“No, she was not,” Killigrew agreed.
“Beautiful women should use their bodies when they want to live by their wits.”
The King's Groom of the Bedchamber snorted. “And kings should use their wits more and their pricks less.”
Charles laughed out loud. “After those lovely bugs she gave us we do owe her something, don't you think?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness.”
“Show the mother in.”
Less than a year later, Elizabeth Cottington was sitting at her writing desk, working on a letter to her cousin in the country. “We are in expectation still of Mr. Dryden's play,” she wrote, and paused to dip her pen in the inkwell again. Herbert was always particularly interested in theater gossip, but she had already told him about the new play acted by Lady Castlemaine. Ah, yes, there was one other tidbit he might appreciate. “There is a bold woman hath offered one: my cousin Aston can give you a better account of her than I can.” If Elizabeth remembered right, the Duke's Company was planning to put on the play as much to spite Thomas Killigrew as anything else. It could still be that nothing would come of the rumors — the plays by the Duchess of Newcastle and Katherine Philips had not been successful. But Mrs. Behn had a talent for a memorable turn of phrase. “Some verses I have seen are not ill; that is commendation enough: she will think so too, I believe, when it come upon the stage. I shall tremble for the poor woman exposed among the critics.”
Elizabeth shook her head as she signed and sealed the letter. In all probability, Mrs. Behn would have her play cried down, and the London theaters would never hear from her again.
26
... this the priests will get by thee at least
That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast.
For 'tis not more to cure the lame and blind,
Than heal an impious ulcerated mind.
This if they do, and give thee but a grain
Of common honesty, or common shame,
'Twill be more credit to their cause I grant,
Than 'twould to make another man a saint.
Mrs. Behn's Satyr on Dryden
Billie looked at the second pitcher of Rhenish they had demolished, amazed at how much wine they'd put away. And the things she had learned! She could hardly believe all the details of her life Aphra had spilled in one evening. At least it hadn't been the wine.
“'Tis hard to credit you survived all that,” Billie said, shaking her head.
Aphra shrugged and smiled. “I could wish for a few adventures less, but there are others have had more.”
“Oh, not I.” Billie chuckled. “I've crossed an ocean and escaped marriage, but I have never been a spy and never been in prison.”
“Would I had not.”
Billie leaned across the table impulsively and took Aphra's hand, leading it to her lips in a gentle kiss. Aphra looked at her, amused.
“I have never played the man,” Aphra said in a lighter tone.
Billie gave Aphra's hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “It would be rather hard for you, would it not?” Her gaze descended to the low neckline of Aphra's gown, and Aphra laughed. Billie leaned back, knowing she must look quite the man-about-town, with her billowing silk shirt open at the throat and her curly locks spilling around her shoulders.
“'Tis true. I have not your boyish figure, my friend.”
At the word “friend,” Billie felt her cheeks grow warm. She could hardly fathom it, but Aphra Behn, the first professional woman writer in English literature, called her friend. And yet, she still refused to speak to Billie of John Hoyle, except for the one time in Elizabeth Barry's presence — all the while writing bitter poems like a fiend and addressing them to “J.H.”. They were not yet published, but they were circulating in manuscript. The intimacy Billie shared with Aphra, if that's what it was, was an intimacy of the past, not the present — in more ways than one. And there were many details of the past she still did not share.
To her surprise, Billie found herself less disappointed in the gaps in the narrative for professional reasons, and more because Aphra continued to hold things back from her. Aphra Behn meant much more to her now than a literary precursor, a research topic that might ensure her academic survival. She looked down at her wine glass.
“You never mentioned what became of the rest of your family,” she asked carefully. “Thomas Culpepper I have met, but what of your mother? Stephen? Frances?”
Aphra filled her in on those details willingly enough. Aphra's mother died shortly before The Forced Marriage was produced. Stephen obtained a commission through Thomas Culpepper, but when their sister Frances' husband died in Surinam, he sold it and returned to the colony to see to his sister's affairs. They were both evacuated to Jamaica when Surinam fell into Dutch hands.
