Trapped in Their Manor, Twin Dukes Keep Me Captive

Untitled EpisodeChapter 11:Spanish fan language

Annie had won her place at last, emerging as a fresh new face among the Count’s retinue of beautiful ladies-in-waiting. When I next laid eyes on her, she was clad in the household’s blue-and-white French livery, her golden long hair styled in loose, voluminous waves mimicking Béatrice’s, tied back with a pale blue ribbon. To my eye, however, the imitation paled in comparison. Annie’s hair was fine and soft, lacking Béatrice’s thick, luxuriant locks; the grand, regal air simply could not be recreated. Speaking of Béatrice, one could not help but envy the Count his wealth of feminine company.

Annie’s arrival had clearly stirred subtle resentment and ostracism among the ladies-in-waiting who had followed the Count from Frigu. One need not draw near to sense the frigid tension—it was plain to see merely from watching their order of procession as they moved about the manor. The other attendants deliberately edged Annie to the back of their group, shutting her out.

Truth be told, every time I beheld the Count’s circle of lovely handmaidens, each blessed with distinct charms, I could not help but think of the beautiful ballet dancers at the grand opera house back in Ludwigsburg. Many among them bore a notorious moniker: the Duke’s Blue Shoes.

The Duke of Württemberg’s lecherous, wandering ways were common knowledge, and the opera house served as little more than his private harem. Any dancer fortunate enough to become his mistress was gifted a pair of fashionable blue shoes, and with time, this custom became an open secret, much like the middle name Franquemont. The ballerinas vied endlessly to claim those blue slippers, their rivalries, petty scheming and bitter intrigue no less vicious than those unfolding within any Sultan’s seraglio.

Likewise, the ladies-in-waiting serving the Count were tangled in just as much cutthroat rivalry. Barely a few days after Annie secured her position beside him, she sought me out once more.

I was in the cloth storehouse at that moment, cross-referencing my inventory list with Steward Hall, surrounded by stacks of native cotton, linen, French flannel, velvet and silk. The chamber stretched more than ten metres in both length and width, lined with wooden shelving taller than a grown man, stocked with every variety of textile. Sealed away from sunlight for years, the air hung thick with a faint, stale must. A ladder was required to reach the bolts of cloth stacked highest on the racks.

It was there that Annie stormed in, seizing my sleeve in a sharp tug. “Eleanor, come out at once. I need to ask you something.”

“My dear Miss Annie, I’m in the middle of stocktaking… Very well, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

I handed my half-finished inventory slip over to Hall. He glanced between me and Annie, shrugged, and turned back to direct the slaves hauling rolls of cotton cloth.

Annie dragged me outside the warehouse, and the instant we stepped clear of the doorway, she pulled out a folding fan.

It was an exquisite Spanish fan carved from whalebone, its silk surface smooth to the touch, plainly a costly treasure. Its original bright pure white hue had faded into a dull cream, lending it a worn, aged look.

Standing in the crisp mid-October breeze, I half-wondered if Annie bore some grudge against me and intended to fan a chill to give me a cold. “What on earth are you doing? It’s far too cold for such a thing.”

“It’s not for heat!” Annie huffed, snapping the cream whalebone fan open. She twisted her wrist, fanned a light gust toward me, then deftly half-folded and re-opened the fan in one fluid motion. “You know the language of fans, don’t you? What gesture is this?”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? Fan signals!” Realisation dawned on me. “Do it again; I didn’t catch the movement fully just now.”

Annie’s brows knit tight as she struggled to recall and repeat the motion. She must have sensed my hesitation, for her movements carried a flicker of uncertainty this time around.

I held out my hand for the fan, copied her gesture, then adjusted the tilt of the handle and my fingers to lend the motion a far more elegant slant.

“Like this?”

Annie’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yes, exactly that! What does it mean?”

I hesitated, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. “This is Spanish fan code. You ought not know such customs—what sparked your sudden curiosity? Besides, this fan looks extremely valuable. Where did you get hold of it?”

“I found it locked away in a storage chamber on the right wing, tucked inside an old box untouched for years. Don’t try to fob me off as if I’m some silly child. Tell me what that gesture means at once,” Annie pressed urgently.

I heaved a faint shrug. “If you insist on knowing… roughly translated, this fan signal means ‘Look at that fool.’”

My English had improved somewhat after spending so many days among the manor’s servants, yet I lacked the polished, subtle phrasing of noble speech to soften the translation, so I settled for the blunt, plain wording.

I had expected Annie to fly into anger, yet she only looked sullen. “I knew it. Erica and Isabel are up to no good whenever they walk side by side.”

“Isabel sounds Spanish,” I remarked.

“She claims descent from Spanish nobility. Hmph, who can tell? She’s likely the spawn of some illegitimate bastard.”

“That explains it, then. Spanish women master the fan’s silent language as naturally as a soldier wields his sword.”

Annie simmered in petty resentment for a long moment before stamping her foot. “I cannot let them outshine me. Think of it—I stand beside them every day, yet I cannot decode their secret fan signals. They could be mocking me brazenly right in front of my eyes! I’ll slip to your rooms tonight after dark; you can teach me French alongside this fan code.”

“Merciful God!” I nearly jumped in fright. “Have you lost your senses? You serve the Count now, surrounded by his retinue—you will pick up fluent French soon enough. Sneaking to my quarters in the dead of night, if we are discovered, we are both ruined.”

Annie was far more stubborn than I. “You forget Christine? She’s been in the Count’s service more than a year, and the others sneer and shun her all because she cannot speak French fluently. If you refuse to teach me, I will not deliver your petition to Lord Elvis when we travel to Frigu Manor.”

She softened then, attempting to calm my fears. “Do not worry. The Count has been in a foul mood these past few days; he only summons Béatrice to his bedchamber at night. No one will find out.”

At the mention of that madman’s ill temper, the old scars across my back throbbed faintly in sympathetic pain. “You dare sneak to me when you know he’s irritable? And only a few days have passed—he has not called for you even once?”

“Enough, hold your tongue!” Annie flushed with embarrassment and irritation. “Word arrived that the new European mail bride was waylaid by bandits on her journey to the manor, abducted without a trace, likely lost forever. That is what put the Count in such a vicious rage. Still, the welcoming ball Béatrice arranged will not be cancelled. My gown is already prepared, and you must not let everything fall apart for me.”