the garden. She accepted the gentleman’s offered arm with a feather-light touch, still preservative and knowing full-well she had to rely on her own two feet. Though Mr. Dempsey was easily becoming a trusted resource, Poppy didn’t dare put herself at the whims of any man so fully as to lean upon them for support. Not while dancing, and certainly not while strolling - unchaperoned - in a darkened garden.

They passed through a set of double doors then into the frosty winter outside and Poppy turned in time to catch the unusually demure smile her companion shared. Something in the girl’s heart twisted and she wanted so badly to reach out a hand to brush a thumb gently across his perfect cheek. She didn’t, instead pausing to turn towards the gentleman as he came to a stop. Another laugh trickled out from her vocals, bell-like and soft. “Mr. Dempsey, you flatter me too much,” Poppy teased. “I would be easily satisfied by merely your continued presence and support.” She leaned forward towards him conspiratorially, mischief alight in her gaze once more. “You should know, I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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© Fox

“Don’t,” Endymion protested, wounded, in a strange role reversal of their prior exchange – for if she thought well of him and would not hear otherwise, he thought even better of her. She was teasing – he recognised it, but it sank somewhere to the back of his mind at once – but he answered in complete earnest. “It would be impossible to flatter you too much,” he insisted. “You’re perfect, you know. I’m surprised I didn’t know it at once.”

What had he said he had been looking for, to Morgan that once? Something from a Keats love letter. Endymion’s thoughts drifted a moment as he gazed at her – cheeks rosy in the biting cold, sparks in her gaze, the perfect form of her lips. “Rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me,” he murmured, almost to himself, daring against hope to imagine kissing her, and feeling a tremulous flutter at her admission of fondness – fondness, was that all?

She had leant a little closer; Endymion mirrored that movement, leaning a fraction closer too in wild, feverish hopes that she felt the same. He lifted a hand, tentatively, to cup her cheek, unsure if this was too forward or perhaps not forward enough.

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy was surprised by Mr. Dempsey’s sudden correction, her expression dropping immediately. Had she crossed a line? Gone too far? Oh, goodness. How desperately she’d hoped not to put him off! Of all the potential suitors she had, he was the— oh. Relief flooded the girl’s facade as Poppy clicked her tongue. “Tsk, Mr. Dempsey!” She chided gently. “Perfection is impossible, and I should hardly like to attempt such a feat.” No, Poppy knew she was far from perfect. And even pretending to be as much in his eyes felt like an impossible weight to bare. She would fall short every single day, if only he knew the truth about her real personality.

Brushing the intrusive thought from her mind, Poppy tilted her head gently to the side and appraised her companion. He seemed to be staring quite intently as if thinking about something. She almost managed to ask him what but then familiar words floated into the space between them and she chirped a surprised laugh. Mr. Dempsey never failed to be the most enchanting of all her acquaintances. Poppy didn’t know if he’d purposely cited a statement about the flower from which her nickname had been derived or if it was merely coincidence, but she grinned and inclined her head to parrot back at him amusedly: “A brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair!” She laughed again. It was the only line she could recall from that particular letter because it was one that had stuck in her brain one summer, turned over and over again, as she’d sighed about hoping that one day someone might write such poetic nonsense for her.

As a gentle touch came to rest on her cheek then, Poppy lost all juvenile mirth. Big hazel hues turned to look directly into mirrored depths, her heart rate picking up a clip. Was Mr. Dempsey suddenly quite a bit closer to her than before? Poppy wasn’t sure. The brunette felt a warm blush begin to creep over her features as she wondered if he could finally be about to say something interesting. Something, perhaps, she didn’t dare to think.

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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© Fox

She chastised him again for throwing words about like perfection, but Endymion wasn’t listening. She was perfect, and he was eminently convinced of it. It was a truth of the universe, and her modesty only made that clearer. She was heavenly.

So he took the sign of her quoting Keats back at him as all the sign he needed: everything at once made sense. She was the only woman who would do for him; he would be miserable without her. Endymion gazed at her for a moment, dazzled, as her merry expression faded to something more serious.

He inclined his chin an infinitesimal fraction nearer, but a kiss was simply not enough. So, instead, Endymion swallowed and – without the remotest hint of mischief to it; tonight he felt impossibly, entirely sincere – said, “What I meant to say, Miss Dashwood, is that I’m in love with you.”

He was so in love he felt physically pained by it. (And perhaps a little woozy? Strange.)

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy didn’t know what she had been expecting Mr. Dempsey to say. All her life she’d been raised to be the quintessential, perfect debutante: demure, but not boring; clever, but not too academic; sweet, but not stupid. It was an impossible balance, especially for someone who carried about the weight of such a terrorizing personality within. She’d been waiting almost since birth for the moment she was to be wed, the moment that everything was to end and all her fears to be assuaged. Perhaps stupidly then, Poppy had fantasized about her first kiss being magical and meaningful (a reality she couldn’t quite claim) and her first confession of love to stir feelings that were more— well, reciprocal than she felt just now.

Still, a wave of warmth flushed the girl from head to toe as those three little words slipped out into the air between them. “Oh!” Poppy couldn’t help but exclaim, her tinkling little voice a soft bell of surprise. And it was a surprise, given how little she’d seen of Mr. Dempsey recently. He was one of her favorites though. The most charming of all the gentleman she’d met and certainly a well qualified husband. Even one point more in his basket, Poppy could assert some reciprocation of the feeling he so claimed for her, too.

