17th June, 1892 — Poppy Dashwood’s Debut, Surrey

As far as debut events went – somewhat predictable in style, and usually difficult to tell much about the young lady at the centre of it all in one flash of a greeting before they were swept away by every gentleman in the room – he was quite impressed with this one.

His gaze had drifted upwards often enough in admiration of the flowers falling like stalactites from the ceiling, but now Endymion’s eyeline had come back to earth, because it was his turn to dance with the debutante in question. He knew Dash through Ozy, of course – and liked the fellow (in spite of his being Ozy’s friend, and something of a bad influence) – but this Miss Dashwood, a younger half-sibling of his, was a far newer acquaintance and (for all her diminutive size), one rather brimming with potential.

“Miss Dashwood, the lady of the hour,” he said with a smile, as he came to collect her for their polka. She was a fitting vision against the rest of the ballroom, floaty and elegant and innocently white – he could only hope she wasn’t yet bored of the ball. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your evening,” he said to that effect, sauntering out to take their places for the dance and grinning at her again. “Do you think you’ll recall any of it by tomorrow, or has it all been too much of a blur?”

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Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy was pleased that the evening seemed to be going well. Other than one little blip with Merlin - that had been handled swiftly, and subtly by the staff - nothing too extraordinary had gone amiss. The decor was splendid, more than anything she’d dreamed herself, and the music selection was wonderful. It was lively, and yet elegantly allowed for conversation amidst organized, chaotic fun.

The ballroom was buzzing with excited chatter as the last song came to an end. Bowing to her partner graciously, Poppy gave him a small smile before being led off the dance floor. He was nice, she supposed, but a poor conversationalist. Her heart was thrumming excitedly still from the movement of the dance however, so she pulled out the beautiful white silk Japanese fan Natsuko had sent her that morning. It had arrived in the loveliest little box Poppy had ever laid eyes on. She was pleased to have it now, as the flush of excitement rose in her cheeks.

The next dance was a polka and she was promised to… Poppy checked her dance card quickly: Mr. Endymion Dempsey. She paused on the name, remembering the face that had flashed across her mind earlier that evening before she’d supplied Mr. Dempsey’s name to her cousin. Oddly, she hadn’t seen heads or tails of Mr. Lestrange all evening, but now was not the time to worry about it. Especially as a friendly voice addressed her from behind and Poppy twirled, delicately, to see the real live Mr. Dempsey before her. My… he was handsomer than she remembered up close. Tucking her fan away with a polite smile, Poppy gently accepted the hand that was offered to her and followed Mr. Dempsey out onto the floor.

Amidst the customary curtsey, she grinned at his quip. “It has been a lovely time, thank you,” she replied. “As for recollection, it depends upon if anything particularly notable happens this evening.” She flashed him a mischievous smile. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Dempsey?”

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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© Fox

Thus far at least, she was proving pretty and witty and entirely delectable (which, to be fair, was how Endymion felt about most women within the first few moments of meeting them.) But still, there was a pleasant lively flush in her cheeks and the fan had caught his eye, and she wasn’t too shy to smile.

Or to be teasing from the outset. “You mean to say you have not had three proposals and five offers of courtship already?!” Endymion asked with a gasp of mock-surprise, as though he would have expected nothing less from a debut such as hers. A joke, of course – nothing ever happened so swiftly as that (although he well remembered how romantic he had used to be, thinking the first young lady he met would somehow magically be the one for him) – but Endymion also didn’t doubt yet that a man or two would have his eye on Miss Dashwood this season.

He grinned gently at her as he stepped into position for their dance. “How very negligent of everyone,” he continued, mock-reproving. “I suppose I shall have to try to make our dance especially memorable,” Dymion mirrored her look of mischief, “– in a good way, hopefully.”

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Poppy had decided almost upon meeting him that she quite liked Mr. Dempsey. He was agreeable, friendly and amusing in a way most gentlemen were not. So far she’d danced with stilted, snobby, and self-centered, but Mr. Dempsey was none of these things. In fact, she might even strike him off her list of ‘tiresome gentlemen until proven otherwise’. It was too early to tell yet, but she had a sense.

