Your Mother,
Lady W.”
Billie's hand sank to her lap. The letter was a gold mine. Lady Willoughby never said outright that Aphra was Willoughby's bastard, but the jump from lack of propriety to Aphra made the conclusion unavoidable. And Lady W. made the implicit assumption that her daughter would understand the connection.
Lord Willoughby was important in the Behn biographies; he had been governor of Surinam during the time Aphra was there, and it had long been speculated that some connection between their families might have been the reason the Johnson family made the journey to the colony. Proving the nature of the connection between the Willoughbys and the Johnsons would be an academic coup.
But why hadn't Aphra ever mentioned it, if that was the case? Because it would brand her a bastard? Charles II himself was busy creating a respectable number of the future duchies of England with his illegitimate progeny, but Lord Willoughby was not a king. Besides, Aphra's mother was married and a gentlewoman, even if she had married beneath her.
But was that all?
What if Aphra knew it was her illegitimate connection to Willoughby that brought about Lady Willoughby's betrayal of the plot? If Lady Willoughby's treachery were not generally known, it would be an added incentive for Aphra to keep quiet about her background. Aphra was a loyal soul, much more loyal than Billie. Here she was, a guest, sticking her nose where it didn't belong, trying to find out things people she cared for would rather keep secret. And for what? A hypothetical university job?
Billie got up and began to pace her small room. Did her own intentions constitute betrayal? In Billie's time, Aphra was over three hundred years dead — and so were the others involved.
The woman in Billie who loved a puzzle couldn't help feeling exhilarated at the way it all fit. If Aphra had done courier work before the Restoration, then how much more logical for her to be chosen to make contact with a known spy in Holland. And Lord Willoughby would have a reason to provide her family with an influential post in the colonies. Looked at in this way, the Willoughby-Culpepper-Johnson connection made much more sense — and Billie had finally uncovered something important, something that could give Behn scholarship a major kick. But — it wasn't a lost play or proof of Aphra's influence on later writers, anything that would enhance the literary reputation of Aphra Behn. Instead, it was a scandalous biographical detail. If she knew, Aphra would hardly be happy with Billie for using it to promote her academic career.
It also meant Billie no longer had any excuse to stay in the past. She'd discovered something decisive now; she should get back to her own time and try to prove what she'd learned to her contemporaries.
It might be a good idea to get the letter back to Mary Twysden's library first, though; if it remained in her pocket, no one would ever be able to find it. Besides, she still had a song to write for Aphra.
But of course those were only excuses. The problem was, these people meant a lot to her. The age they lived in was brutal and dirty and even more unjust than her own, but it would tear her heart out to leave them for good.
And it would tear her heart out to stay.
28
Ranter: Why, now I tell thee — my damn'd mad Fellow Daring, who has my Heart and Soul, loves Chrisante, has stolen her, and carried her away to his Tents; she hates him, while I am dying for him.
Jenny: Dying, Madam! I never saw you melancholy.
Ranter: Pox on't, no; why should I sigh and whine, and make my self an Ass, and him conceited? no, instead of snivelling I am resolved ... to beat the Rascal.
Aphra Behn, The Widow Ranter
Billie entered the sitting room with her guitar, and Aphra rose from the writing table. The small ten-string guitar was an extravagance Billie had indulged in, despite the way her store of guineas was evaporating. The lute was beautiful, a work of art, but she was more comfortable with a guitar — and it wasn't exactly shabby either. It was nearly as small as a violin but with a wider body, inlaid with rosettes of mother-of-pearl and semi-precious stones. She was beginning to accumulate too much stuff to take it all back to her own time.
“Thank you for setting the song so promptly, Clarinda,” Aphra said. “Tom Otway's Titus and Berenice is not doing as well as hoped, and Betterton and Smith want to move up the opening of The Rover. We need something to compete with Nat Lee's Rival Queens.”
