Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  “Have you written lyrics before too?” Aphra asked, and Billie nodded. “Would you sing one of your own songs for me?”

  “I would be happy to,” Billie said, feeling as if she were auditioning for a major label. She improvised on the lute as she reviewed her own compositions in her head, rejecting those with references too modern for seventeenth century ears. Finally, she decided upon one that she'd written for Richard in a fit of enthusiasm only a month or so ago — before he objected to her street music.

  “I didn't realize I had such a talented house guest,” Aphra said when Billie was done. “Have you written many such songs?”

  “A couple dozen,” Billie admitted.

  Aphra shook her head. “'Tis nearly as much as I, Clarinda. That song you just put to music isn't really new — I printed it last year in my Covent Garden Drollery. I merely rewrote it with a female speaker. And you say you have several dozen original songs — with music, I take it?”

  “It's nothing, really,” she protested. “I write them for my own amusement.”

  Billie was totally unprepared for her hostess' reaction to her humble statement. Aphra shot up and began to pace, her cheeks flushed and her dark eyes bright. “I would have expected more from you, Clarinda. 'Tis what women always say when they write! Why do you not take your own talents more seriously?”

  “It's hard for me to take my songs seriously when no one else does,” Billie said, laying the lute aside, frowning.

  Aphra stopped in front of her, hands on her hips. “No one will ever take what you write seriously if you cannot stir yourself to do so. If you tell others your talents are nothing, they will be very happy to believe you.”

  Billie gave a lopsided smile. “You probably have the right of it.”

  “Of course I have the right of it! How do you think I've been able to survive among the London wits? I warrant you, it wasn't by insisting I wrote only for myself.”

  “But how do you do it?” Billie asked. “Where do you get the courage to defy the male establishment?”

  “The male establishment!” Aphra repeated, laughing, her anger disappearing as quickly as it had come. Billie was glad lapsing into her own lingo had such a positive effect.

  Aphra sank back down to the love seat. “Sometimes you have such an original way with words. Look at yourself, my dear. What kind of daring do I have that you do not, running around as you do in your male garb?”

  Billie examined one denim encased leg. “It's more comfortable.”

  “And I shudder to think what it must have been like to come here from the Americas alone, dressed as a boy. If you have the courage for that, you surely have the courage to stand up to a few self-styled wits. Is it so hard to call yourself a poet rather than a dabbler?” she asked gently.

  If only Aphra knew what it was like to be writing poems and songs while working on a Ph.D. in English Literature. Billie's gaze left the fabric of her jeans and rested on Aphra's face. “Actually, yes, it's very hard. I always say 'I want to be' rather than 'I am.'“

  “I hereby declare you are, then,” Aphra said gaily, taking Billie's hand. “The power of the pen is great. You can create new worlds, even create yourself, but first you must have faith in your own ability. That is where we women are lacking, not in talent or intelligence, whatever the 'male establishment' may say.”

  Billie pressed Aphra's hand and smiled. “Thank you.”

  The rehearsal of The Dutch Lover was a disaster. Edward Angel, star of the show, acted as if the script didn't exist. Billie watched in helpless fury as infatuation transformed her idol into an adoring puppy. Hoyle was at the rehearsal, and Aphra was more interested in him than what was happening on stage. The playwright was in love, and Billie had a horrible foreboding about the play. She was almost glad her attempts to escape through the looking glass hadn't worked: she would feel awful deserting Aphra now. A dreamy smile on her face, Aphra was only mildly irritated at Angel when he made up his own lines rather than reciting those intended for him, and she barely rebuked the actors who forgot theirs entirely.

  If Billie had a say, she would have put fear into the hearts of a couple of those actors —especially Angel. The fat comedian was a conceited jerk who thought more of his own jokes than those of the playwright.

  After the rehearsal was over and Aphra disappeared to some obscure recess of the theater with Hoyle, Ravenscroft joined Billie. He ran his long fingers across the strings of the lute she held and gave her that bright look that made her heart thud and her knees weak.

