'Twas then I was undone.
Aphra Behn, The Rover
Aphra's voice shook slightly as she read the lines, but it was still strong and clear. Billie was glad of that at least. After the way John Hoyle had left the gathering at Lady Davenant's house even before Aphra began reading from her new play, it was to be expected that her voice was less than steady. The man was impossible, making demands on Aphra as if he were her husband. And now the new rumors that he was involved with Aphra's “friend” Emily Price. Billie glanced at the young actress. Aphra had likely heard the rumors too — she had not included Emily Price in the cast. Perhaps the only reason Emily was present was that she was staying with their hostess, Mary Davenant.
To appease her exacting lover, Aphra had persuaded Billie to adopt women's garb for the last few weeks. It seemed enough to bring out his jealous streak to have Billie accompanying Aphra as Will. The only time she played Will now was on her visits to Mary Twysden.
She glanced around, curious to see how the others were enjoying The Rover — what was to become the most successful play Aphra would write, restaged repeatedly for almost a hundred years. The awe she felt at being a part of it made her strangely nervous and excited.
The assembled actors, actresses, wits and playwrights were following the reading avidly. Billie was struck once again at how brilliantly unconventional the antagonist was, the whore Angellica Bianca. She might have a pistol pointed at the breast of the philandering hero, but she also had all the moving speeches, and, at this moment, the sympathy of the audience. Not for the first time, Billie wished she could get her hands on a copy of the play The Sign of Roxanne — she was sure a comparison between that and The Rover would be an excellent research topic. Unfortunately, in her own era, the play was lost and forgotten.
“Had I remained in innocent security,” Aphra read, her voice growing in strength toward the climax, “I would have thought all men were born my slaves, / And worn my power like lightning in my eyes.”
Angellica Bianca. Aphra Behn. How much of herself had the playwright put in the figure of the bad girl? And how much was her friend, the King's mistress? Billie turned to look at Nell Gwyn, who was coming out of retirement to play the role of the whore. It was an amazingly self-referential thing for Aphra to do, casting Nell as Angellica — in Killigrew's Thomaso, Aphra's source, she had played the role of the whore Paulina.
Nell noticed Billie's gaze on her and smiled.
Finally, the pistol had been taken out of Angellica's hands, Willmore and Hellena had decided to wed, and the last act was over. The small audience clapped enthusiastically.
“I will never be able to deliver that speech as movingly as the playwright,” Nell said. “'Tis well that none have heard it but us. The audience would never listen to me more.”
“The audience will be so thrilled to see you back on stage, it won't care if you stutter,” Ravenscroft said, and the others laughed and cheered. All were in a good humor: the play was excellent, with all the necessary ingredients to be a great success; Nell Gwyn was joining the cast, thereby guaranteeing the King's patronage; and they had partaken liberally of the claret Lady Davenant had provided. Until this moment, Billie had never realized how clever The Rover really was. Perhaps she was able to appreciate it better now that the language of the seventeenth century had become second nature, but it wasn't only that. The way Aphra played with conventions was more creative than traditional literary criticism gave her credit for — or just more than it cared to acknowledge? It didn't do to make the whore such a well-rounded character that it was impossible not to sympathize with her when she lost the hero. It infringed on the success of the virtuous heroine. Although, as virtuous heroines went, Hellena left something to be desired too, determined as she was to lose her virginity before she got locked up in a nunnery.
It was those small moments of brilliance, a twist of plot or a turn of phrase, that Billie loved about Aphra Behn the author, moments created against nearly insurmountable odds. Even in the nineteenth century, every English woman writer Billie could think of offhand had been some kind of gentry or minor nobility. As Fogerty had informed her, literary criticism was not supposed to care about the odds. But they were there. And Aphra had beat them.
“You are sure you do not want to stage it under your own name, Astrea?” Elizabeth Barry asked. She was to take the role of Hellena. “'Tis a very fine play.”
“It will be your dramatic masterpiece,” Billie couldn't help adding.