“At least the King's Company is finally attracting audiences again,” Billie said, sitting down on the couch and adjusting her skirts to grip the guitar as she was wont. With Aphra, she could be so free. With most others in this century, it would be a minor scandal. “Perhaps Damon will not starve after all when he joins them.”
Aphra sighed and took a seat on a brocade chair opposite her. “True. And Nat Lee too is a friend. But such are the politics of rival houses.”
Billie played a few chords on the little guitar, watching her hostess closer than she would have three days ago. She wished she could stop, but her newfound knowledge had her constantly speculating. Her academic interest was ruining her friendship.
“I hope you will do my song justice,” Aphra said with a smile.
“So do I.”
Billie launched into the song. “When Damon first began to love, / He languisht in a soft Desire —”
Katherine opened the door to the sitting room. “A letter for you, madam,” she said, holding out a folded sheet of paper. Aphra looked up.
“For Mr. Armstrong,” Katherine added, and Aphra sat back, visibly disappointed.
Laying her guitar aside, Billie took the letter and broke the seal.
“What is it, Clarinda?” Aphra said.
Billie scanned the missive. “You were right about Mary Twysden's unexpected guest — and his reaction. The Earl of Winchilsea has forbidden me to visit her again.” This would make returning the letter difficult. But perhaps Mary would be willing to defy edicts from in-laws.
Aphra shook her head. “Trust a libertine to be the most rigid moralist with the women in his family.”
“That old man?” Billie asked, folding up her letter.
Aphra laughed. “That old man.” A shadow entered her eyes. “It was probably what killed poor Diana.”
“Broken heart?”
“The pox more like.”
“But there are cures for that!”
“Certainly. Which most of us have had to undergo at some point or another,” Aphra said with distaste. “But it is a crime to infect your wife and withhold a cure.”
“You have had to go through the sweating tubs too?” Billie said with surprise.
Aphra shrugged. “I am in good company. I know hardly a soul who has not: Etherege, Rochester, Wycherley, Ravenscroft, even Dryden, the poet laureate himself.”
“Ravenscroft?” Billie repeated. Cold shock gripped her. She had no idea how effective the cures for venereal disease were in the seventeenth century.
Aphra took Billie's free hand. “Clarinda, you need not worry! That was long before you returned to London!”
Billie stared down at the friendly hand gripping her own. Aphra was probably right. Ravenscroft showed no signs of disease, and neither did Billie.
“I still wish he'd told me.” A flutter of fear remained in her stomach.
Aphra shrugged, a wry grin on her face. “Perhaps we here in London can no longer react normally to the clap, since we've all had it.”
“Perhaps it is I who cannot react normally,” Billie said, gazing out the window opposite but not really seeing anything. “There will be a time when a disease like the French sickness will kill more than the London plague.”
“Stop!” Aphra said, jumping up and beginning to pace, and Billie returned to the past with an effort. “I do not want to know what the future holds, do you hear? I know you can do nothing about your strange gift, but I would fain hear no more!”
“I'm sorry,” Billie said. “I will try not to let it happen again.” She picked up the guitar again and began to play. “Would you care to hear you
r song?”
As Ravenscroft neared Aphra's house, his steps quickened. A week in the country was unbearable enough as it was, but just knowing Clarinda was in London made it all the worse. He had to smile at his own impatience. With Clarinda, he was no longer the libertine he prided himself on being, but he felt no loss of freedom. He wondered how long this strange sensation would last.
The chances were good that it would be a woman waiting for him rather than a lad. What he had not been able to achieve with bribes, Hoyle's anger with Aphra had done for him; Clarinda dressed in her female garb now more than her male. Strangely enough, he also missed “Will” when he had not seen him for some time. At the moment, though, he missed them both, intensely.
Katherine met him at the door with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Ravenscroft. Mrs. Armstrong is in the sitting room.”
