Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  She deliberately returned to her examination of the portrait. The face was near completion, and the pearls at Aphra's throat shimmered realistically, but the folds of fabric were still only a suggestion and the hair impressionistic. Still, it was recognizably the original of the engraving that now hung in a classroom in the twenty-first century. Billie wondered who might be looking at the portrait in her own time. By a stupid chain of association, a sudden memory hit her of Richard telling a Monty Python joke with a perfectly straight face. When Richard wasn't taking himself too seriously, he could do an amazing John Cleese imitation.

  Billie turned away from the portrait abruptly and pretended to examine some of the works lining the walls. Here the room looked almost like a museum, and she wished it were; then she could walk out the door, straight into smoggy, twenty-first century London, Aphra or no Aphra. Part of her was stunned and amazed that she might possibly (very likely?) be here, in Restoration London — with Aphra Behn, no less. And her hostess had been charming, showing her the sights whenever her schedule allowed. Billie had passed on the bull-baiting, the bear-baiting, and the Charing Cross freaks, but nonetheless, the past few days had been like wandering around an open-air museum, although it would still take some time to grow used to the stench.

  But even on the trip to Vauxhall, gazing after the floating music hall on the Thames, or strolling through the gardens, there was the constant awareness in the back of her mind that she didn't belong. Ambling along the streets of the open-air museum of Rhodes had not been as mind-blowing. All the tourists, just like her, were a constant reminder of the twenty-first century, even if the place looked like it had hardly changed for hundreds of years. And she had a return ticket to London.

  This trip, she had no idea how she was supposed to get back home.

  To get to the seventeenth century, she'd recited from one of Aphra's seventeenth century plays. It seemed to follow that in order to get back to her own era, she would have to recite something from her own era. But she knew so little poetry by heart! Where would reciting “Jabberwocky” get her, a poem from the Victorian Age? Despite her misgivings, she'd already tried it in front of one of Aphra's mirrors, just to see if anything happened — without a hint of disorientation or nausea. When it came down to it, she'd recited pretty much all the poetry in her repertoire to every mirror in Aphra's house, and absolutely nothing had happened.

  The mirror in the Dorset Garden Theatre, the twin to the one in her own era — that must be the key. She had to find a quiet moment alone in the tiring room and try her broken quotations there. This was her third day in the seventeenth century, and the mirror would only be at the college for four days. She had no idea if the magic would still work once the mirror was packed in wood shavings and stashed in the cellar of the Victoria and Albert.

  She closed her eyes briefly, clenching her fists at her sides. She refused to believe she was lost in time.

  Billie took a deep breath. It made no sense worrying about the problem when she had no opportunity to fix it. She turned back to the sitter and the artist, and her eyes met Aphra's, making Billie feel a little less lost. Before the sitting, they'd had a good laugh about the “protection” Billie was able to offer her female companion. At least she looked more the part of the Restoration gentleman now, in her black and gray worsted suit, obtained by the ingenious Katherine. She even wore a dress sword carelessly at her hip, which she hoped she would never have to use. Long ago, a high school crush had tried to teach her how to fence, but once she realized the nature of all his advances, the lessons ended. She figured she could still pull off the basic stance and a couple of steps, but riposte or reprise would be hard, not to mention the lunge. She'd never been good at lunging.

  A maid entered the studio and curtseyed. “Excuse me, ma'am, but there are two gentlemen below who wish to see Mrs. Behn. A Mr. Boys and a Mr. Ravenscroft.”

  At the second name, Billie could feel the way her cheeks grew hot. Damn. She shouldn't be reacting this way; she had a boyfriend.

  “Do send them up. My neck is beginning to ache from this posture,” Aphra said, and Billie promptly felt a thrill of anticipation.

  Mary Beale sighed and nodded to her maid. “Please do as Mrs. Behn requests.”

  The maid curtseyed and left. Shortly thereafter, the sound of high heels could be heard on the stairs.