Aphra looked at Billie sharply. “I would fain avoid the kind of attacks I received after my 'Fop' was such a success.” Only recently, another adaptation by Aphra, The Debauchee, had a good run at the Dorset Garden Theater, but that too she had not acknowledged. At least Billie knew she would eventually acknowledge The Rover.
“You are right, Astrea,” Lord Rochester said. “They will damn you. 'Tis much too good.”
Aphra's face lit up immediately. It appeared praise from Rochester could nearly make up for a slight from Hoyle. “Do you think so, my lord?”
Betterton added his own voice to the praise. “Mrs. Armstrong is right. 'Tis the best play you've ever written.”
“But the critics will say 'tis Killigrew's Wanderer,” Aphra said with a grimace.
“I think 'tis Behn's Rover,” the Earl insisted.
“I thank you for that, my lord.”
“You deserve nothing less, Astrea.” Billie could hardly believe how gracious Lord Rochester was being. The man was charming, clever, witty, but rarely gracious. He was more of a model for Willmore than the moody, exacting Hoyle. On the other hand, Willmore was more full of fun and high spirits than either Hoyle or Rochester — more like her own dear Damon, when it came right down to it. Too dear. It was time she left this century again. But first she wanted to see the premiere of The Rover.
“Methinks 'tis Astrea's rover in truth,” Ravenscroft said. “But the lawyer so recently departed hardly deserves to be so brilliantly immortalized.”
There was a moment of shocked silence; Billie wondered if Damon had been partaking too liberally of Lady Davenant's claret.
“In my opinion, Willmore shows more resemblance to His Lordship than Mr. Hoyle,” Elizabeth Barry said, breaking the silence.
Rochester sketched a bow. “I am not sure whether I should thank you for that, Mrs. Barry.”
But Ravenscroft appeared to be on a mission, and the grin on his face couldn't mask his anger. “Come, is not the artful way Willmore manages his affairs a bit like a certain Gray's Inn lawyer?”
“Are you referring to yourself?” Lord Rochester said with a smile.
“I am of the Middle Temple, my lord.”
“What 'artful way' are you referring to, Damon?” Aphra asked. She did not look well pleased.
Deliberately, Ravenscroft's gaze sought out Emily Price. The young actress sat stiffly erect, pretending to ignore the conversation.
Billie rose and turned in the direction of the refreshments on the side table. “I am famished, and I fear I cannot participate in the discussion of antecedents, literary or otherwise, until I partake of the buffet Lady Davenant prepared for our enjoyment.”
The Earl sighed. “Mrs. Armstrong, can your appetite not wait until we have settled the matter of yet another literary tribute to my own charming self?”
A look of complicity passed between them. “I fear it cannot, my lord.”
“Well, then, it appears we must eat, and save the literary discussions for later.” He reached a hand to Elizabeth Barry and pulled her to his side with a kiss. “Come, my dear, if you are to outwit a wit, then at least you should be fortified enough to do so.”
Billie heaved a sigh of relief as the audience of the reading rose and made for the refreshments. She could certainly understand Damon's anger, but she didn't know what had possessed him just now. Did he perhaps think forcing Aphra to acknowledge Hoyle's affair would help?
At least Aphra would soon have the seventeenth century equivalent of a blockbuster on her h
ands to distract her from Hoyle's infidelity.
It was strange: Billie was slowly growing to like Mary Twysden, despite her moralizing and her resentment of Aphra. Beneath the proper exterior, she had a shy wit, and if she hadn't been forced into a correct female mold, she might have been an interesting person. Her interest in Will Armstrong definitely did not fit the kind of person she was supposed to be. But even if Mary was not as boring as might at first seem, Billie still greatly preferred the company of the actresses, Elizabeth Barry, Nell Gwyn, Elinor Leigh and the rest. Marginalized in this society, from the point of view of an American from the twenty-first century, it was they who were normal, while Mary Twysden was odd, with her sham naiveté and internalized moral scruples about everything from looking a man straight in the eye to going to the theater.
“Could you show me that interesting picking-strum that you do again?” Mary asked.