Ravenscroft bounded up the few steps of the landing and threw open the door. Clarinda, dressed in a light blue watered silk gown with a shimmering white underskirt, put the small book she had been writing in into one of the pockets she wore, her eyes lighting up. Then almost immediately, joy was followed by a frown. He wondered what he'd done this time.
Ignoring the frown, he strode into the room, threw his hat on Astrea's writing table, and caught her in his arms. She smelled fresh and sweet, not like a decayed rose as many women seemed to. He took her face in his hands and covered her lips with his own, wanting more, now.
Billie came out of the kiss flushed and excited and no longer sure of herself or the subject she'd intended to bring up. He felt so good. She had to go back to her own century soon enough, she should be appreciating the time they still had. But the idea of syphilis scared her silly, and she needed to know.
She pushed Damon away gently. “There's something I have to discuss with you.”
The light in his eyes dimmed, and a resigned half smile pushed up one side of his face. “Must we talk about unpleasant things now?”
Billie nodded.
Ravenscroft took her face in his long-fingered hands again, giving her a gentle kiss. It made Billie feel infinitely precious and cared for, and it twisted her gut. “I swear, Clarinda,” he said, “I missed you every day I was away. There's no help for it; I must visit her now and again. 'Tis only pretense.”
Visit her? What the hell was he talking about? She suddenly felt so sick, she had to lean on Aphra's writing table. “Her?” she repeated stupidly, other complaints forgotten.
She thought she saw a flicker of alarm in Ravenscroft's eyes. “Didn't you want to speak with me about my visit to my wife?”
Billie felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her body. His wife?
She stared at the intricate pattern of braiding on his jacket, holding herself upright with an effort. How could she not have known? But he had never mentioned it — and she had never asked.
She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. But calm was not so easily had. She fought back the tears that threatened to overcome her and opened her eyes again. “You're married.”
“I thought you knew.”
She shook her head.
“I never hid anything from you.”
“You never mentioned it either.” Billie heard her own voice with surprise: flat and hollow, without a hint of anger. She felt drained, deadened, sideswiped, like a traffic victim sitting on the side of the road, wondering what had hit her. Anger would come later. Her stomach hurt.
Of course he had a wife. They all had wives — Rochester, Lovelace, Dryden, the King, the old Earl of Winchilsea; only Hoyle seemed incapable of making his fortune through marriage. She should have known. Just because Ravenscroft never mentioned her didn't mean a thing: the Earl never mentioned his wife either. The only reason Billie knew Rochester was married was from the comments Elizabeth Barry occasionally let fall. Apparently in this day and age, marriage was pretty meaningless, but — there it was, that big, fat but — Billie couldn't deal with it. Not that she had ever even considered of the possibility of marrying Ravenscroft, but his married state changed everything.
Ravenscroft began to pace. “Why should I mention it? No self-respecting man mentions his wife if he can help it.”
“I must have thought you would tell me anything important. But then, I don't know why I thought that either.”
He stopped in front of her and took her shoulders in his hands. “'Tis of little importance. I cannot understand why you are so upset!”
“Nor can I. Let go of me, please.” He released her, and she went over to the settee and sat down.
He sat down next to her and took her hands. “I'm sorry this hurts you; I meant no deceit.”
“I believe you.”
Ravenscroft took a deep breath. “I have not thought on it before, but I would fain marry you if I were free.”
Billie disengaged her hands and massaged her forehead. “That's not it. I couldn't marry you.”
“Why not?”
“I can't explain. Will you please leave? I need time to think.”
He pounded the upholstery of the settee with one clenched fist. “Damn.”
“Please, Damon.”
Ravenscroft stood and retrieved his hat from the table. He bent over her hand, his golden eyes hooded. Billie watched him go, feeling like there was a rather large hole where her heart had been. When the door closed behind him, she sat for a moment staring at it. But then almost as quickly as it had come, the lethargy was gone.
She had to get out of here.