A bubbly little laugh erupted from her as he teased. “Now that would be a remarkable, resounding success,” she replied. “I do not think any lady has ever seen quite so lauded a debut, even those who may have networked their talents prior.” Poppy laughed again. The idea of any such debutant ‘networking their talents’ - or sharing their confidences - prior to a debut was not so shocking. Poppy herself might have been capable of it in another life; remarkably capable.

Still, she was pleased he thought her debut worthy of such a statement, even if in jest. She nodded encouragingly at his comment about making the dance memorable; Poppy was sure it could be, but she certainly wasn’t going to encourage him not to try. “I expect great things, Mr. Dempsey, with a statement like that.” She chuckled, mischief alight. “I do so hope you are prepared.”

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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© Fox

“Well, we must be prepared for anything, I say,” Endymion said, with his best play at wisdom and sagacity, both about the prospects of her debut and his readiness to perform miracles in one dance. “Or,” he added, with a confidential tilt of his head, “prepared to make things up as we go.” That was his secret to being prepared for anything, at least. He was never any more unprepared than usual simply because he never knew what he was doing at all.

Really, that seemed a veritable secret to success at life, a rule that might apply to anyone – so maybe he was imparting wisdom after all?

Before he got too impressed with himself, Endymion gave her a quizzical look. “Though it might give me a better chance to know your tastes in exciting dances, before I begin to try,” he teased: what kind of memories would she enjoy most in a limited scene such as this? “An adventurous topic of conversation, or dabbling in a brave new dance step or two? Something else? Or will I need to hex another of the couples into chaos to amuse you?” He reeled them off, with a grin to show his teasing – maybe – on the last. “What will it be, Miss Dashwood? I am quite at your service.”

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Nodding along at the wise words Mr. Dempsey seemed to impart, Poppy wondered if he was having as jolly old a time amusing himself with his own wisdom as he seemed. The grin on her face could only echo this thought, as she watched him - all brown curls and handsome eyes - with rapture. “You are very clever Mr. Dempsey,” she teased. “You’ve revealed the very key to life and I find myself humbled by your prowess.” The mischievous glint in her expression could only communicate to him very plainly that she was, in fact, teasing him desperately. Poppy hoped he wouldn’t find her too harsh, but a part of her realized that he couldn’t because it was simply not in his nature. She appreciated that about him, more than he might ever know.

Turning her attention next to a tricky little step and holding him rather tighter in her distraction than she was meant, Poppy felt a laugh bubble up. “A hex would prove infinitely amusing where I not in danger of succumbing to it on accident myself,” she admitted. “I find you very distracting, Mr. Dempsey, in the friendliest of ways.” She caught his eye with an easy, light-hearted little look. Poppy considered herself an excellent dancer; it was unusual for her to have such a misstep, but on this occasion - what with the nervous energy of meeting so many new people and putting on a polite face, combined with Mr. Dempsey’s encouraging attitude - Poppy found she was in danger of accidentally loosing sight of the tempo. It was not necessarily a bad thing. She much preferred the company of someone amicable who distracted her to someone stodgy with whom she had a perfect polka.

“As to my tastes for exciting dances,” she continued, jovially. “I must say I’ve never danced my way through a portkey.” It was a silly, ridiculous suggestion, but Poppy settled upon it regardless. “Imagine: dancing in London only to find oneself in Paris after a particularly heavy turn. How strikingly romantic and memorable that would be!” Poppy laughed again despite herself.

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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© Fox

“I was a Ravenclaw, you know,” he offered, with an eyebrow-waggle at that first remark. She was almost certainly making fun of him, because people he knew didn’t much make a habit of lauding his intelligence – but growing up surrounded by a houseful of eccentric geniuses (at home and at Hogwarts, both) meant that Endymion had long since come to terms with this. Besides, there were a great wealth of other things he should like to be.