“The one from 'The Midway'?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, that's the one.”
Billie launched into the old Joni Mitchell tune again, feeling better about herself than the last time she'd played this song, more able to appreciate her own strengths. Mary had technique, but Billie had passion and inspiration.
Besides, it was a good song, and Billie felt good playing it.
When Billie was through, Mary shook her head and smiled. “You have such an original way of playing, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Come, try again yourself.”
Mary picked up her lute. “I think I have the tune now, but I have not yet mastered the technique. You pluck the strings on the neck with your left hand between chords?”
Billie nodded. “With some of the more lively songs I play I do that. You pick things up very quickly, though. You and Aphra and the Culpeppers must have had excellent musical training when you were growing up.”
Mary ignored the comment and began to play. At this rate, Billie was more likely to learn something about Aphra's childhood by following Colonel Culpepper to Ireland.
There was a commotion outside the door — a man's raised voice in a rather one-sided conversation with the maid. Mary looked alarmed and quickly put her lute aside. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up. “I must see who has arrived.”
When her hostess left, Billie wandered over to the bookshelf. A row of quartos caught her eye. It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did — Mary made such a show of her distaste for the immorality of the theater. The theater was one of the most important forms of entertainment in this age, however, and if cock-fighting, bear-baiting, freaks, or executions weren't up your alley, about the only thing left was going to a play or reading a book. The latter of which her hostess seemed to do a lot, to judge by all the books on the shelves.
Billie pulled out one of the quartos, only to discover The Man of Mode, a particularly bawdy play by George Etherege. This was getting interesting. Perhaps these things were Mary's true vice, despite her conventional disapproval. The next was a play by an author Billie had never heard of, someone's whose literary reputation had been squashed by history even more completely than that of Aphra Behn or Edward Ravenscroft.
To Billie's surprise, the next play was by Aphra, The Dutch Lover. “A muddle” was scrawled in large letters across the title page, and Billie's charitable feelings towards Mary Twysden fled. She pulled out the next, which turned out to be Aphra's Amourous Prince. It seemed as if Mary had some kind of secret fascination with Aphra. Could she have a manuscript of the lost play, The Sign of Roxanne — or at least some notes about it? Billie opened the next quarto — Aphra's first play, The Forced Marriage. As Billie leafed through the pages, a sheet of paper fell out. She retrieved it from the floor and unfolded it. The name “Aphra” jumped out at her, and Billie scanned it quickly. By the looks of it, it was a letter from Lady Willoughby to her daughter, but the subject was Aphra. Billie began to read: “My Dear Daughter, you conjure me to explain Actions you so recently discovered. I owe you an Account, I know ...”
The voices in the hall grew louder, and Billie stuffed the letter into the pocket of her silk brocade jacket. Just in time. Mary opened the door to the sitting room, a strained look on her face.
“I must ask you to leave,” she said.
“Whatever is the matter?” Billie asked, returning the quarto to the shelf.
“A relation of mine has paid me an unexpected visit.” She didn't sound too happy about it. “He desires my presence on a drive in the park, and I must comply.”
Obviously, the male relative did not approve of Mary's association with one of the theater crowd and wanted to put a stop to it. “When will I see you again?”
Mary looked at the door nervously. “I know not. I will write.”
Billie picked up her lute and followed Mary into the hall. An imposing elderly gentleman stood there with the maid, a deep frown creasing his high forehead. He looked Billie up and down but did not greet her, and Mary did not introduce them. Billie was more than happy to ignore the gentleman back.
“Your servant, madam,” Billie said, and turned her back on the nobility. The maid closed the door behind her.
Billie descended the steps of the townhouse, slipping her hand into the pocket of the jacket again. The paper was there. She turned in the direction of Fleet Street and smiled.
“Ah, there you are, Will,” Aphra called out gaily from her writing table as Billie entered the sitting room. Aphra's cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled, making her look nearly as young as when Billie first met her. Perhaps she had exorcised some of her frustration with the figure of Angellica Bianca. Or perhaps she was still feeling the rush of having created something she knew was good. “I've written a new song for my Rover. Do you think you could put it to music for me?”
