“Nonetheless, you need practice, lad.”
“I'm a musician, not a fighter,” Billie said, the voices of Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson dancing through her brain.
“Even musicians are forced to fight now and again. Here, let me show you a little trick for the riposte.” Ravenscroft put his arm around Billie and brought her right arm into fencing position. Billie's cheeks grew warm. “Now when you parry my attack,” Ravenscroft said, guiding her arm, his voice gentle, “immediately go into a lunge, like so.” He pushed her forward, arm to arm and knee to knee.
Billie drew in a quick breath. “I don't believe this,” she muttered to herself, memories of Lance in his backyard with the fencing club superimposing on the seventeenth century scene. “Why does life always repeat itself?”
Ravenscroft released and faced her, his expressive eyebrows shooting up. “Life has a very limited repertoire of possibilities, lad. If we want a bit of fun and originality, we are responsible for it ourselves.”
“Hah!” Billie snorted. “I did not say life had nothing original to offer, only that it repeats itself. But it repeats itself in very strange ways.”
When they arrived at Will's Coffee House, Billie was in need of a warm beverage. Despite the brisk walk, the sweat was congealing on her body. She gripped the folds of her cape tight and headed for the fire, Ravenscroft following.
“Ah, Will, 'tis as if you could read my mind!” Ravenscroft murmured in her ear.
Pulling off her leather gloves, she stretched her cold hands out to the fire. Next to her, a portly gentleman gave a start, his eyes trained on Ravenscroft, who bowed low with an exaggerated flourish.
Ravenscroft straightened again, pulling the long hair out of his face, the light in his eyes a challenge. “Mr. Dryden!” he said with sham surprise. “How fortunate I should find you here! I hear we will finally be graced with a new play from your prolific pen tomorrow. Will it be another uplifting heroic tragedy?”
So this was the famous Dryden! Billie inspected him curiously. He wasn't as impressive as his reputation; he had fat lips and shifty eyes.
“Good day, Mr. Ravenscroft,” Dryden said with a nervous nod. “No, it will not be a tragedy. In my next work, I return to comedy.”
“But surely 'twill not be a farce?” Ravenscroft asked, brimming over with irrepressible high spirits. Those close enough to hear chuckled. Billie didn't know exactly what was going on, but she had to admit she was impressed that John Dryden found Ravenscroft important enough to attack, whatever the reason.
Dryden tried to smile. “Of course it is not a farce. That is your specialty, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“No, no, Mr. Dryden. Every writer of farce must look to you for inspiration. How could we young poets possibly compete with the feats of Almanzor, the bully hero who slew ten armies in a day!” A crowd was beginning to gather around the rival playwrights, and at Ravenscroft's jab, the onlookers laughed. For the first time in her life, Billie wished she'd read more Dryden.
A thin, older gentleman spoke up. “Mr. Ravenscroft has the right of it: such heroes make for the best farce.”
Ravenscroft turned to his supporter. “Precisely, Mr. Boyle! Almanzor is so extravagant, he is a parody of himself.” Billie leaned on the mantelpiece to watch, grinning. “Or in Tyrannick Love,” Ravenscroft continued. “What a stroke of genius, to have the heroine rise from the dead to speak her own epilogue!”
Dryden nodded, obviously uncomfortable. “I do admit, the audience roared at that,” he said, fiddling with the notebook on his knee. Billie could almost have felt sorry for him — if she hadn't known that history had vindicated him and banished the high-spirited Ravenscroft to oblivion.
She spied Aphra beyond the circle of onlookers and left her spot near the fire. Making Aphra a gallant bow, she kissed her hand like a true cavalier. “Forgive me for not joining you immediately, ma'am, but I was too cold and tired to notice your presence. I had eyes only for the fire.”
Aphra laughed gaily. “And your friend only for his enemy, I see.”
Billie glanced back at the fireplace where Ravenscroft was grinning and Dryden was squirming. “Too true. I am no longer wanted. May I join you?”
“I do not like being second choice,” Aphra teased.
“Let me assure you, that is not the case at all. Mr. Ravenscroft is fascinating but very exhausting.” Billie sank into the chair opposite Aphra.
“Yes, I heard you had a skirmish in the park with him just now,” Aphra said. “Very eccentric, our Damon. He will duel anywhere.”
“You heard about the sword fight already?” Billie said.
“This coffee house is the best place for news in all of London.”
A serving girl brought the coffee to their table, and it dawned on Billie that besides her, they were the only women in the room — and Billie was dressed as a man. Nonetheless, Aphra braved the masculine bastion, just as she'd braved the circle of male wits and wordsmiths.
Aphra took a delicate sip of her coffee. “Will, you needn't go to such lengths, you know. You are giving an excellent performance.”
“He forced me into the situation.”
“And you acquitted yourself admirably.” Aphra smiled and shook her head slowly. “'Tis amazing how you play the youth to such perfection,” she said so low that only Billie could hear.
Billie glanced back at Ravenscroft. “He suspects something.”
