Summer, 1889 — Spain

As the sun set, Don Juan Dempsey stood alone in the overhang of a decorated archway and smoked a cigarette. The entryway of the building had been done in estilo churrigueresco, which he recognized because he'd written his mother a seven-page letter on the peculiarities of Churrigueresque architecture. She had previously written him the Dempsey matriarch equivalent of what the hell are you doing and waxing poetic about the construction of the buildings around where he was staying had seemed the best way to both avoid answering the question and distract her from asking any new ones. His mother's letter was one of many he'd received since he'd been abroad — he was, as best as he could tell, temporarily infamous back home. Everyone wanted the story. He deflected all of their questions about what had happened with stories about what was currently happening — of a sort. He wrote paragraphs upon paragraphs about how diverting, how delightful, how gay a time he was having in Spain. Knitting all of his various correspondence together would have created a delightful vignette of the Spanish country and culture and people, and would have said next to nothing about the Yaxley affair. One might have supposed he'd already quite forgotten it.

The letters he wrote described life as he wished it was, as if by repeatedly claiming gaiety and lightness of spirit he could will it into existence. In reality he hadn't done much of anything since arriving other than sulking and smoking and writing letters. One letter was conspicuously absent. Elfrieda hadn't written him. She likely never would, if she had gone this long without doing so. He didn't know how her end of their tragedy had resolved itself; maybe she had taken her husband's side, or maybe he had sent her away, or maybe she was being kept under such close scrutiny she could not scratch out even a superficial missive without being caught in the act. Perhaps she didn't want to hear from him. He had almost certainly ruined her life forever, if there was even a shred of credibility in the things people told them they had heard, in their letters.

He missed her. He felt pathetic admitting it even to himself. Alone in a foreign country, pining after a married woman. Alone by choice, mostly — he was technically at a party right now, this very moment, and yet here he was skulking in the puerto de estilo churrigueresco smoking and watching the sunset. Nothing, he realized, was ever going to improve this way. He had to at least try to do any of the things he'd claimed to be doing in his missives back to England. So he stubbed the cigarette out on one of the sculpted grape leaves twining up the sides of the entryway and headed back inside, determined to find someone to dance with.

He chose her from the crowd because she reminded him of Elfie. Not her appearance, necessarily, but something about her expression; trepidation mixed with curiosity in her eyes, and a hunger somewhere beneath them. The look of someone who knew they wanted so much more than what was laid before them, but hesitant to take any steps to realize it.

"Perdóname, señorita," he said by way of greeting; his Spanish wasn't good enough to manage proper introductions, but he had at least gotten her attention. He offered her a smile and asked with a tilt of his head towards the dance floor, "¿Te gusta bailando?"

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[* Errors in Spanish grammar and vocabulary are intentional; Don Juan's Spanish is subpar.]
Valencia Delgado

  

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MJ made this <3

Valencia's nerves were as taut as a guitar's strings, each passing stranger's attention was another pluck that sent shivers down her spine. Her admirer, "B", had finally agreed to meet her, to move their flirtatious letters to reality and perhaps begin something tangible. He had promised it would be within the fortnight and, as the second week dawned, she'd begun to suspect nearly every man she met. Even the wait staff, as low and unseemly as a romance with them would be, had Valencia's attention, and she'd even begun to make a fantasy of it. They would have nothing but one another, she would have to work alongside him but would be thrilled to if it meant their happiness. The fantasies and wonderings had become something like a game to her, a new story forming with each turn on the dance floor.

The evening had only just begun when she was approached by the foreigner her brother, Ignacio, had noted and suggested they avoid for the foreseeable future. Valencia was resolved to respect her brother and his uncanny ability to read people, but then - then the man asked the question (rather terribly, but still the question) she'd been eager to hear all week.

She was nodding her agreement before she had the chance to register her actions. Her admirer had, at the very minimum, a basic understanding of Spanish, and most often his letters contained little to no errors. But, perhaps this foreigner used some sort of translation spell? Or maybe he had help from someone local?

It didn't matter.

"Yes, of course," Valencia answered, her smile bright while she waited for him to lead her out.