“So you still have relatives in the colonies.”
Aphra nodded. “I am almost as much an American as you.”
“Hardly,” Billie said, shaking her head. My, but she was feeling woozy. She put her palm to her forehead and closed her eyes.
“You must be able to consume more wine to be a true rake!” Aphra proclaimed.
“As I've told you before, I am no rake.” Billie pushed away from the table and came around to her hostess. “I must seek the comfort of my bed now, madam,” she said, placing a gentle kiss on Aphra's temple. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly,” Aphra said, a queer light in her eyes. “Sleep well, Clarinda.”
Billie climbed the stairs to her little room next to Katherine's, contemplating the things Aphra had told her — and the things she hadn't. Thomas Culpepper came up in Aphra's narrative frequently, the Willoughbys hardly at all. The only time she mentioned the family she'd grown up with was when relating how she'd decided to become a poet as a child. Neighbors she grew up with and no longer mentioned. That didn't have to mean anything, but what if the speculation of some biographers were true and Aphra was Lady Willoughby's bastard? Lord Willoughby was away in the colonies often, it would have given her opportunity. That might explain why Mary Twysden disliked Aphra so much.
There was definitely potential in the blank spots in the narrative, but thinking about it was giving her a headache. Time enough when she went to visit Mary Twysden.
“'Tis a very unusual method of tuning the strings!” Mary gushed, and Billie could barely keep from wincing. Mary was a much better musician than she pretended to be, even if her voice was reedy and her presentation bland. Billie doubted there was anything she could teach her. This little session was obviously a pretense on both sides.
“The same as the guitar,” Billie said. “Have you ever played a guitar?”
Mary shook her head. Billie proceeded to show her some chords and plucking patterns while Mary murmured soft words of admiration.
“And now for a simple ballad,” Billie said, bending over the beautiful lute Ravenscroft had given her. It was an odd, uncomfortable situation she found herself in; certainly no man had ever tried to appeal to her vanity by denigrating his own accomplishments. She knew well enough that there were still plenty of women in her own day and age who used the same tactics, and she found herself wondering how men could stand it. Or maybe they actually believed the ruse? She had to smile to herself at the thought.
Mary's eyes gleamed, and Billie quickly suppressed the smile and gazed around the room. As at Aphra's, the shelves held more books than Billie would have expected, so close to the beginning of the print era. Back in her own century, she liked to examine the titles on the spines of other people's books for clues to the owner's character, but either that convenient feature had not yet been invented, or Billie was too far away to distinguish the writing.
Billie switched seamlessly from the ballad she was playing to Joni Mitchell's “Midway,” a song that never failed to cheer her, depressing as it was. She loved the quick progression of diminished chords, and was quite happy with the alternating strumming and picking method she'd developed for her version.
&
nbsp; Mary gazed intently at her hands on the lute. “'Tis an unusual tune. But very beautiful.”
“These are almost all variations of the chords G, D, and A,” Billie said, slowing the pace to demonstrate.
Her hostess continued to stare at Billie's hands on frets and strings, her act of artistic humility momentarily forgotten. Then she lifted her own lute back into her lap and began imitating the fingering on the neck, while her right hand played the air above the strings without touching them.
It wasn't just show. Despite herself, a moment of connection passed between Billie and Mary Twysden, formerly Willoughby.
Billie laid her lute to one side. “You try now.”
Mary nodded enthusiastically, her fingers going from air to strings. Billie rose from the settee, simultaneously fed up and humbled. It was obvious that her hostess would soon master Billie's version of the classic Joni Mitchell song — probably better then Billie played it herself. But despite her talent, when Mary wasn't in the grip of enthusiasm, she did everything she could to belittle her ability. It made Billie want to hit things.