A dimple appeared in Aphra's cheek. “Of course, my dear! I want him to. But he doesn't know, does he?” Billie shook her head. “You are too perfect, both as maid and youth.”
It was strange, but in the seventeenth century that was close to true. All Billie had to do was change her clothes, and she changed her gender along with them. With a pair of pants and a flick of the wrist she could manipulate people's reactions. She leaned back in her chair and stretched out one long booted leg, a lazy smile curling her lips.
Aphra leaned over the table, laughing, and placed her small hand over Billie's. Out of the corner of her eye, Billie saw Ravenscroft glance over at them during a lull in his literary feud. His gaze lowered to their joined hands on the table, and his eyes narrowed.
“I will be sure to be there on the morrow, Mr. Dryden,” Ravenscroft said with a low bow. “Your servant.” As he approached them, Billie started away from Aphra as if they were a guilty couple.
“Have you made the man a mouse yet, dear Damon?” Aphra asked, while Billie expended great concentration on shaking out the lace at her wrists.
“Not quite, but tomorrow the work will be complete,” Ravenscroft drawled. He stared at the top of Billie's head, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.
“Is the prospect of revenge sweet, Mr. Ravenscroft?” she asked innocently.
His gaze held hers. “Quite.”
5
“Damne this pineing, whineing, puleing, peaking, sneaking, sniveling Love...”
Edward Ravenscroft, The Careless Lovers
Edward Ravenscroft smoothed the lace cravat against the satin of his vest as he examined his image in the mirror. He was dressed in a gray suit decorated with a delicate pattern of leaves in black; the wide sleeves of his silk shirt billowed out below those of his jacket, which was trimmed with black lace and embellished with a closely-spaced row of black buttons. Ravenscroft was pleased with what he saw. He was vain and he knew it, but what was a wit without a little vanity? In this day of lace and pearls, a man had best see to his appearance — without becoming a fop, that is. The importance of cutting a figure couldn't be underestimated.
Which would be particularly important tonight. At the thought of the upcoming confrontation, Ravenscroft thrilled with anticipation. He enjoyed causing a stir, and the prospect of a fight, be it a duel of swords or of wits, invariably made his pulse beat faster. This time, however, his excitement was intensified by a question: who would accompany Astrea to the play, Will or Clarinda? Ravenscroft was reasonably certain both would not show up, but it gave the occasion added spice not
knowing which it would be.
From the moment Ravenscroft first spoke with Will at the Duke's Theatre, the lad had presented a puzzle. He looked like a green youth, but his keen eyes were much too clever for his face, observant and quick, taking in the interactions between everyone on stage at a glance. Ravenscroft smiled to himself; even though he suspected Aphra's companion was a woman, he still thought of “her” as “Will.”
What if Will really was a lad? Ravenscroft found the youth as well as the maid highly attractive, but he didn't have Hoyle's proclivities. Somehow the thought of a smooth-skinned young man, attractive as he was, did not make his blood pound. The thought of Will as a woman did. But until he knew the truth, Ravenscroft was quite willing to pursue the mysterious object — Will made as entertaining a companion as Clarinda made a beautiful woman. If the entertaining companion might also become a partner between the sheets, he suspected she would be able to divert him much longer than his usual conquests.
Ravenscroft picked up a black beaver hat with a long gray plume from the table and gave his reflection one last appraising glance. He could please himself, but could he please the dark-haired beauty?
Billie played with one of the curls arranged so artfully around her neck and gave her reflection a troubled smile. She had been here four days now, and she was no closer to figuring out how to get back. The last day of the symposium, the last day the exhibit would be showing, and she had no excuse to visit the Dorset Garden Theater — and no idea what to do even if she did. Given how little contemporary poetry she'd memorized, it had occurred to her that song lyrics might work. Ever since, she'd recited songs from everything she could think of — from The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Seconds to Mars and Adele and dozens of other artists — to every mirror in Aphra's house that she could find. Nothing. She had to get away today, had to try the song lyrics at the Dorset Garden Theatre. The mirror there had to be the key. Otherwise ... no, she wouldn't consider an otherwise.
She wondered if Richard had contacted her parents, or if he was convinced she had run off with a street musician and had washed his hands of her. But what would he think when she didn't show up at some point to pick up her things? After their disagreement, he'd probably done his best to pretend he didn't care if she turned up at their door again or not. But she was responsible for the exhibit. And when she didn't finish setting it up, someone would have to start looking for her.
Billie got up from the padded stool in front of the dresser, her long skirts rustling as she moved, and went to the gilt closet where her own clothes were folded neatly in a pile. The heavy silks swayed against her skin, giving her a decadently sensual pleasure, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was at a costume party. She would be so much more at home in her old jeans. Her “men's” apparel. As she pulled the black Levi’s out of the closet, her wallet fell out of the back pocket. The little spiral notebook was still there too, wedged in too tightly to slip out.