  Jeffrey Boys burst impulsively into the studio. “Astrea, you must know, Ravenscroft has had the honor of being insulted by the poet laureate!”

  Ravenscroft followed at a more sedate pace, a mocking half-smile on his face, and Billie swallowed.

  No, she really should not be reacting like this.

  Aphra turned and smiled at the two gentlemen, rubbing her stiff neck. “An insult from Dryden is hardly a reason to storm my sitting, gentlemen. 'Tis not as if it is the first time. Damon is the poet laureate's favorite target, more like.”

  Ravenscroft acknowledged the truth of the statement with a wink and a bow. As he straightened up, Aphra saw his gaze light on “Will” standing off to the side, his smile widening. When he turned back to her, she could barely resist the urge to chuckle.

  He shook his head. “But never at such length, Astrea.”

  Mary Beale began to pack up her paints, and Aphra rose from the chair with relief.

  Jeffrey pulled a wad of paper out of a pocket of his vest. “Mr. Dryden has taken offense at Mamamouchi, it seems. Near half a prologue!”

  “'You must have Mamamouchi such a fop,'“ Ravenscroft recited. “'As would appear a monster in a shop.' We obtained a copy from friends,” he explained with a sly smile.

  “Quite an honor, Damon,” Aphra said.

  A malicious glint made Ravenscroft's eyes light up. “We must to Lincoln's Inn Fields and see this new production of the King's Company. Merry, The Assignation will not live to see a third day! Will you join us?”

  Aphra raised her eyebrows. “The offended playwright intends to go, resolved to damn the play? 'Tis not wise to insult the poet laureate, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

  “The feud is hardly of my making — Jack Dryden will surely know whom to thank when the play fails. The man is monstrous proud — it won't occur to him to imagine it failed on its own lack of merit. Faith, these days he takes more care with his prologues and essays than with his plays!” Ravenscroft grinned, obviously enjoying the prospect of an open literary feud.

  Clarinda sauntered over, her gait for all the world like that of a man of leisure, and Aphra was once again struck by how well she played the role. “What is the cause of the quarrel?” Clarinda asked.

  “Mr. Dryden is envious that my Citizen Turned Gentleman was such a success,” Ravenscroft explained. “He likes to make fun of the farcical Turkish words I used, but this time he has gone too far. Will you join us for the opening of the play?”

  “Come, Will, 'tis sure to be interesting!” Aphra said gaily, shaking out her skirts. Jeffrey Boys shot a murderous look at his presumed rival, and Aphra once again felt close to laughter. The hint of a blush touched the cheeks of her talented protégée, perfectly calculated to put Jeffrey in a rage. Jeffrey's growing jealousy was ridiculous. If he had professed undying love for her or shown any inclination to sexual loyalty, it might be a different matter; as it was, jealousy on his part was pure hypocrisy. Aphra did not believe in double standards in love.

  Jeffrey took her elbow in his long, tapering fingers. “Are you sure this behavior is wise, Astrea?” he murmured in her ear. “People will talk.”

  Aphra shook off his hand. “My dear, they already do. No matter what I do, they talk of me. I might as well take advantage of my lack of reputation.”

  “Well then, perhaps you should do it without me,” Jeffrey suggested with heavy sarcasm.

  “Perhaps I shall,” Aphra replied with her most charming smile. She'd be damned if he could threaten her with the withdrawal of his affections — she was not some innocent maid to be ruined and abandoned. She was well aware of the broadsides written about her
— the “lewd widow,” they called her. The loss of reputation seemed a small price to pay for freedom.

  Jeffrey's face went red. “We understand each other. Your servant, madam.” He made a leg and departed with what was left of his dignity.

  Aphra turned her attention to Clarinda and Ravenscroft, who were pretending not to watch. She felt a slight pinching in the region of her heart, but she ignored it. “Shall we go?”

  “I was thinking I should show the American lad around London a bit,” Ravenscroft said. “Don't you think a visit to Will's Coffee House would be in order?”

  “Excellent idea. I will take a chair. Are you on the lookout for your favorite enemy?”