Distracting, apparently, was one of them: he couldn’t much contain his laugh, either, as they all but missed a step, her discreet slip in pace sending him off-tempo a little too – but he couldn’t hold it against her at all. “As long as I am memorably distracting,” he reminded her, given his objective for their polka. “Though you cannot possibly get into chaos, for this is your dance and your debut. You can put your feet anywhere you like and it’ll be everyone else who is wrong,” he promised her, jokingly.

As it turned out, her dreams for dances were far grander than merely reimagining the routine. His smile broadened in surprise, catching his breath just in time for a hop-skip-and-a-turn to the opposite direction on the ballroom floor. “Now that would be quite breathtaking,” Endymion mused, fighting the urge to close his eyes to picture it, that whirl of a change of scene. “A dazzling way to travel, I’m sure,” he remarked, surveying her anew. “Is that how you mean to see the world?” he added, hazarding a guess that travelling was something she was interested in.

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Another genuine, twinkly little laugh escaped Poppy as the brunette watched keenly the gentleman across from her waggle his eyebrows. She was not at all surprised to hear that he’d been a Ravenclaw, but instead found herself liking him all the more for it. “How lovely!” she replied. “As was I!”

A soft hum escaped the debutant as Mr. Dempsy went on to revel in his being distracting and she found herself growing fond of him in the best way. He was a charming gentleman, sure, but even more than that he was… lively, free-spirited, and sweet. There was a humility to him that Poppy found herself attracted to, a warmth that made her mellow and want to match his energy with her own chaos. Even if this never developed beyond a friendship, she was very keen on keeping him in her life.

“You tease Mr. Demspey, but you overestimate this debutant’s penchant for mischief.” A telling statement if there ever was one. “I’ve promised to be on my best behavior this evening, and hopefully nobody shall ever be the wiser!” Poppy’s tone was hushed as she admitted the truth, but it was teasing in a way that she hoped he might not take to heart. There was no reason to air her dirtiest laundry to every passing stranger, but there was something about Mr. Dempsey that made her want to trust him.

As their conversation swayed away from the potentially dangerous, Poppy laughed again, her sweet little laugh filling the space between them. (Mr. Dempsey had no reason to remind her that he needed to be memorable; by this point he was already the star of the evening and had made her laugh and relax and enjoy herself in a way nobody else had yet managed. Any onlooker would be blind not to notice.) “Yes,” she replied, breathlessly. “I should love to explore every nook and cranny of the continent dancing from portkey to portkey with someone who is as excited to travel as I!” A frivolous dream, but she indulged it anyway.

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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“Then I daresay we are kindred spirits,” Endymion decided airily, at one revelation or them all – that she was a Ravenclaw; that she was mischievous soul; that her heart was one inclined to exploration; that she was a dreamer in the most delightful of ways.

He loosened his fingers from where they were grasping her hand to draw a fleeting cross in the air before his heart, to swear that he would keep her secret; if she had broken or was inclined to break her show of best behaviour, he was certainly none the wiser, and should happily turn a blind eye to it tonight. Endymion was a little impressed at how well she was holding herself together – he had seen debutantes before whose energy and vibrance had flagged far sooner than hers.

His smile grew a little more faraway and dreamy in some unwitting mirror of hers. He didn’t know that that would be his dream in so many details – he fancied the portkeys in quick succession would make him too dizzy to be much good at dancing – but he could not fault her for indulging in such romanticisms. “I confess I’ve seen a lot of places in my day,” Dymion offered, with a little laugh, and inclined his head in gracious defeat, “but never quite in that fashion. Now I feel I’ve never truly travelled at all.”

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At Mr. Dempsey’s goofy little gesture crossing himself in the air, Poppy laughed fully and wholly in a way she had yet to embrace this evening. At once she raised a hand to cover her mouth delicately, hoping he wouldn’t find her honestly off-putting, but continued to beam regardless. Mr. Dempsey was absolutely the charmer of the evening, and one she would not soon forget. He was comfortable in a way that was unfamiliar to Poppy, but welcome nonetheless.

