“I would like to call him out,” Billie muttered.
“You would need quite a bit of practice for that, Will. Hoyle is a very accomplished swordsman. Which is more than can be said for you.”
“Then why don't you call him out?”
Ravenscroft shook his head. “And have the whole town talking of how I fought Hoyle for the fair Astrea? I do not think our friend would be pleased with me if I did.”
“I do not understand what she sees in him.”
“Nor do I, Will. But 'tis always difficult to understand the ways of love,” he murmured, a teasing smile on his face. The light in his golden eyes promised so much, Billie couldn't help sucking in her breath. Ravenscroft's smile went wide.
He bent his lips close to her ear as if to whisper some particularly interesting bit of gossip. “Take me, for example,” he began. “For years, I could not get the image of a young woman in her bed on Valentine's morn out of my head, the curtains drawn back and nothing to protect her from my gaze but a sheet.”
The man was much too good; he seemed to know exactly what to say to push all her buttons. She was reacting to the words like an intimate caress. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Ah, but how many could I say I've seen that way?”
“Probably quite a few,” Billie said wryly.
Ravenscroft chuckled. “You may believe me or no, but 'tis true. And now when I look into your wide gray eyes, I want to bend you back over this side table.”
Much too good. Billie's imagination was galloping right along with Damon's words, and from his smile, she guessed he could see it in her face. Sexual addiction, that's what it was — probably the same affliction Aphra was suffering from. Seeing the way she acted around Damon these days, she could hardly blame Aphra for being a fool about Hoyle.
“Come,” Ravenscroft said, and began threading his way through the crowds to the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“I am in need of some refreshment.”
Billie followed, plagued by an unbidden memory of him dashing through the meadow ahead of her at Woodstock Park.
“Or perhaps you would show me the herb garden?” Ravenscroft asked, once they reached the privacy of the kitchen. Billie nodded and led the way out. As soon as the door was closed behind them, they fell into each other’s arms. She kissed him greedily, wanting as much as she could get, all at once.
Damon pulled away, removing her plumed hat and his own and placing them on the bench. “Ah, Clarinda,” he said, taking her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. Daylight was only beginning to fade, and she could still see him quite well. Yes, this man was definitely a pro. The look in those golden eyes might not melt an iceberg, but Billie wasn't an iceberg anyway.
It almost looked like love in those eyes, but Billie didn't know how to deal with that, so she drew his face to hers, exploring his lips with her own.
Suddenly the kitchen door flew open and Nat Lee stumbled out, doubled over, and began to retch into the parsley patch. Billie and Damon jumped apart.
Damon pressed her hand briefly and sauntered over to Nat. “Too much wine again?” he enquired.
“I believe 'twas the goose,” Nat Lee said, pulling a fine lawn handkerchief out of a pocket in his jacket and wiping his forehead and mouth. “Too fatty.” His yellow-tinged eyes traveled from Ravenscroft to Billie and back. “I see you had no time to try it.”
Ravenscroft grinned. “We had quite enough goose.”
Nat Lee got up and brushed off his silk knickers. “And have you unraveled the riddle? There's quite a lot of money on it at Will's Coffee House, you know.”
Ravenscroft's grin grew wider, but he didn't reply.
“'Tis strange how after all this practice, the wine still does not become you, Mr. Lee,” Billie said.
“The goose,” Lee corrected.
“The goose,” Ravenscroft agreed solemnly.
Lee looked from Billie's hatless head and creased shirt back to Ravenscroft. “If you have taken to imitating Hoyle, at least you have chosen a good place to start. If that is what you are doing, that is.”
“Imitating Hoyle?” Billie repeated.
“'Tis said he is employing a poulterer's apprentice at present.” Nat Lee shuddered, but probably more at the thought of the poultry than the apprentice.
Billie looked at Ravenscroft for confirmation, and he nodded. “I had heard something of the kind.”
Billie's heart sank. She'd never cared for Hoyle, who was entirely too full of himself for her taste, but if he was having another affair, it could only mean more heartbreak for Aphra.