  Ravenscroft shook his head in mock disbelief. “Astrea, my heart is an open book to you.”

  Aphra felt a rush of affection for her writer friend, free from the complications of dalliance. “I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

  “Have you seen St. James' Park, yet, Will?” Ravenscroft asked, turning his attention to Clarinda.

  Billie avoided breathing through her nose and stared at the street life of Restoration London, feeling Ravenscroft's amused gaze on her. The London mist was cold and dank and gray. The predecessor of smog clogged the air and blocked out the winter sun, while offal and debris littered the streets. Traveling around town with Aphra, she'd mostly been enclosed in a carriage — walking gave her a much more immediate feeling for the city. While it might be dirty and smelly, she was grateful Ravenscroft had suggested they walk to the coffee shop, and she smiled at him. The look in his eyes caught her unprepared, and she turned her attention back to the myriad of coaches and horses and chairs in the street.

  Billie couldn't get used to the sights and sounds and smells of this strange world, more exotic than anything she'd ever seen in her life, and her fascination could temporarily make her forget her fear of being trapped in the past. She loved to travel, loved to visit exotic places that challenged her. But none of her travels compared to the strangeness that was Restoration London, the radical culture shock. She'd read Pepys's diary, read plays by Aphra and John Dryden and William Wycherley, had known about the dirt and the stench and the street-criers, but none of that prepared her for actually seeing and smelling and hearing it for herself. It was especially hard to remember that so much she took for granted hadn't even been invented yet — including soap, it sometimes seemed. Baths were rare and body odor strong. Garbage collection didn't exist. Here on Pall Mall, a brand new street (a brand new street!), one of the best addresses in town, the refuse wasn't as bad, but along Fleet Street, it was best to keep one's head in the carriage and avoid sightseeing. It was no wonder the city had been ravaged by plague a few years back.

  They crossed Pall Mall, dodging carriages and potholes, and sought refuge in a St. James Park larger than the one Billie knew, a park that extended all the way to Westminster with no gardens or streets between; a park on the fringes of London, not smack dab in the middle. The city practically ended at the Palace of St. James. This London was a village compared to her London — a dirty, crowded village, where deer and cattle grazed in the middle of the park.

  One thing hadn't changed, though: the park was still, or already, a popular place to hang out. Young sparks decked out in silk and lace strolled the paths, singly or in groups, gazing avidly after the females, with or without the vizard masks sported by women who wanted to conceal their identity, or at least make a game of it. The women pushed their breasts up and their waists in, showing a lot of flesh above the nipple, but none below it. Women did not appear singly — not even those wearing masks. Billie definitely preferred being a “lad” in this day and age; as a woman, she had to curtail her movements in a way that made her more claustrophobic than the crowded conditions of twenty-first century London. Not to mention the clothes. The male getup she was wearing was a bit odd — baggy black stuff pants to the knee, a heavy silk vest and jacket, both trimmed with lace, and a wide cloak — but it felt more natural to her than stays and long skirts. Katherine had tried to persuade her to wear high heels with her suit, but Billie refused. She didn't wear those things as a woman and she saw no reason to start as a man.

  “So what do you think of one of the gems of London?” Ravenscroft asked as they stood on the borders of the park, gazing at contented deer and cows.

  “Looks like a farm,” Billie replied.

  Ravenscroft laughed and shook his head. “Will, you are a constant surprise to me.”

  “Why?” Billie's attention was caught by one of the masked women, who had her cloak open at the neck to display generous cleavage, despite the chilly winter weather. As she stared after the woman, she could feel Ravenscroft's eyes on her.

  “You have a grave, almost shy air about you, but you are not that way at all,” he finally said.

  Billie grinned. “How do you know? Maybe I'm trembling in my boots right now.” She felt as if she should be, but somehow she was too fascinated to be scared.

  Ravenscroft scrutinized her out of hooded, honey-colored eyes. “Mrs. Leigh was wrong — you would make a good actor.”

  Billie made a leg. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You needn't be so formal with me, lad.”