  “You have a very original method of tuning, lad.” There was a tentative note in Ravenscroft's voice that surprised her. Since the music meeting, “Clarinda” had refused to see him; perhaps that and the way she had been doing her best to ignore him during the rehearsal had damped his confidence a bit. He didn't know that she was as afraid of herself as she was of him.

  “That's the way I learned it, sir.”

  “I thought we abandoned the 'sir' long ago,” Ravenscroft said gently, and Billie blushed to her hairline. “My, but they must have very different ways of doing things where you come from, Will,” he continued, pretending to ignore Billie's unusually high color.

  “That they do. But I play by ear.”

  Ravenscroft smiled appreciatively. Billie wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She saw a long, lean, humorous rake; a beautiful, exotic man straight out of a costume drama who gave her the hots, but whom she couldn't trust. Love — if that was even the word for it, which she doubted — love could certainly conquer a lot, but it couldn't conquer centuries. Lately, over three hundred years from now, Billie had been wondering if it could even conquer continents with similar cultures.

  “And how is your cousin enjoying Kent?” Ravenscroft asked.

  “She's enjoying it excessively,” Billie said.

  And Clarinda would be staying in the country until Billie learned how to deal with her lust.

  Aphra knew how important the first day of a play could be. She also knew the importance of a good impression. So for the opening of The Dutch Lover, she hired a coach for the trip to the playhouse, although The Dorset Garden Theatre was only a short walk from her own home. She had taken extra care with her appearance, choosing a dress of bronze velvet over a skirt of heavy gold satin, a costume which proclaimed respectability and no lack of money. The theater-goer dressed for effect as much as the actor or actress.

  Clarinda — as her cousin Will — was wearing her favorite black silk jacket and a gray silk shirt Katherine made her. In honor of the occasion, the two of them had persuaded her to abandon those American breeches she was so fond of for a pair of black satin tied at the knee. Aphra glanced at Clarinda, admiring the way she leaned back in the seat of the carriage, her legs stretched out carelessly in front of her, a posture Aphra would have thought totally foreign to a woman. The way Clarinda held herself, throwing her shoulders back and her chest out; the way she strode across a room; the way she wore a sword, resting her hand carelessly on the hilt — all were so convincing, Aphra was nearly convinced herself.

  It was funny how clothes really did make the man, at least in Clarinda's case. When dressed as she was now, Aphra found it easy to defer to the young man at her side, flirt with “him” even; when Clarinda wore her skirts, Aphra invariably fell into the role of older sister or mentor.

  They arrived early, but there was already quite a crowd. Aphra was thrilled. Then, just as they entered the pit, they were accosted by a tall, skinny fop with extraordinary feathers in his hat, an unnatural sight in puce silk and lace. “Why here is the playwright now,” the ugly man proclaimed, loud and clear. “God damme, but 'tis sure to be a woeful play — the playwright is a woman!”

  Clarinda nearly drew her sword, but Aphra put a detaining hand on her arm. She was well aware of the effectiveness of the well-timed gesture. She looked into the pasty face deliberately, then turned away without a word, her dark brows high. As the fop went from white to red, the crowd roared, but Aphra was
suddenly fearful. It was not a good start for a play.

  Clarinda excused herself to join the actors and actresses, the look in her clear gray eyes strengthening Aphra's sense of foreboding. At least the crowds seemed fascinated by Aphra's protégé, all eyes following her slim figure. Aphra was not yet inclined to congratulate herself on the success of her strategy, however. The incident with the man in the feathers grated on her nerves, and she was uneasy.

  When the curtain parted, her uneasiness grew. Angel came on stage in a habit less fantastical than the fop who had insulted her before the play. At the rehearsal, Aphra had insisted other costumes be used: why had no one corrected the situation? Why had she not made sure her orders were carried out? So much depended on the absurdity of the Dutch lover's costume and Alonzo's imitation.

  The situation went from bad to worse. The actors and actresses bumbled through their lines, bungling from one scene to the next so thoroughly that the audience began to complain. Elizabeth Barry was a dismal failure, her voice flat and her charm minimal. Clarinda played the lute well and held the attention of the audience while she was on stage, but her appearances were brief.