As the gentleman sobered and gave her a thoughtful response, Poppy too felt her face regain composure and her eyes widened with a keen interest. She laughed again at his little quip, but holding onto the mention of travel she pressed on. “Have you really?” She inquired, albeit a touch more eagerly than she’d intended. “I should love to hear of your stories!” Poppy sighed dreamily. “What thusly has been your favorite memory to date? Something everyone must experience, else they haven’t truly lived?!”

It was a brazen question, perhaps one fueled by the adrenaline and happiness pounding through her veins at the comfort she found in Mr. Dempsey’s arms. But Poppy stuck by it, curious and genuine both, determined to take his commentary and add it to her list of dreams if it was suited. She’d already decided she trusted Mr. Dempsey implicitly and in some ways it was a comfort. She hoped after this dance he too might feel the same camaraderie in her, and the thought almost made her blush. 

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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© Fox

This was not the first time she had laughed during their dance tonight, but this was the first time she had covered her mouth while she did – which meant it was a different kind of laugh altogether. It was polite of her to try and rein it in, he supposed, but Endymion was also rather pleased with the full-throated sincerity of it. That laugh had been one she simply could not help, and more valuable than a thousand false wittering ones.

And she oughtn’t worry that she was making a fool of herself, because so far she hadn’t in the least – and indeed, Endymion was making enough of a fool for both of them. Probably he ought to take all this a little more seriously, given how serious he truly was about finding a wife, but – particularly at a lady’s debut – he was conscious of giving everyone a little room to breathe. (Hopefully he didn’t come across as too dimwitted or silly, of course, because he hardly wanted to taint his own chances by it! But he tended to think not taking himself too seriously at least made a new debutante feel better about herself and her chances in a yet unfamiliar society, and – whether or not he was going to get his hopes up about at last finding his soulmate – Endymion at least always wanted to be thought of as a friendly face at parties to come.)

He had captured a little of her interest there, it seemed, and Miss Dashwood had posed a clever question by it. “Oh, but now you are truly putting me through my paces,” Dymion teased, half-concentrating on the polka hop and half-wracking his brain to provide a sincere, illuminating, charming answer to what was a rather challenging question off the cuff. A physical exertion and a mental one at once, this topic of conversation, perhaps; but he smiled broadly at her in spite of it, because he wasn’t really fretting about it, either. He had never been one to panic. He just hoped he could keep her attention by giving her an interesting enough answer.

“Well,” Dymion hummed, expression thoughtful, and giving her a moment’s explanation whilst he considered the places vying for the honour of his favourite, “my travels have been less of the pleasures of Paris and your grand tours, I’m afraid.” He’d been to France before, but the European continent was not one he knew so well as the places he had travelled for work. “When you’re a cursebreaker, you go where you’re sent,” he joked – but then his expression grew more musing still. “Petra, in the Middle East, is a marvel – an ancient desert city, carved all out of sandstone, like a sculpture set into the cliff-faces... But I spent some time in South America, and on the border of Brazil there are the Iguazú Falls –” yes, they were better, more alive; Dymion sighed as the memory of standing atop them came back to him, the rush and roar of the water, the sparkle of sunlight against the foam, the sheer, wild drop of the highest banks and the sublime freshness of it all. “A waterfall, but so much more immense than anything in this country, and the highest and deepest part there is even called the devil’s throat.”

And he might not be one of the real poets of the Dempsey family, but even Endymion was not immune to spinning a story from time to time, so – in a hushed tone – he added, “The myth has it that a beautiful girl was spotted on the banks of the river by a serpent god there, who demanded that she be sacrificed to him. Her village would obey the god, but she and her mortal lover decided to run away together to save her from her fate. So they fled together by canoe, sure that death together was better than death apart – but the god caught them and, in his anger, tore the earth apart around them – and by it, created the waterfalls. The god spared the girl from death, transforming her into a rock on one side of the waterfall, but transfigured the boy into a palm tree on the other side of the chasm, so that they would stand there and see each other eternally, but could never reach each other. The story’s tragic,” Endymion admitted, with a touch of sheepish pink at how passionately he’d been rambling, “but the views are breathtaking. You know, if you finish with Europe and make it to the Americas one day.”

