The Duke watched in silence as Lavinia guided Sophia through a series of increasingly complex fan maneuvers—open and close, tilt and shield, flutter and pause. For each, Lavinia explained the message: intrigue, rebuff, demure acceptance, even the subtle warning to a too-persistent suitor.
Sophia took in the information like a parched plant, asking questions and inventing her own variations. "What does it mean if you drop the fan entirely?"
"That you are either besotted or have dreadful nerves," Lavinia replied.
After ten minutes, Sophia was giggling at her own inventions, the fans now an extension of her hands rather than an unfamiliar object. She dared a glance at her father.
The Duke’s face was unreadable, but when Sophia looked away, he allowed his own fanless hand to flex at his side, as if testing the imagined gesture.
Lavinia decided to end the lesson with a demonstration of the "secret message", spelled out by the placement of a closed fan against the wrist, the cheek, or the edge of the lips.
The Duke cleared his throat. "An efficient lesson, Lady Lavinia. If there is no more to be done, I will take a turn around the garden."
"Thank you, Father," Sophia said.
Lavinia watched him turn to go, and her heart beat with a disconcerting mixture of triumph and regret. She had won a small victory, but the war—whatever it was—remained undecided.
However, he lingered at the door, and she had to force herself to turn back to Sophia, who was now fanning herself with the right measure of decorum, her eyes glowing.
"I think," Sophia whispered, "that I am almost not afraid of him when you are here."
Lavinia squeezed her hand, then picked up the blue fan and gave it a dignified wave. "Now, Lady Sophia, I shall show you the proper way to open and close a fan. It is all in the wrist, like so." She demonstrated, her motion slow and elegant.
Sophia followed suit, then fumbled, nearly losing her grip.
"A light touch, not a death grip," Lavinia advised. "Imagine the fan is a living creature. If you clutch it too tightly, it will die. If you neglect it, it will escape."
Sophia’s smile was quick and shy, but it was there.
"Very good. Now, raise it to just below your eyes—yes, like that. If you wish to signal interest, keep the fan partially open and flutter it slowly. If you wish to signal disinterest, snap it closed." Lavinia snapped hers with a soft, ladylike click.
Sophia imitated her, first fluttering, then closing the fan. The closing motion was clumsy and resulted in the fan falling into her lap.
"An excellent attempt," Lavinia said. She picked up the fan and returned it. "You will improve with practice, I promise."
Tristan watched, face unreadable, but Lavinia noticed the way his eyes followed Sophia’s movements, the slight narrowing when she dropped the fan, and the infinitesimal relaxation when she laughed at her own mistake.
"Next," Lavinia said, "if you wish to signal a friend across a crowded room, you cover half your face with the fan and incline your head. Like so." She performed the move, eyes peeking over the top of the lace, then looked to Sophia for her attempt.
Sophia did it perfectly on the first try.
"Well done," Lavinia praised. "You would have been the envy of Almack’s in my debut season."
Sophia glanced at her father, who offered no praise, but also no censure. This alone seemed to embolden her.
"Would you like to try a conversation?" Lavinia suggested. "We could pretend to be at a ball."
"Yes," Sophia replied, the most enthusiasm she had shown in days.
"Very well. I am Lady Sophia, and you are Lady Lavinia."
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. "Lady Lavinia, I hear you danced the cotillion with Lord Montague last evening."
Lavinia batted her fan. "I did, but he trod on my toe four times. I should have preferred Lord Sedgewick—he is light as a feather."
"Lady Lavinia!" Sophia gasped, then laughed.
Lavinia shrugged, performing a perfect fan flutter. "One must be honest in these matters."