  When Angel began to improvise in such a way that the plot became a muddle, Aphra knew all was lost. He was trying to make her comedy a monologue. There were spurts of laughter at some of his jokes, but the action of the play became impossible to follow.

  Finally, Clarinda came on stage again with two other musicians, and the audience stared and whispered. Then Aphra saw the poisonous look Angel sent Clarinda's way, and her heart sank. Angel was jealous of the musician's popularity; her plan had miscarried. But what would she do if this play failed? She'd counted on the income from the third day, had hoped for a sixth. Without that income, she would soon be unable to pay her bills.

  She did not want to risk debtor's prison again.

  8

  There is a Knack in Love, a critical Minute:

  And women must be watcht as Witches are,

  E'er they confess, and then they yield apace.

  Aphra Behn, The Dutch Lover

  Ravenscroft pulled the hood of his cloak farther down his forehead as he hurried through the streets in the direction of Whitefriars, his hat clutched in his hand. Clarinda still was not officially back in town, but Ravenscroft was determined to see her — and to be the first to see her this day. London was barely awake; it was highly unlikely the American beauty would already have donned her masquerade to spoil his plot. Of course, Katherine could just close the door in his face, but somehow he doubted it. He would have the house on his side.

  Ravenscroft found it hard to believe how eager he was as he ascended the steps of the brownstone off Fleet Street. Such eagerness was part of the charm of inconstancy — an old lover could never cause the same tension and excitement. Astrea's companion made him feel as he had ten years ago, when he was still a green boy, trying his hand at his first seduction of a lady. The lady in question had been eager to escape the arms of her old husband, but Ravenscroft hadn't known that then. He was nervous and full of anticipation at every meeting, never quite sure if his advances would be welcome or not. Like now.

  The door opened, and before Katherine had a chance to say a word, he asked for the “American guest,” his head turned slightly away as he spoke. A laugh cut off in the middle told him she recognized him and his ruse, and she motioned him to enter. Ravenscroft kept his head low in order to maintain the pretense of not seeing her, but from under his hood, the lower half of her face and wide grin were visible. He was right: he had the house on his side.

  Katherine stepped aside, and he climbed the stairs to the rooms on the top floor, Aphra's maid following. Ravenscroft was finding it difficult to keep from trembling with anticipation. He had only seen “Will” days ago, but he was hoping to force the object of his desire into the form he preferred.

  At the second door he tried, his efforts were rewarded. A vision of gray eyes and long black hair started up in bed, sheets clutched to her chest. It was a gesture only a woman would make —only a naked woman. Ravenscroft's throat constricted.

  He threw back the hood of his cloak, remaining a respectful distance from the bed. “I come to claim you as my Valentine,” he announced.

  Clarinda stared at him with a mixture of anger, fear and incomprehension. She shook her head. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Why, you are the first woman I have seen today, and that makes you my Valentine. As I am yours.” Ravenscroft hadn't expected Clarinda to be happy at being outwitted, but he'd assumed her good humor would make it impossible for her hold his intrusion against him. Instead, her angry expression only grew puzzled.

  Ravenscroft went from victorious to confounded. Perhaps his plan had not been so clever after all.

  Her heart racing at being startled out of sleep, Billie stared at the man in the doorway to her bedchamber, Katherine lurking just behind him. What the hell was he doing here?

  “Do they not celebrate St. Valentine's in America?” Ravenscroft asked.

  She blinked and shook her head. It was Valentine's Day? But even if it were, why would he barge into her bedroom while she was still asleep? “Not like this we don't,” she said bitterly.

  Awakened by the commotion, Aphra joined Katherine in the doorway, a morning robe clutched tight over her nightclothes. When she saw the scene in Billie's room, she laughed more heartily than she had for days. “Has Damon claimed you for his Valentine, Clarinda?”