“Can you return to the company, Nat?” Ravenscroft asked, taking the tragedian's elbow.
“Only if you promise I will not have to eat any more goose.”
“You will probably have to drink more wine, though.”
“I will sacrifice myself.”
Billie and Ravenscroft retrieved their hats and accompanied Nat Lee back to the sitting room.
“How comes it you have no nickname, lad?” Lee asked.
Billie shrugged. “Will is enough for me.”
Ravenscroft procured wine for the three of them, and Nat Lee took a glass willingly. “What think you of 'Hermaphroditus'?” he suggested, and those nearby laughed.
Billie shook her head. “I think not. 'Tis too lacking in imagination.”
“Famous, Will,” Elizabeth Barry said with a grin, toasting her.
“Perhaps Philaster?” Damon suggested.
“Philaster?” Billie repeated. “Who's that?” It certainly wasn't any mythological figure she had ever heard of.
Aphra shook her head. “You cannot mean you haven't heard of the famous Beaumont and Fletcher play?”
Billie didn't know what to do. Of course she'd read about of Beaumont and Fletcher, but her knowledge of their plays was almost non-existent. “Ah, yes. I forgot.”
“How can you have heard of me and not know Beaumont and Fletcher?” Aphra muttered, giving Billie a piercing look.
“Philaster it is,” Ravenscroft said, raising his glass. But he was gazing at her with a very different expression on his face than only minutes before.
21
Since Man with that inconstancy was born,
To love the absent, and the present scorn,
Why do we deck, why do we dress
For such a short-liv'd happiness?
Why do we put attraction on,
Since either way 'tis we must be undone?
They fly if Honour take our part,
Our Virtue drives 'em o'er the field.
We lose 'em by too much desert,
And Oh! they fly us if we yield.
Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair
To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer?
Aphra Behn, “To Alexis in Answer to his Poem against Fruition”
“I still don't know if I want to go through with this,” Billie said, her steps slowing as they neared the sign of the castle on Cheapside where the hosier was to be found. She shouldn't be fooling around playing gender-switching games at court anyway; she should be finding out about Aphra's lost play, persuading Aphra to write her memoirs, something, anything — and then getting back to her own time, before she got in too deep with Ravenscroft. Time was passing, leaves were turning, and it was already October. She could hardly believe how long she'd been in the seventeenth century.
Already October, and she was letting herself be persuaded to even more pranks. Aphra intended her to appear at the upcoming court performance of The Town Fop as both man and maid; as a man for the play and as a maid in a masque. And she insisted Billie outfit herself in style. Billie's male wardrobe was well-stocked, but her female wardrobe was less satisfactory. Since her talk with Elizabeth Barry, she'd played a woman in public more often, but she did not have clothes suitable for an appearance at court.
Cheapside was one of the districts almost entirely destroyed in the Great Fire, and sma
ll two-story buildings had sprouted up along the side streets, while more ambitious buildings integrating old timber and new brick stood on the main thoroughfares. On their way, they passed the site of St. Paul's Cathedral, which was only beginning to be rebuilt. This was definitely a different city than the one Billie knew.
“Come, Clarinda, the court appearance will be nothing for a tireless adventuress such as yourself,” Aphra said with a smile. “You must only change clothes once during the evening.”
Billie grimaced. “From a man to a maid.” Aphra had persuaded her to the prank with the argument of saving Damon's reputation. Apparently Billie was too convincing as a young man, and her intimacy with Ravenscroft was sparking rumors that might well lead to his incarceration. If the two of them had gone whoring together, it wouldn't have been a problem, but they didn't and it was, at least according to Aphra, a good judge of London crowds and moods. Aphra hoped a little public romance with Billie playing the female role would silence the rumors of sodomy, so she was to play the shepherdess to Damon's shepherd. Aphra's concern for Ravenscroft's reputation was sweet but unnecessary — the man could take care of himself.