Instead, she sauntered over to the bookshelves and began to pull out random books, leafing through them before returning them to their place. Mary's sweet lute version of a tune that would not be written for another three hundred years filled the room, while Billie wondered what the Milton in her hands would be worth in her own time. Not that she was inclined to steal it — if she took a book back with her, it would probably be proclaimed a clever forgery, since the materials would be too new to be deemed authentic.
Billie put Milton back in his place and turned to Mary. “That was exceptional. Perhaps we can work on the song again next time we meet.”
Mary broke off her instrumental rendition of Joni Mitchell, her gray eyes taking on a dangerous sheen. “You are impatient with me that I do not learn fast enough.”
“Not at all, Lady Twysden,” Billie protested. “'Tis merely that I have a slight headache, and I find I cannot concentrate.”
“Oh, you should have said something earlier, Mr. Armstrong!” Mary said, laying aside the lute and fluttering to Billie's side. “Can I have my woman get anything for you?”
“That will not be necessary,” Billie said, retrieving her plumed hat and settling it on her dark locks. “Shall I come by again next week? Say, Tuesday at the same time?”
“That would be very good of you. I will be looking forward to your visit.”
Billie descended the steps of the townhouse, mildly annoyed with herself. She'd found out nothing, and it was her own fault. Yes, Mary blocked any discussion of Aphra or their childhood together, but Billie had been too impatient with Mary's flirtatious ways, her studied humility, to try harder. The next time she visited, she'd be prepared.
She headed in the direction of Will's Coffee House. What she needed now was a loud, gay mob.
When she entered, the first thing she saw was Dryden in his place of honor next to the fire — his winter place of honor, that is; in the summer he sat next to the window. Billie got herself a cup of coffee from the booth at the back. Most of the theater people were either at rehearsals or still in bed, and the seats near the poet laureate were vacant.
“Good day, Mr. Dryden,” Billie said, settling into a nearby chair.
“Good day. Mr. ... Armstrong, was it?”
Billie nodded. “I hear you and Mr. Ravenscroft are colleagues now.”
At first Billie thought Dryden would refuse to answer, but then, after an audible “Hmmph,” he complained, “The King's Company must needs have this ridiculous Mamamouchi.”
“The company needs new plays, does it not?” Billie said. “You have not written one now for years.”
“'Tis of no consequence. History will vindicate me.”
“You're right.”
Dryden looked up at her sharply. “Are you not a special friend of Mr. Ravenscroft's?”
“That I am, sir.”
“Then why do you not stand up for him?”
Billie shrugged. “'Tis you history will remember, Mr. Dryden, not Mr. Ravenscroft.” She stood and made an elegant leg, but before she turned to leave she observed Dryden's narrowed eyes upon her. Oh, how she loved this game!
Then his gaze rose, and Billie swiveled around to see Ravenscroft standing a few feet away, looking at her speculatively. “A special friend?”
She took a deep breath. “I thought you were at Drury Lane, practicing your new farce.”
Ravenscroft sat down in the chair next to Dryden that Billie had just vacated, acknowledging the poet laureate with a slight nod. “Hardly new — 'twas to have been played at Dorset Garden last year, but the company canceled the production.” He cocked his head and looked up at her with those unusual golden eyes. “I could almost be offended you would stand up for Mr. Bayes at my expense, but seeing as the comment comes from a 'special friend'...”
“Bayes” was the mocking name given Dryden in literary circles. This century had a veritable passion for nicknames.
“'Tis hard to credit you would leave the Duke's Company for such a trifling reason, Mr. Ravenscroft,” Dryden threw in.
“Ah, but not a trifling sum, Mr. Dryden,” Ravenscroft replied softly.
“I hope you do not still feel loyalty for our rival company,” Dryden said.
“But we are cooperating so well with our rivals now! The incomparable Astrea is even now working on a play based on Killigrew's Thomaso, with his blessings. Perhaps we are entering an era of honor among playwrights?”