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Italics are Valencia speaking in Spanish

  

She'd agreed without hesitation, and Don Juan was grateful for that. Not that women ever really turned someone down when they asked to dance, but she might have forced him to make some degree of conversation before offering her hand, and he would have been terrible at that. Then again, he'd have to make conversation to some extent while they were on the dance floor, or this was going to be a rather dull affair.

"Perdona mi español," he said with a self-effacing smile as he reached to take her hand. Forgive my Spanish was one phrase he knew he was saying perfectly, since he'd had plenty of practice with it over the past few weeks. He must have thrown it into every conversation at least once. "Don Juan Dempsey — de Ireland." He pronounced Ireland the way someone would in Ireland; the Spaniards may have had a different name for his country of origin but he was too proud to use it. And anyway, he thought it made him seem quirky and interesting, not blundering and ignorant. Whether the Spaniards he spoke to agreed was anyone's guess. At least some of them liked him enough to invite him to parties, so that was something.

She'd offered her hand immediately and he'd taken it just as readily, but the song of the moment was still only three-quarters completed, so they had some time to kill before they could take the floor. He considered asking her which dance it was (after he got her name, anyway), but didn't remember how to say it. Which, which — welche? That was German. A, that was Irish. Che, that was one of the romance languages, but he didn't remember which one. Should he risk che baile? It didn't sound right; he decided against it. He similarly considered trying to peer at her dance card, but wasn't sure he could pull it off from his angle without being obvious about it, at which point she would probably wonder why he hadn't simply asked. He was going (insofar as he was actually being intentional about anything during his stay in Spain) for dashing and mysterious foreign gentleman, not clumsy fool who can't carry a conversation, which was a difficult line to walk when you barely spoke the language.

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MJ made this <3

Valencia considered switching to another language — French maybe — but just as soon thought better of it. The conversation would certainly flow easier if they were on common footing, but if he didn't know any she risked embarrassing him and frightening him away. Mr. Dempsey certainly didn't appear to be the shy sort, in fact Valencia believed it to take a considerable amount of courage to approach someone with such a barrier between them. He did, however, seem somewhat nervous and perhaps there was some sort of potion boostering his courage. A little liquid luck even.

"Miss Valencia Ruiz Delgado." He, of course, knew this already, but it would be improper not to formally introduce herself. "You are a long way from home. What brings you to Spain?"

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Italics denote Valencia speaking in Spanish

  

Valencia was a pretty name, he thought — not that he expected to ever be on familiar enough terms with her to use it. The Spanish did have a way with names; men and women alike always had such a flow to them. But maybe he was biased there — Don Juan, and all. If they were speaking English perhaps he would have explained the origin of his name to her — it was the sort of thing people usually asked about, unless they already knew about the Dempseys — but he wasn't sure how to navigate that in a second language. Poema, he knew that much, but he was hardly likely to make it a very engaging story.

"It's a beautiful country," he said, which wasn't exactly an answer to her question. This was one that would have been challenging to answer even without the language barrier, though, because he was hardly going to announce to everyone that he was absenting himself from English society after being challenged to a duel for sleeping with another man's wife. If they were speaking English he could have been suitably vague to answer her question without saying anything; in Spanish he just had to be even more vague. Aiming for mysterious, he reminded himself. Maybe she would fill in the gaps and believe he was a wealthy heir on a spur of the moment vacation, just traveling for the sake of it. A few charming smiles and that would smooth the whole thing over. "I stay all summer."

A few charming smiles and a few compliments, he decided. He let his eyes run over her looking for something to remark upon — something that she had been intentional about tonight, something she would take pride in, not something banal like the shade of her eyes or the curl of her hair. His eyes caught on a pendant she was wearing on the shoulder of her dress; it was more vibrant than the rest of her outfit, but of a complimentary color, which spoke to some degree of taste when she'd chosen it. He didn't know the word to name it in Spanish, and didn't want to struggle through trying to indicate what he meant without knowing the word, so instead he leaned over and brushed one finger lightly against it. "This is lovely."

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MJ made this <3

While Valencia was pleased to hear her admirer wouldn't be dashing off to the next country at a moment's notice, his answer didn't provide any context for why he was here. Business? Pleasure? She had a host of questions to ask — when had he first noticed her? Why not approach? Why Spain over any of the other European countries? — but then he was touching her shoulder and Valencia instantly decided to save her questions for the next letter.

