Did I just wink at my boss and call him Sherlock?
I can’t believe my impertinence. Normally, I’d be more intimidated by rank, and a lot more self-conscious around someone so beddable.
Thing is, Max is too easygoing and way too laid-back for a boss man in a bespoke suit. Luckily, I’m never going to bed him. There is my vow of no workplace relationships, which I’m hell-bent on keeping. There’s also—let’s face it—the fact that Max Delaroche is out of my league. Lastly, I know he won’t fire me over my insolence, like Jerome did, because he clearly needs my help for this supersecret assignment.
It must be the combination of those liberating factors that disinhibits me more thoroughly than any stiff drink ever could. The stakes are low. I can be sassy. I can be myself. I can say whatever I please and wink until my eyes hurt.
Emboldened by that realization, I speak again. “Did you know that the refined ladies of old also used their fans for coded communication?”
“Oh? Tell me more!” He leans against the floor-to-ceiling shelving and crosses his ankles, pulling my gaze down to his handcrafted brogue shoes and then up. Theway the exquisite fabric of his pants drapes his long, toned legs makes mine wobble.
“Early eighteenth-century mores are often portrayed as libertine,” I begin, willing myself to ignore his outrageous sexiness.
“Weren’t they?”
“To an extent. But the truth is that women—including the wealthy ones—still had to follow strict rules of conduct. They were by no means as free as men. So, they used their fans to convey messages to each other and to their suitors.”
“You mean there used to be a fan sign language?”
“More than one! For example, the most basic language consisted in three fan positions. Let me show you.” I grab a fan, open it, and hold it in front of my face, covering its lower half. “This position means ‘follow me.’”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
I move the fan to hide the right half of my face. “Now, I’m saying that I’m already engaged.”
“Bummer!”
Partially closing the fan, I lower it back to hide my mouth and chin. “This means ‘I love you.’”
He stares into my eyes.
“There existed several distinct fan languages,” I say, breaking eye contact. “One was calledFanology. It was insanely complex, and required instructions printed on the fans. At the end of the eighteenth century, a fan maker named Rowe came up with an easier language. He named itThe Ladies’ Telegraph.”
“How do you remember all those details and names?”
“Mom and I do guided tours of the shop sometimes when we have a visitor who’s a real aficionado.”
He uncrosses his ankles and recrosses them. Suddenly, I can relate to every adult man who has watched Sharon Stone’s interrogation scene inBasic Instinct.
“WasTheLadies’ Telegraphlanguage also printed on fans?” Max asks.
“Yes. Rowe’s fans had twenty-seven flaps, each corresponding to a letter for the alphabet, and one for a period. All a lady had to do was discreetly point to a sequence of letters which formed a word, or a phrase, or a sentence.”
“Brilliant!”
Mom sees out her customer and returns to her workstation where we’re hanging out.
Max turns to her. “Renée. You must be wondering why Lucie and I are here.”
She inclines her head a notch.
He pulls the fan drawing out of his pocket. “We’re trying to locate this fan.”
She takes the sketch from him, moves it into the light of her table lamp and inspects it. “Fine carved ivory… painted with figures dressed as fashionable shepherdesses playing in the garden like Marie Antoinette liked to do at the Petit Trianon… French-made, last quarter of the eighteenth century.” She looks up at Max. “It’s a good drawing, very detailed. Would you have a photograph?”
He shakes his head. “That’s all I have.”
“Do you think we have that fan in the shop?” I ask.