“Killigrew does not look out for the company's interests, that is the problem,” Dryden grumbled.
“Would you say you do, Mr. Dryden?” Ravenscroft murmured. “I don't recall the last time the company had a play from your pen.” When Dryden did not answer, Ravenscroft pretended to concentrate. “Pray, was it not Aureng-Zebe, what, two years ago now?”
“One and a half,” Dryden corrected him. “But I would fain point out that you have only written one play in three years.”
Ravenscroft grinned. “But I did not have a contract to write three plays a year.”
“Rumor has it, you have been busy enough writing plays,” Dryden said reflectively. “But in payment for certain favors, you let another take the credit.”
“Why, you ...!” Ravenscroft began, jumping out of his chair, his hand going to his sword.
Billie grabbed Damon's elbow. “Hold, my friend. It would not do to start a brawl in a coffee house. Aphra would not be grateful.”
“Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft, listen to Mr. Armstrong,” Dryden said comfortably, his superiority reestablished. He looked back and forth between the two of them, a lewd glint in his little eyes. “And what of rivalry between the two of you? Or is it something more?”
“Much,” Billie said shortly. “Peace, Damon. He is not worth fighting.”
“Even if it is he history will vindicate?”
“Even then. Hang history.”
Ravenscroft shook off Billie's hand and bowed to Dryden. “Then I will have to let myself be led by my friend.” He turned back to her. “If you are still that.”
“Certainly, Mr. Ravenscroft. I would be a poor friend if I allowed a temporary misunderstanding to change my feelings.”
“Why then, we are in perfect agreement again.”
“That I doubt, but if you prefer to think so, be my guest.”
Ravenscroft laughed out loud. “Ah, Will, your barbs are music to my ears.”
“Then 'tis no surprise you write the kind of comedy you do,” Dryden grouched.
“Be warned, Mr. Dryden,” Ravenscroft said, a glitter in his eye. “I do not accept barbs from everyone.”
“Shall we walk?” Billie said, hoping to forestall any further conflict between the two poets. She tugged Ravenscroft out of the coffee house.
It was still cold, but the ice on the Thames had begun to break up. Out of habit, they headed south and west in the direction of St. James's Park, passing the Covent Garden Market. In this century, i
t was a very new, very fashionable section of London, where the rich and the noble had houses and took rooms, quiet compared to the area around Fleet Street and Whitefriars where Aphra and Damon lived.
When they reached The Mall, the quiet ended. Even at these temperatures, men and women paraded in their finest, putting themselves on display. Billie had to smile to herself — the “Mall” was a meat market, just as in her own time.
“I'd fain apologize,” Ravenscroft said, sounding surprisingly humble. “You were right — I was trying to control you. But I swear, I wasn't aware of it myself until I spoke with Astrea. Will you forgive me?”
Billie was silent a moment. None of this would lead anywhere. But she couldn't help herself — she wanted this man back in her bed. “I forgive you. Still, I refuse to become your bawd.”
“Do you still have room in your life for a jealous, possessive wit?” he asked with a smile.
Billie extended her hand. “So long as you can laugh at yourself, Damon, I am satisfied.”
Ravenscroft's gloved hand enclosed her own, and she could hardly repress a shiver at his touch. At the same time, he seemed farther away from her than he ever had before. Billie knew now, knew more than just intellectually: there was no future for them, not even in the past.
27
Angellica:
Love, that has robbed [my heart] of its unconcern,
Of all that pride that taught me how to value it.
And in its room
A mean submissive passion was conveyed,
That made me humbly bow, which ne'er I did
To anything but heaven.
Thou, perjured man, didst this; and with thy oaths,
Which on thy knees thou didst devoutly make,
Softened my yielding heart, and then I was a slave.
Yet still had I been content to've worn my chains,
Worn 'em with vanity and joy forever,
Hadst thou not broke those vows that put them on.
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