Billie was less sure about herself, constantly distracted as she was, and Ravenscroft the reason. Time was passing more quickly than she would like, or like to admit. The Town Fop had ended weeks ago, after an exceptionally successful run, but Billie was still no nearer to unearthing the secret of Aphra's unknown play, or finding a way to make the acquaintance of Mary Twysden or anyone else who might have information about Aphra's past. And if she was completely honest with herself, she was in no hurry to do so. Her fascination with Ravenscroft had grown to the point where all she had to do was think about him, and her hormones went into overdrive.
“Here we are,” Aphra said, as Katherine led the way into the hosier's. “They have excellent silk stockings for half the price of other shops.”
A lank shopkeeper hurried up to them, followed by a pimple-faced apprentice. “Mrs. Behn!” he called out jovially, louder than strictly necessary. “And what may we do for you today, madam?”
“Good day, Mr. Stancliffe. We have come for stockings for my friend, Mrs. Armstrong,” Aphra explained. Billie wondered if she would ever get used to being referred to as “Mrs.” — but in this day and age, only young girls were referred to as “Miss.”
The shopkeeper nodded, his enthusiasm receding noticeably upon learning that Aphra was not to be his customer.
“She's to accompany me to court,” Aphra added, and the hosier brightened again. He drew his apprentice forward, but the youth hung back, staring at Aphra.
The shopkeeper gave the lad's arm a shake. “You must excuse young Daniel, Mrs. Behn. He's only assisting me for a spell until he enters the academy.”
“Daniel?” Aphra said with a gentle smile, extending her hand. “Tis hardly a proper introduction. I'm Mrs. Behn, and this is my friend, Mrs. Armstrong, and my maid, Mrs. Stowe. And you are...?”
Suddenly the youth overcame his shyness and grasped the proffered hand with both his own. “Daniel Foe, ma'am.”
Foe? Daniel Foe? Billie looked at the nondescript apprentice, her eyes going wide.
“But I know you,” the apprentice continued, his eyes glowing. “Everyone knows the playwright Astrea. Your Sign of Roxanne was famous! I do not understand why it had such a short run.”
“That's enough, Daniel,” Mr. Stancliffe said sternly, his face growing red. It was obvious he didn't want to voice objections to Daniel's preferences in literature while the playwright was in the shop. From the details Aphra had let fall, Billie gathered the play had caused quite a scandal. She really had to get her hands on a copy of that play.
Billie glanced from the shopkeeper to the lad staring at Aphra, hoping she wasn't gaping quite as openly as the boy. His age would fit — he looked to be about sixteen. Could this really be the “father of the English novel”? Gazing with puppy-dog devotion at the woman Billie would like to instate as the mother of the English novel?
Daniel Defoe himself?
“I saw your Fop too, Madam,” Daniel rushed on.
“Along with half London,” Stancliffe murmured.
“The scene in which Diana attempts to seduce Celinda in boy's clothes —!”
“Enough, Daniel!” the shopkeeper said.
With an amused grin, Aphra placed a hand on the lad's arm, and he blushed to the top of his shirt collar. “Would you care to show us around the shop, Mr. Foe?”
Billie followed a few paces behind, doing her best to hide her feeling of awe at being in the presence of a pimpled apprentice.
Meeting a teenager who wasn't even famous yet was one thing; going to Whitehall to meet a dead king was another matter entirely. Despite Billie's conviction that monarchy was at best superfluous and at worst criminal, she couldn't help the growing feeling of awe that was creeping up on her as their party was led down the hall. From St. James Park, Whitehall looked more like a conglomeration of separate buildings than a palace, but as they entered the Banqueting House, Charles I's addition to the Tudor mansion, Billie was overwhelmed by the unrelenting gold and gilt of the furnishings, distracting attention from the famous Rubens paintings above. Instead of being full of tourists ogling the ceiling, the room was full of courtiers and ladies in every conceivable shade of damask, sarsenet and satin ogling each other.