Now he really was making a fool of himself, but.

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Poppy had decided this dance was yet the pinnacle of her evening. Mr. Dempsey, for everything he embodied, was the exact sort of gentleman she’d always imagined when she, Poppy Dashwood, thought ‘perfectly perfect in every way.’ She didn’t know much about his background, or his connections per say, but his personality, his ease and joviality so matched her spirit in life that for a moment - the rest almost didn’t matter. Grinning eagerly at his teasing quip, Poppy could only wait with baited breath to hear what secrets he might share.

(If his grin was blindly dazzling her, Poppy tried to ignore it. She could not let herself be too enraptured by a gentleman upon first meeting. That was the fastest way to folly, Mama would caution. No, a gentleman must be ‘put through his paces’, as Mr. Dempsey so elegantly pointed out. And those paces did not one dance make.)

His first response was less enticing than Poppy had hoped. She herself had a rapt fascination with Paris, but his next statement caught her so off guard Poppy wasn’t sure what expression her face made just then. He was a cursebreaker? For whatever reason, she had not been expecting Mr. Dempsey to have a profession though Poppy decided in that moment she respected him all the more for it. It was not ideal, she supposed, but what gentleman did all day while idle had always made her curious.

Slowly, elegantly, Mr. Dempsey spun a scene of Petra - a city Poppy had never before imagined - and then of a waterfall in Brazil. His earnest was captivating and the diminutive brunette found herself following him with rapt attention. The myth he detailed was sad, and gave Poppy a small pang of hurt for the couple that she was sure flickered across her face somewhat childishly. She did not notice immediately the embarrassment that flickered across her companion’s features, and once she did an amused glint touched Poppy’s brow. “I should very much like to do so,” she replied, genuinely, reassuringly. The reality of ever traipsing through Europe and managing to get to the Americas was unlikely, but in her heart of hearts Poppy did wish she could.

“That is a sad tale however,” she continued, a little deliberately. “Imagine the pain of being apart from the one you love forever more? It should be a small comfort to see them, day in and out, but to be unable to hold them? I don’t think I could bear it, even for a short time.” Here Poppy’s face smoothed, any indication of her intention hidden away behind years of fan waving and practice in emotional schooling. “I think only the truest of loves could ever entice one to be alright spending such time apart, or don’t you agree Mr. Dempsey?”

Poppy didn’t know what, if anything, she was expecting Mr. Dempsey to respond that would appease the question she’d just asked. It wasn’t as if she was some vapid waif, expecting to fall in love with the man she married. No, Poppy Dashwood had other ambitions and love was not going to stop her from accomplishing her goals. But in the spirit of so romantic a tale, she supposed she was curious about Mr. Demspey in every way. He was… perhaps the first suitor this season she could imagine loving, if it ever came to it. He was… easy to adore, at least. Thus far. 

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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© Fox

He was almost certain he had been talking too much, and too freely; and it had been a foolish answer to her question, for how many debutante were going to find themselves on the wild borders of Brazil? Endymion ought to have said something pretty about somewhere within better reach – the sublime peaks of the Alps, perhaps, or the relics of Greece – but he hadn’t thought enough about it to temper himself, and so here they were. At least he had been honest, he supposed; at least he had had something to tell. He thought perhaps that at least the tale had amused her – he certainly did not mean to bore her, particularly on her first tour of all society.

Of course, she had asked the question in the first place. And she had evidently been listening too – her attention certainly had not drifted – because now she was posing more dreamy and philosophical questions still. A conversation like those waterfalls, then: all their niceties, frothy and foamy and light, had dropped quite suddenly into something roaring and deep, quite at odds with the sparkling setting around them. Love, Miss Dashwood was asking him about – and this felt like another test. He smiled, but he was at least half sure he was going to fail it: for he took love so very religiously as a topic that he simply couldn’t offer her anything witty and callous about it with an affected society tongue.

