20th January, 1894 — Hospital Charity Event
It was all for a good cause, this party, the hospital. His sister-in-law was a healer, Endymion appreciated this. He had thought he might see Miss Greyback here, and that might have been nice. As it was – he hadn’t been having a terribly good time. He’d lost at cards, and had had to hear all sorts of political talk in the midst of it, which made things even duller. It had even followed him through to the ballroom portion of the affair, so now the whole evening was a lost cause. Was this the way all next season would be for the Dempseys now? People asking for miraculous insights into Oz’s impenetrable head? (Endymion had prayed this would all end after the election. And if it continued this way interminably, how was he ever going to fall in love with anyone? How was he ever to have an interesting conversation again?)
So he had returned from a set of dances to practise studious avoidance, standing next to a decorative flower display at the fringes and peering at it intently so as to carefully avoid the person on his other side. Until he had noticed someone lurking behind the flowers (which might possibly be more interesting than the flowers), and so he ducked furtively around the display to be quite sure it was her. “Miss Potts,” he said, upon being proven right – and these days it was beginning to feel like she was the only one left of her sisters to be Miss Potts, elopements and engagements coming thick and fast for the florist’s daughters – and anyway he was rather too glad to see her, tonight, to be self-conscious about impinging on her solitude. She was safe: she was not really a debutante, not looking to be marry, and, as far as he knew, probably not much interested in the Ministry. He tilted his head at her, curious but not judging. “Are you hiding?”
So he had returned from a set of dances to practise studious avoidance, standing next to a decorative flower display at the fringes and peering at it intently so as to carefully avoid the person on his other side. Until he had noticed someone lurking behind the flowers (which might possibly be more interesting than the flowers), and so he ducked furtively around the display to be quite sure it was her. “Miss Potts,” he said, upon being proven right – and these days it was beginning to feel like she was the only one left of her sisters to be Miss Potts, elopements and engagements coming thick and fast for the florist’s daughters – and anyway he was rather too glad to see her, tonight, to be self-conscious about impinging on her solitude. She was safe: she was not really a debutante, not looking to be marry, and, as far as he knew, probably not much interested in the Ministry. He tilted his head at her, curious but not judging. “Are you hiding?”