Poppy Dashwood loved Endymion Dempsey.

She had since the moment he’d swept her off her feet at her debut and they’d danced the most memorable of all her dances that evening. (Or at least to the public’s eye.) And Poppy could marry him, and be happy, and see a future in which all her fears and concerns were set aside once and for all.

But she wasn’t in love with him. Actively. At this very moment.

And she didn’t think he really was, either.

So, while marrying for love had never been one of Poppy’s primary qualifications in finding a husband, she didn’t like the way he looked almost pale and desperate in his confession. A small hand came up to press gently against the gentleman’s cheek, her cold thumb brushing against the smooth skin over his cheekbone. “My dear, darling, Mr. Dempsey,” the girl hummed, almost sadly. (It was such a terrible waste to put him off in this way after all.) “You do look quite a bit pale. Might I offer you some refreshment or should you find some respite for the evening? We can finish this conversation another time...” She tried to offer him a conspiratorial little smile; anything to keep his sentiments from imploding. “I feel in this moment unable to concentrate with the due dedication that such a statement requires. Call upon me in the coming days and we can continue this thread.”

Poppy let her hand drop, still feeling the warmth from his face buzzing against her fingertips. If he returned her call and followed up with any hint of reality to his exclamation, then she would give it due consideration. But, given the copious amounts of alcohol and the sway of the festivities this evening, she highly doubted he would. A shame really. She could have imagined herself Mrs. Endymion Dempsey.

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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   Endymion Dempsey

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© Fox

His first observation of her reaction was that she was surprised. Strange. It felt so overpowering to him that it seemed impossible that everyone at the party, in the city, in the world, should not notice it.

Her second reaction was to brush her thumb over his cheek. A fond gesture, and one that saw him shiver – but what he thought of was not perhaps she’ll kiss me, but another stanza from Keats. I see a lily on thy brow, / With anguish moist and fever-dew, / And on thy cheeks a fading rose / Fast withereth too. A knight-at-arms and a faery spirit who had him in thrall.

No, Endymion insisted to himself, with a stubborn spark of hope. She will love me too. But her tone was wrong, and her words were wrong, and she was dampening the moment, cheapening it with talk of refreshments and respite. His face contorted, his impulses all at war with himself.

“Then you shall have it as you wish it,” he agreed, though he was pained by it. Her hand had dropped from his face, but he felt compelled to catch her by it, to stop her leaving him too fast – “But you must know that I will find no worthy respite in the world unless you love me too, and would marry me.” He was sure she would not put him out of his misery yet, not now, not after she had confessed to being unable to concentrate – but if he did not impress the strength of his feelings, and his whole future staked upon her answer, he would regret it always.

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Poppy had expected his disappointment to some degree, willed it even, if she was being quite honest. But the sight of such a pained expression flickering over Mr. Dempsey’s handsome features made her want to sigh and take it all back. How easy it might have been to accept the proposal, all doubts aside, and just see him smile. Today and into forever. He really was one of her favorite gentlemen— friends? Suitors? People. It was enough for now. It was enough until she found her footing and he regained his. Perhaps then they might discuss a promenade and between the blades of grass that summer promised— twin roses by the Zephyr blown apart, ... meet again more close, and share the inward fragrance of each other’s heart.

(Poppy almost giggled at her own romantic sentimentality. Perhaps she too had indulged in one too many glasses this evening. But there had always been that quality to Dempsey that made her wish she could be so free.)

“I’ll tell you a secret, my dearest, darling Mr. Dempsey,” the brunette whispered, tucking her head and letting the feeling of erstwhile misbehavior pull the gentleman closer. “I do love you.” It was quite a rush to admit aloud as her heart fluttered cheekily. “I consider you a dear friend and I should be more than happy to explore the possibility further.” A glimmer of mischief caught in her expression as she tilted her head and gave his hand a small squeeze. “But for now, we must do things properly. Ask me to dance, and I shall throw over any gentleman lined up on my card for you. Then, bring me a drink and find another lady to whisk away. Between such quotidian meetings only we will know the true clandestine nature of our intentions and, perhaps, upon another occasion, after which we have accrued enough of these such sentiments— we might revisit the very lovely reality of your proposal.”

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Endymion Dempsey & muse song <3

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© Fox

When he recalled it later, he would find as much value that confession sober as he did now, under the intoxication of ardent, romantic delusion. But that she loved him – in any capacity at all, as a dear friend, a kindred soul – felt terribly right and true and it was enough for Endymion to survive on even then.

My dearest, darling, Mr. Dempsey; the very lilting loveliness of that was poetry to his ear. She looked as mischievous as ever, and had given his hand a tempting squeeze, but Endymion finally surrendered to her anyway, content to play servant to her whims. She wanted to disguise the secret feeling of this meeting beneath propriety... and she would hear his proposal again.

(Endymion, rueful and hungover on artificial love in the morning, would be of no mind to ask her again. But he would remember that small seed of sentiment that rang true, I do love you, and he would understand, then, that in the strangest of ways, he felt entirely the same. He was fortunate to know her, albeit as a very dear friend.)

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