Chapter 12
The next morning, Lavinia entered the music room to find Lady Sophia already at the pianoforte, her back ramrod-straight but her fingers delightedly drumming a light, off-tempo rhythm upon the keys.
"Good morning, Lady Sophia," Lavinia called, setting down her reticule with more confidence than she actually felt. The aftershocks of the prior day's interview with Mr. Crawley had left her poorly rested and slightly brittle, but she was determined not to let it show.
Sophia swiveled in place. "Good morning, Lady Lavinia." There was a brief upturn of her mouth that might blossom into a true smile.
"Did you practice your scales?" Lavinia asked, approaching the pianoforte.
"I did, but I dislike them," Sophia replied with an honesty that would have scandalized most music masters. "They are like boiled potatoes. Necessary, but uninteresting."
Lavinia hid a smile behind her hand. "You must have been reading my thoughts, Lady Sophia. I was about to suggest we begin today with something more interesting."
Sophia's fingers stilled. She waited, expectant.
"First, however, may I ask how the tea with your father went yesterday?" Lavinia perched on the edge of the bench, careful to leave a comfortable distance between them.
Sophia’s fingers curled in her lap. "It was... more pleasant than I anticipated."
"Did you spill?" Lavinia asked.
"Only a little." Sophia held up her fingers. "He said nothing of it. He even took two scones."
"I am pleased to hear it." Lavinia reached into her reticule and withdrew two delicate lace fans—one in pale blue, the other in cream. "Today we shall practice the art of the fan."
Sophia examined the fans with surprise. "I thought fans were only for balls. Or for very warm weather."
"There is much to be communicated with a fan," Lavinia said, offering the cream one to Sophia. "In fact, it is the most efficient means for a lady to express herself in public, especially when actual words might get her into trouble."
Sophia took the fan, holding it as if it might bite. "Are we to have a lesson in subterfuge, Lady Lavinia?"
"Call it—" Lavinia spread her own fan with a flick of the wrist, "—a lesson in self-defense.
" She demonstrated the correct way to grip the rib, the subtle wrist movements to open and close, the gentle arc of motion for maximum breeze.
"A lady never fans herself too vigorously. It is a mark of desperation."
Sophia imitated her, tentatively at first, but then with increasing assurance. The pale lace shimmered in the lamplight.
"Very good," Lavinia said. "Now, if you wish to express interest in a conversation—" She raised her fan to just below her chin, eyes peering over the top. "Like so."
Sophia copied the gesture, looking suddenly much older, much more like the young woman she would soon become.
"And if you wish to end the conversation?" Sophia asked, lowering her voice as if imparting a secret.
"Lower the fan. Close it, tightly but quietly," Lavinia demonstrated. "Never snap. Snapping is vulgar."
They exchanged several rounds of signals, inventing their own meanings for each. With the fan half-closed: 'I am bored, but cannot escape.' Fan covering mouth: 'I am laughing at you, not with you.' At one point Sophia nearly did snap her fan, but Lavinia stopped her with a gently admonishing look.
After half an hour, the lesson began to dissolve into laughter and mimicry of various society ladies, Sophia’s impersonation of her own aunt nearly causing Lavinia to drop her fan entirely.
The girl’s cheeks were pink with suppressed amusement when she finally said, "Lady Lavinia, may we go outside today? The drawing room is always so stuffy, and you said the garden was lovely in spring."
Lavinia considered it. She remembered the incident of the previous lesson, when she had taken Sophia outdoors without first seeking permission, and the Duke's stern warning that followed. "I think it a capital idea, Lady Sophia. But we must first obtain leave from your father."
Sophia’s expression clouded, but only slightly. "He is in his study."
"I shall go at once," Lavinia said, rising. She tucked the blue fan under her arm. "You may wait here, or in the hallway if you prefer."
Sophia nodded, already drawing small, secret shapes upon the pianoforte keys.
Lavinia made her way through the hallways of Evermere Hall, her footsteps echoing over the ancient wood floors.
Every step toward the Duke’s study brought a new and more colorful phrase to mind, most of which could not be spoken in company.
You have withstood three creditors, Lavinia. One mere Duke is nothing to you.
She reached the heavy oak door and raised her hand. It hovered there, uncertain, for the space of two heartbeats.
She knocked.
"Enter," called His Grace, with the crispness of a man who expected never to be kept waiting.
Lavinia stepped inside.
The Duke was at his desk, surrounded by neat piles of correspondence. He wore a black waistcoat, and the severity of his attire made the blue of his eyes even sharper in contrast. He did not stand, but motioned for her to approach.
"Lady Lavinia," he said. "Is there a matter requiring my attention?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Lavinia replied, managing a curtsey that was neither too shallow nor too deep. "Lady Sophia has expressed a wish for her lesson to be held in the garden. I came to request your approval."
He studied her, as if the request were a problem in mathematics. His hands pressed together, fingertip to fingertip. "You believe this will be more productive than indoors?"
"I do, Your Grace. Lady Sophia has shown remarkable progress, but she thrives when allowed a measure of freedom."
He leaned back in his chair. "And what would you teach her in the garden?"
"We are working today on the art of the fan. Social signals. Conversation. I believe the open air will make the lesson more memorable."
The Duke’s gaze shifted to the fan in her hand. "And does the fan truly convey all you claim for it, Lady Lavinia?"
"More than words, Your Grace. It is a whole language—one that every lady must master, or be at the mercy of those who have."
He considered this. "Very well. I grant permission, on one condition."
Lavinia inclined her head, bracing herself.
"I shall escort you," the Duke said, rising. "There are matters I must attend to on the grounds, and it will afford me an opportunity to observe Sophia's instruction firsthand." His expression suggested this was less a convenience and more a direct test.
"As you wish, Your Grace," Lavinia replied, then added, "Sophia awaits in the music room."
"Let us not keep her waiting," the Duke said.
They walked together in silence to the music room, and Lavinia was keenly aware of his massive presence beside her. Sophia looked up at their arrival, her hands frozen mid-chord.
"Your wish is granted, Lady Sophia," the Duke announced. "We shall have your lesson in the garden."
Sophia’s eyes widened. "Thank you, Father."
He merely nodded, but Lavinia saw the infinitesimal softening at the corners of his mouth.
They moved as a unit—Duke, daughter, and tutor—down the main hallway and through the conservatory. Lavinia could not help but notice how the Duke’s presence altered the very air: it became charged, as if even the birds beyond the glass paused to watch his every step.
They emerged into the walled garden, and he surveyed the grounds, then took up a position beneath an arched trellis, arms folded, every inch the vigilant parent.
Lavinia led Sophia to a stone bench near the lavender beds. "Let us begin, shall we?" she said, unfurling her fan with a snap so discreet it was practically inaudible.
Sophia mirrored her, managing an opening that was only slightly clumsy.
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.