Billie was dying to read the letter in her pocket, but she hadn't seen Aphra in such a good mood for weeks. She set her lute on a side table. “May I see?”
Aphra handed the manuscript to her with a grin.
Billie looked down at the bold handwriting and stifled an exclamation. “You want me to put a song to Damon to music?”
“Why, of course,” Aphra said. “You are surely the best person for that, are you not?”
Billie grimaced. “That is debatable, I think.”
Aphra shook her head. “And I think Damon deserves a more devoted lover than yourself.”
“Damon has exactly what he deserves in me.”
Aphra laughed merrily. “And how was your musical session with Mrs. Twysden?”
“Short. A very fine, elderly gentleman arrived who disapproved of my presence.”
“That would probably be Heneage Finch, the Earl of Winchilsea. He is a sort of older brother to Mary; Mary's sister Diana was the Earl's first wife, and Mary's husband was a distant cousin of the Finches.”
Billie tried not to show her surprise. How common a name could “Winchilsea” be? Was there really some kind of family connection between Aphra and the poet Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea — two of the most important women writers of the era? On the other hand, it seemed as if there was a family connection between everyone in Kent, so she shouldn't be surprised.
Billie sat down in a chair next to Aphra's table. “Whoever he was, he didn't like seeing me there.”
“You will probably no longer be able to pursue your gray mouse, my friend,” Aphra said with a smile.
Billie shrugged. “No loss.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“To tease her for insulting you.”
Aphra shook her head. “I bear poor Mary Twysden no grudge. But still ...” Aphra took Billie's hand impulsively. “You are a loyal soul, Clarinda.”
Billie raised Aphra's hand to her lips and kissed the back gently, noticing as she did that it was no longer a young hand. The skin was still smooth, but it sagged ever so slightly between the joints. “No, Aphra,” she said, releasing her friend's hand. “I have more self-interest than loyalty.”
“Of course you do. You could not have survived your adventures e
lse.”
“What a convenient excuse to be a rogue.” Billie got up and picked up her lute again. “I will see if I can come up with a pleasant melody for you.”
“Thank you.”
Billie climbed the stairs to her room, thinking about the words and the hand and how they had moved her. And the letter. She placed the lute on the bed and sat down on the upholstered chair in front of her dressing table, pulled out the letter, and began to read.
“My Dear Daughter, you conjure me to explain Actions you so recently discovered. I owe you an Account, I know, but this will be hard for both of us. How could I betray your Father? you ask. 'Tis easy: I loathed your Father.”
“Wow,” Billie said out loud. Could the letter be about Lady Willoughby's betrayal of the failed plot to reinstate Charles II in the Fifties? Billie had read about the incident in connection with Aphra's romantic involvement with Will Scot; the Parliamentarian to whom Lady Willoughby gave the information was none other than the regicide Thomas Scot, Will Scot's father.
But what did it have to do with Aphra? She continued reading. “I could have bourne His Lordship's constant Absence, could have bourne Knowing I had no place in his Heart. But he was not content merely to squander his Time on Foreign Shores; he must needs Humiliate me at Home as well. Witness your Father's Excellent Opinion of me in making love to a Wetnurse. But even that I could have bourne; it is the duty of a Wife to be Humble and bear Suffering in Silence. If only My Lord had seen fit to Conduct his Affaires as a Gentleman. Methinks he was too long in Savage Lands; he lost all sense of Propriety.
“Aphra was ever his Favorite. She was a Clever Child and wrote 'His Lordship' pretty verses. When she was older, she turned the Lad's heads, but all indulged her, and she Refused to Marry. She was often at the Barbershop, and in that terrible Year after the General died, your Father engaged her to carry Messages to Sir Thomas. I hated her as much as I hated your Father, and I would have Revenge on them. Then Charles was restored, and only those I confided in were Punished.
“I will not ask your Forgiveness; most like I do not Deserve it. But I will not Live much longer, and I would fain see my Daughter again before I Die,
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