Aphra's play was to be staged in the Great Hall, followed by a masque written for the occasion. Billie was dressed in her male garb for her part in the play; she would change into her female clothes for her part in the masque. Nell Gwyn had been informed of the plan and would find Billie an appropriate place to change. It all seemed very surreal to Billie — meeting the King and running off after the play with his mistress. Billie had seen King Charles in the playhouse several times already, but then he was over her head, in the royal box above the pit. This time, she had the prospect of actually kissing his hand.
Ravenscroft would arrive later with the Earl of Rochester. The bad boy of the court had been forgiven again and was back in London.
“I must warn you,” Aphra murmured when she thought no one was within earshot besides Elizabeth Barry. “After this evening, you may well be known as Silvia as well as Clarinda.”
Billie shook her head. “Just what I need — yet another identity. I have so many names already it makes me dizzy.”
“Ah, but they are working very well for you, are they not?” Aphra smiled. “I suspect part of the reason you are so well able to hold Damon's attention is your masks.”
Billie smiled and nodded. When it came right down to it, she was holding Ravenscroft's attention too well, and he hers — the man was diverting her from her purpose in this century. “He knows all about my masks, though,” she said.
“But he never knows precisely which one you will be using. The perfect thing to keep a fickle man — he cannot tire of you as quickly.” Aphra's soft brown eyes held a melancholy shimmer; since their return from Woodstock Park over a month ago, Billie had only seen Hoyle at Aphra's twice, both times in a very uncommunicative mood. “'Tis not like conquering one woman, who he then immediately loses interest in,” Aphra continued.
Billie was reminded of the male masquerade of the female protagonist in Aphra's as yet unwritten Love Letters Between a Nobleman and his Sister. It was an odd thought that Billie knew works Aphra had yet to conceive of.
Elizabeth Barry took Aphra's arm and shook it lightly. “You seem to have something at least as good as masks. How long have you held Hoyle's attention now — two years? And he notoriously fickle, even for one of the fickle sex.”
“Ah, but whether I still hold it, that is the question,” Aphra replied, a hint of melancholy in her voice. “Mayhap it had been better for me had I not held his attention so long.”
The footman led them through the crowds to the circle surrounding the King. When he noticed their approach, Charles beckoned them to his side. Billie wondered which of the many women in the vicinity was currently th
e mistress in favor. Aphra or Elizabeth could have told her, but they were too close now to the royal presence for her to ask.
The King held out his hand. “Welcome to Whitehall, Mrs. Behn.”
Aphra bent to kiss his ring. “I must thank you once again for the invitation to play The Town Fop at court, Your Majesty. We are very honored.”
King Charles waved one hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal. “I have had enough of thanks from Mr. Betterton already. For my own part, I am grateful you are writing regularly again. When will we next have the pleasure of a work from your pen?”
“Soon, I hope. I am working on a new play, based loosely on Sir Thomas Killigrew's Wanderer.”
The King grimaced, an expression which seemed to come naturally to his deeply etched features. “Best make it very loosely, or 'twill not be fit for the stage.” There was a humorous glint in his dark eyes that Billie took an immediate liking to.
Aphra laughed. “Oh, 'tis very loose indeed.”
“Very good. Those famous loose plays of yours grace the stage almost as much as your charming companion.”
Elizabeth Barry sank into a deep curtsey at the compliment. Billie had never seen her so respectful. Obviously, everyone saw the King as more than a normal person, judging by the glassy look in Aphra's eyes or the hush of reverence which had descended on Elizabeth. Billie had to admit he had charisma to burn, despite the craggy face, but she couldn't see him as anything other than a man who just happened to be king. Yes, he was a piece of history come to life, and Billie was excited at meeting him face to face, but she wouldn't be caught dead gazing at him in awe.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Elizabeth Barry murmured, her voice trembling.
“May I introduce another member of our troupe, Your Highness?” Aphra asked, pulling Billie forward. “This is Will Armstrong, a musician from the northern colonies.”
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