“I can scarcely fathom it, myself,” Endymion admitted, with a small, pensive smile at the prospect of being apart from a true love. “Tennyson said ‘tis better to have loved and lost / than never to have loved at all, of course,” he quoted, “and I’m not at all a poet like my parents are, but I am certain it would be a kind of eternal torture, truly. There is a happier ending, where the folklore says that sometimes one might witness a rainbow over the falls, a sign that the lovers could at last be reunited,” he added, “though I didn’t see it myself.” A rarity; much as he imagined real romantic love to be, having never yet experienced it himself besides that supernatural pull of the Veela in the garden, years ago.

“Still, I hold with Tennyson, I think,” he said softly, his eyes on her face to see whether she would be surprised or teasing or dissatisfied by his answer – perhaps other people had other priorities than love; he had met enough people who did to know that – “in that I would suffer anything for a chance to feel that way in the first place, whatever came of it after.”

“Fortunately,” he added with a laugh, lest she disagreed, “I hear powerful serpent gods are less common in these parts, so that might prove less of a problem. Although I suppose there’s still some risk of being accidentally transfigured into a palm tree,” Endymion joked. He was exposed to all manner of strange curses, after all. (And good luck he’d have in getting to St. Mungo’s for that.)

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Poppy listened in earnest as Mr. Dempsey responded, still unsure herself of exactly what answer she would find most pleasing. On one hand, if she was to make anything of him as a suitor at all then there was the desire that he be rational, calculated, and kind. One needn’t be in love to find happiness or security, these things often times could come later. But on the other hand, there was a part of Poppy that could not imagine herself married to someone who didn’t believe in love in some capacity, even if only just. In the end, Mr. Dempsey’s response was altogether so pleasing, that Poppy found she didn’t much care to think on marriage requirements anymore. He had passed, with flying colors.

The brunette tilted her head and a sweet smile graced her lips. “Your knowledge of Tennyson impresses me, Mr. Dempsey,” she offered. “And I am glad to hear they were reunited in part. It is rather a sad fate, but I agree with you. I envy not in any moods / the captive void of noble rage, / the linnet born within the cage / that never knew the summer woods,” she hummed. Capturing his gaze with her own, or perhaps captured by his intensity, the diminutive brunette fell silent, an easy expression on her face. That he should admit so freely his desire to love touched something within her that Poppy felt splinter an old wound.

Perhaps it was that his honest expression had reminded her of the romantic she’d once been, the romantic that the sensible side of Poppy had long since locked away. She had never forgotten, growing up, those terrible few words that her old governess had called her. A hellion sent from below. Though mama had sent the wretched woman away, there was some truth behind the sentiment that Poppy had recognized in herself even as a child. She did have a wild spirit, a hell hound within, and it would lead her astray if she let it. It could destroy her, if she indulged her childish whims. That was why she’d decided upon New Years Eve this year, after yet another rescue from her dashing cousin, that she was to turn over a new leaf. Her debut today symbolized… change. Perparedness. A step towards the comfort of marriage which was, in Poppy’s mind, the only thing that could keep her safe with this creature inside. It was why she couldn’t consider love in her choice, not really. There were many eligible gentleman in society, but only a few who could provide her with the status necessary to protect her reputation should the unthinkable occur.

His laugh broke through her thoughts then and Poppy felt herself smile more easily. She ignored his little quip in favor of honesty, amused even still. It was with a grin on her face once more that Poppy admitted quietly: “I do quite like the way you think, Mr. Dempsey. You are a rare breed of gentleman, and I count myself lucky to have shared this dance with you.”

With impeccable timing, the song came to its natural conclusion and Poppy felt herself jarred back to reality. In the shared comfort of Mr. Dempsey’s confidence, she had forgotten all about the glittering lights and feigned smiles. He had singlehandedly managed to whisk her away for a few brief moments to places she’d never heard of, indulged her fantasy to travel, and simultaneously comforted her that there might yet be hope to find a suitor that was as genteel and honest as the princes she’d always dreamed about. All while making her laugh and feel like herself, no hellion to be found.

“I sometimes hold it half a sin
   To put in words the grief I feel;
   For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within."

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Endymion Dempsey / Elias Grimstone

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