  Billie shrugged, but the sound of Aphra's laughter made her feel much more generous towards Ravenscroft's intrusion. Her hostess had not laughed so heartily since The Dutch Lover had been such a dismal failure. It had run one more night, but no third — meaning no takings for the playwright. As a musician with a bit part, Billie had received a meager payment from the company, but Aphra had received none. It must be a major financial setback, but she hadn't said a word.

  “I have no idea what this is all about,” Billie said.

  Aphra smiled. “It appears we will have to explain English custom to our American guest. But not until she is dressed,” she said, shooing Ravenscroft and Katherine out of the door. Aphra turned back to Billie after chasing the others away. “Be lenient with your Valentine. He meant no harm.”

  Billie nodded, and was rewarded by a wink. She watched the door shut behind Aphra and fell back among the pillows, letting the sheet fall from her shoulders. She might be from the liberated twenty-first century, but she wasn't nearly as liberated as these post-puritans; they hadn't been the least bit embarrassed by her near-nakedness, as far as she could tell. Well, they were also theater folk, and as Billie knew from experience, states of semi-dress were frequent backstage.

  So Ravenscroft meant no harm, huh? Billie had been scared shitless when he burst into her room unannounced, and if it hadn't been for the presence of Katherine right behind him, she might have screamed the house down. But he must have assumed she would know why he was there; he hadn't meant to scare her, and he probably hadn't expected to find her sleeping in the raw. So she would have to forgive him again. What bothered her was that she found forgiving him much too easy.

  Besides, Aphra's obvious good humor at Billie's plight warmed her heart.

  Billie got up and pulled on shift, underskirt and gown, caring little for precision. She would rather don her suit, but Ravenscroft had out-tricked her, and today she had to play the woman again.

  At least she knew that Ravenscroft had some use for “Will” too — he wanted Billie's male half to play the lute for the work he had just begun, a Lenten play for the younger players. Lenten plays were a way for the actors to make a little additional income, giving them all the profit except the playwright's share. Angel wasn't exactly a young player, but he was to play the fool again. When Aphra had asked Ravenscroft if he thought that was wise, he'd shrugged and laughed. “'Tis what the audience wants, my fair Astrea. Perhaps it will go well, perhaps not.”

  “You can be so careless,” Aphra said bitterly.
“You have other income.”

  “You could easily have other income as well,” Ravenscroft said lightly. It had been clear what kind of income he meant.

  Billie had not spoken to him the rest of that day.

  And now here he was waiting for her in the sitting room, the hood of his cape thrown back and triumph in his eyes. God, did he look romantic. Ravenscroft was not her type at all, but there was something about the way his eyes followed her, the intensity of his gaze, lazy as it might look, that made her stomach flutter. It wasn't fair; a pragmatic modern woman didn't have any built-in immunity against a seventeenth century libertine. He looked like something straight out of The Three Musketeers, with slight variation in costume. The capes these men wore made her knees go weak — and she could have kicked herself for it. She had thought the mechanisms controlling her own sexual attraction were a bit more subtle. Maybe her temporary addiction to vintage movies had warped her.

  “I'm sorry if I frightened you, my dear,” Ravenscroft said as she entered the room. “How was I to know customs are so different in America?”

  “What exactly is the custom here?” Billie asked with a frown, refusing to grant complete forgiveness just yet.

  “The first person of the other sex you see on Valentine's Day is your Valentine. That is why I arrived so early — I wanted to ensure I was the first. What is the custom in the colonies?”

  “Oh, we just give each other paper hearts and things,” Billie said.

  “We do that also, but 'tis only part of the celebration. As my Valentine, I owe you a present.” Ravenscroft grinned. “I would like to propose an outing to the New Exchange for you to claim it.”

  The New Exchange was a long, elegant building on the Strand, a two-story covered arcade facing the street and housing at least a hundred shops. Inside, it was a zoo, the seventeenth century equivalent of a mall on a Saturday, row upon row of colorful stalls inhabited by merchants crying their wares, the corridors filled with ladies and dandies. Billie was particularly fascinated by the booksellers, displaying their wares in loose sheets on tables and shelves, allowing the customer to choose the binding.