  “Then what am I to call you?” she asked.

  “Take your pick. My colleagues at Gray's Inn call me Ravenscroft, Astrea and a few other poets call me Damon, my family calls me Edward.”

  “You're a Gray's Inn lawyer too?” Billie asked.

  Ravenscroft chuckled. “But not a Whig. Gray's Inn is a very respectable means of getting rid of younger sons. And 'lawyer'... I practice little and play more.”

  “Is there anyone at Gray's Inn who practices?”

  Her companion gave her an appreciative smile and clapped her on the back. “Good question, lad, very good question. Fine sword you have there,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “You omitted to wear one at the Duke's Theatre the other night.”

  “They do not wear swords to theaters where I come from,” Billie said with a shrug.

  “You will reform my opinion of the barbarians across the ocean yet, Will.”

  “I certainly hope so, sir.”

  “Not 'sir'!”

  “Ravenscroft.”

  Ravenscroft nodded. “But the way you wear it, you look as if you are in need of practice.”

  “I know the blade from the hilt, Mr. Ravenscroft,” Billie said, feigning an insulted look.

  “Then prove it!” Ravenscroft cried out, drawing his sword and assuming the en garde position. “Come on, boy, what are you waiting for?” he taunted, and made an abbreviated lunge.

  “You've gotta be kidding me,” Billie complained under her breath. Already a crowd was gathering along the borders of the park. She had no choice but to be a good sport. These folks had no TV to entertain them, so they had to make do with hangings and muggings and sword fights — she might as well oblige them. Ravenscroft would not injure her, and she would make more of a fool of herself if she didn't try than if she stumbled over her own feet trying to fence with him. But she'd never fought with a bare tip before.

  She pulled her rapier out of her baldric, that wonderful embroidered thing draped over her shoulder, and sprang into an en garde position, her right leg forward and her knees slightly bent. Ravenscroft's eyes lit up in surprise and admiration; he had probably counted on unmasking her with his little trick. Billie sent a non-denominational prayer of thanks into temporal limbo to her old flame, feeling a bit like Errol Flynn. She flicked the tip of Ravenscroft's sword with a flourish and was forced to jump back quickly when her partner made an immediate lunge.

  She'd been right about her abilities; as Ravenscroft crossed swords with her, all Billie could do was parry and retreat. She could tell he was going easy on her, but after about five minutes she was sweating and her fighting arm ached. The rush at the real danger of the situation, minimal as it was, kept her going a bit longer — a rush of fear like a high, like the nervousness of a new infatuation, the
uncertainty and the excitement, only stronger.

  Suddenly, Ravenscroft lunged, and Billie jumped back, her throat constricting with panic.

  “Hold,” she panted.

  “Do you forfeit the match?” Ravenscroft asked, his weapon trained on her heart.

  “I don't have much of a choice, do I?”

  Ravenscroft chuckled and put up his sword with a flourish. The way his cape swirled around him, he looked like a hero in a 1940s’ swashbuckler. Billie used to rent them and stay up late to watch them, when she didn't have her nose in a book. Ravenscroft didn't fit either the Basil Rathbone or Errol Flynn mold, though — those were Hoyle and Boys. Ravenscroft certainly wasn't dark and brooding, but there was too much calculation in his charming smile for a golden hero.

  Such as now. The little public fencing match had obviously been a test. But although she'd proven she wasn't much of a fencer, at least she'd surprised him with what she did know. Actually, since her goal was to become the talk of the town as an advertisement for Aphra's play, a duel in the park could only help their plan. Billie had lost, but at least she had fought. Ravenscroft had cut it a bit close there, though.

  “I could have killed you half a dozen times ere now,” he said with that deliberate smile. “You didn't even attack when I left myself open.”

  “I was afraid of hurting you,” Billie said, wiping her dripping forehead with the back of her arm. The sweat was already growing cold in the crisp air.

  Ravenscroft laughed. “Ah, Will, you are an original.”

  “I certainly hope so.”