She took the stairs to her room two at a time, despite the voluminous skirts. Once the door was closed behind her, she tore the feminine garments off as fast as she could — not nearly fast enough, complicated as they were. Opening her closet, she pulled out the Levi’s and lacy shirt she'd arrived in, tugging on the jeans with a deep sense of relief. Over her original finery she yanked on a silver-gray brocade vest and jacket. As she stuffed her notebook and a couple of mementos in her bag, she was horribly tempted to cry. She didn't. She couldn't arrive at her destination with a tear-stained face.
She grabbed her lute and was about to hurry down the stairs when she remembered her sword. Where she was going, she wouldn't need the thing, but she shouldn't be running around seventeenth century London without it. That taken care of, she left the house and headed in the direction of the Dorset Garden Theatre.
Unfortunately, the theater was full. Billie had completely forgotten that rehearsals for The Rover were being held today. Aphra was on stage with several actors and actresses; those not needed for the scene in progress were backstage, making a spontaneous disappearance through the looking glass impossible.
Billie sank down onto one of the benches in the pit, willing her beating heart to still, and tried to concentrate on the interaction on stage. It wasn't as hard as she might at first have expected — a little like going to a movie when depressed.
Betterton was playing the romantic lover, the foil to the rover, Willmore. His encroaching beer belly made the role seem slightly silly, but willing suspension of disbelief was a much more important part of the seventeenth century stage than movies in her own time. The role was a bit of a comedown for Betterton — in The Man of Mode, he'd been the one to play the fascinating rakehell, Dorimant, Etherege's fictional version of his friend the Earl of Rochester. Aphra had chosen Will Smith for the role of the faithless rover instead.
Betterton assumed a dramatic stance, looking up toward one of the balconies on the side of the stage, and recited, “What means this? The picture's taken in.” The acting was a bit exaggerated, but subtle gestures were hardly appropriate in a theater that seated nearly a thousand. The building was designed in such a way that not even the seats in the upper gallery were as far away as the middle row in Billie's high school auditorium, but it still didn't allow for close-ups.
The actor Cave Underhill cocked his head on one side. He was playing the comic role of Blunt — a name Aphra had probably given the character with Underhill in mind, with his flat, sho
rt nose and almost brutish features. “It may be the Wench is good-natur'd, and will be kind gratis,” Underhill said. “Your Friend's a proper handsome Fellow.”
“I rather think she has cut his Throat and is fled,” Betterton replied with the perfect sarcastic intonation. He wasn't crying for Hecuba, but he was a good actor nonetheless. It was no wonder that a vague memory of his reputation had survived for centuries. He'd even succeeded in diverting Billie from her problems. On the other hand, that could also mean she was shallow. She'd always known she wasn't the type to suffer from metaphysical angst, a discipline she found a complete and utter waste of time. But if she could be distracted so easily from her own heartbreak, did that make her an emotional cripple?
Maybe it just meant Ravenscroft did not deserve her heartbreak.
She glanced at Aphra, standing on the far side of the stage watching the action, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Elizabeth Barry, to Aphra's left in the posture of an attentive eavesdropper, had one of those obvious asides that was so difficult for a viewer accustomed to cinematic conventions to swallow. “My heart goes a-pit a-pat, for fear 'tis my Man they talk of.” Elizabeth was playing the role of Hellena, the virginal, sharp-tongued young thing in love with the rover.
Betterton knocked on a door on the right side of the stage, and Elinor Leigh appeared in a window above. “What would you have?”
“Tell the Stranger that enter'd here about two Hours ago, that his Friends stay here for him,” Betterton replied. After a short pause, the actor playing Willmore entered the stage with a swagger and a wide grin. Billie understood immediately why Aphra had chosen Smith instead of Betterton — despite everything she'd said the night she read from her play, on stage the actor distinctly resembled John Hoyle.
“I, I, 'tis he,” Elizabeth Barry said, her voice sinking. “Oh how this vexes me.”
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