The gold medallion hosted a delicately designed rose in its center that was seemingly protected by equally delicate metalwork that culminated in diamonds on its outermost ring. Generally, Valencia chose to wear it as a necklace as her grandmother instructed it to be worn before her passing. However, tonight the neckline of her dress hadn't allowed the long chain to sit right on her chest, and since she never left the house without it somewhere on her person, she'd chosen to pin it instead.

"Thank you," she said, shifting slightly so his hand would fall back down. As much as she enjoyed the featherlight touch, if Ignacio saw it ... the sight wouldn't be pretty. "It has been in my family for generations. My grandmother's and her grandmother's before her." She then explained before realizing her quick words (though repeated) might've been too quick. Thankfully, though, the music appeared to be dying down on the floor. She flashed a small, embarrassed smile, and asked,"Shall we?"

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From Don Juan's perspective it seemed his attempt at a compliment had missed the mark, which wasn't something he was used to. Maybe it was understandable for him not to be socially at the top of his game when he was in exile after a romance ended catastrophically in an aborted duel, but it still chafed. She'd pulled her shoulder back to cause his hand to drop, and though he hadn't caught everything that she'd said he'd picked up on familia and abuela. Family heirloom, then; maybe one she didn't even like. Between his clumsy Spanish introduction and this, he considered himself on rather thin ice with Senorita Valencia... and they hadn't even started dancing.

"Si," he agreed; her tone was that of a question and he'd caught the break in the music, so it was easy enough to parse out what she was asking. Was he a good enough dancer that he could charm her without talking for the next two minutes? He was a decent dancer, but probably no one was that good. Casual conversation was meant to be part of the flow of a dance; private (ish) conversation was half the reason young people danced with each other at all.

He needed more help, he decided. As they approached the dance floor they were weaving between cocktail tables, each with a small vase of flowers as a centerpiece. At the last one, he plucked one of the flowers from the vase and offered it to her. "For your hair?" he suggested; it had a long enough stem and that would save her from having to hold it while they danced. He perhaps should have thought through his gesture a bit more, but without words on his side he was really grasping at straws — or flower stems, as the case may be.

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MJ made this <3

The flower was all the confirmation Valencia needed that he was indeed her secret admirer. A pleased smile lit across her entire face as she took a half step closer so he might reach to place the flower himself, Ignacio be damned. Eventually, hopefully before her brother attempted to valiantly defend her honor, she would force him to listen to her tale of the letters and the promise she found in them. "Thank you," she beamed. Then, once she had stepped back once more and the flower was safely secured in her hair, she added, "You remembered my favorite flower."

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It was clear from the moment she leaned in that he'd done well this time. Mi favorita; a welcome relief from the awkwardness of the interaction so far. It suited her, he thought with a smile. The splash of red against her dark hair, with her complexion and her eyes... on a pale Englishwoman it might have looked garish, but on her it was lovely. He wanted to say as much (beautiful, and made more beautiful still by its frame), but the metaphor couldn't make it through translation with his limited Spanish. So instead he smiled earnestly at her and only said, "You look lovely" before they took the dance floor.

He was more himself when the dance started, now that the initial ice had been broken. He wasn't any better with his Spanish, but he managed to make a few jokes while they were on the floor with a combination of what vocabulary he had, facial expressions and significant looks. He couldn't get across how on earth did this man manage to leverage himself to the dance floor in the first place as he navigated her around a set of plodding partners, but when he looked the bloke over, muttered that man and puffed his cheeks out she seemed to get the idea. And he did his best to listen attentively when she spoke, though he was certainly only catching at most half of what she said.

"Again very soon, I hope?" he asked as their song wound down, as he squeezed her hand lightly.

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MJ made this <3

Any doubts or questions Valencia had about her admirer and his skill on the floor faded away within a minute of the opening notes. She found the charm and elegance from his letters in the warmth of his hand and the quick steps of his feet. Not even his choppy (and barely comprehensible) Spanish or the skepticism of her peers diminished the warmth blooming in her chest.

As the song ended, Valencia found herself anxious at the thought of parting from him. Would he seek her out again? Would the letters continue? There was little hope of hinting at another set, not when he barely understood her and Ignacio was already heading their way to intercept her.

And so, she nodded once and readily agreed, "Yes, I am already looking forward to it, Mister ..."

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