She bent down and picked up the wallet to find Richard staring up at her with that slight, sexy smile of his, heavy to one side of his face, the smile that had done her in back in another world, far in the future. Behind that was a picture of the two of them in front of the steps of the college. Billie drew a deep breath. Right now, Richard would be either madder than she'd ever seen, or so cold she didn't know if he would even speak with her. How would she ever be able to explain her inexplicable disappearance to him?
Assuming she was able to get out of the seventeenth century, that is.
She fought back the tears threatening to spill over. Through the window of her room she could hear the hawkers on Fleet Street not far away, “Hot baked pears and pippins!” “Holland socks, four pairs for a shilling!” Despite the sounds and sights — the exhilaration of wearing yards of silk, of being courted by a man who looked like he was straight out of a swashbuckler film, of actually meeting her idol, Aphra Behn — Billie was homesick. The seventeenth century was dirty and violent, existence was insecure, and she didn't have the foggiest idea how to behave much of the time. The clothes were beautiful but constricting; Ravenscroft was attractive but inscrutable; and Aphra — Aphra was everything Billie ever dreamed she would be, but she wasn't enough to make life in this age of extremes endurable. If Aphra hadn't taken her in, she didn't know how she would have survived. The seventeenth century might be a nice place to visit, but she sure didn't want to live here.
Billie sat down in front of the mirror, and a stranger from a costume drama stared back. If only she knew how to get home. If she knew a way back, she might even enjoy staying in this era for a while. As long as she felt trapped, she wouldn't be able to appreciate Aphra's company, or the research opportunities time travel provided, or ... or what? When she was able to forget the seriousness of her situation, Billie had fun deceiving the general public with her double role, but she'd be enjoying it even more if she had the freedom to leave.
She had to get home. But how? When she'd stumbled into the past, she was surrounded by artifacts from Aphra and antiques from the Restoration. The only things she had from the future were the clothes she'd been wearing when she came. Was it a one-way deal? Billie refused to believe it — if there was a way here, there had to be a way back.
Billie leaned her head against the glass, and her well-arranged curls tumbled over her shoulders.
As Billie entered the parlor, a slight frown still creased her forehead. Aphra, pen in hand, was sitting at an elaborately carved writing table pushed up against the wall opposite the door.
“What is it, Clarinda?” Aphra asked immediately, laying her pen down.
“Oh, I didn't want to disturb you,” Billie said, starting to back out the door.
“No, no, stay, my dear. You look troubled. Is it Ravenscroft?”
She shook her head. Just utter panic that I will never get home again.
Aphra took her hand and drew her close. “Peace, lass. We all have our secrets.”
Billie wouldn't exactly call it a secret, although on one level it was — she was not about to try and convince anyone that she'd been propelled over three hundred years into the past. Billie looked down at the carpet, hoping Aphra would interpret her gesture as agreement. That way, she could continue to construct a history for herself without getting involved in too many lies.
“Surely you are not with child?” Aphra asked, a note of alarm in her voice.
Billie thought of her own reaction after tumbling through the looking glass, and she almost laughed. It was amazing the talent Aphra had for improving her mood, even when she didn't intend to.
Billie shook her head emphatically. “No, nothing like that.”
“Good. That would complicate matters.” Aphra squeezed her hand and released it. “Something to do will relieve your melancholy. Have you been working on the music I gave you?”
“I don't know if I understand the notation,” Billie admitted. “But I think I have found a way to play it.”
Aphra leaned back in her chair, motioning for Billie to take a seat. “No matter. Monday is another rehearsal for my Dutch Lover. I must instruct the actors again, and we can go through the song then. That reminds me — there is a music meeting Friday at the house of Mr. Bannister, the composer. Would you like to come along?”
“Music meeting?”
“A small concert, very pleasant.”
Billie hoped she wouldn't be around to attend, but she could hardly tell Aphra that. “Shall I appear as a man or a woman?” she asked, smiling.
Aphra returned the smile. “That is entirely up to you, my dear. Ah, I believe Damon has arrived.”
Katherine ushered Ravenscroft into the parlor, and the two women rose to greet him. Billie couldn't help noticing the way he took in her feminine toilet, a robe of blue silk trimmed with silver lace, or the molten gold light in his eyes when he rose from an impeccable bow.
“Welcome, Damon,” Aphra said. “Are you ready for the confrontation?”
“Very much so. Shall we go? We could e
ach take a chair.”
“I don't want to take a chair,” Billie protested. The thought of using other humans as a means of transportation made her shudder.
“We could walk,” Aphra suggested.
“'Tis a fine day,” Ravenscroft said, nodding.
“Where is the playhouse?” Billie asked.
“At Lincoln's Inn Fields, just north of here off Chancery Lane,” Aphra said.
Billie inclined her head in agreement to the plan. They were in the middle of town, and the smell of the open sewers would be overpowering, but it was better than having people carrying her around.
They descended the steps to the street, and Ravenscroft offered his arms to the two ladies. In this era without electricity, theater performances were in the afternoon, to take advantage of natural light. The weather was more pleasant than Billie expected, brisk but fine, winter sunshine taking the edge off the cold. It had rained the night before, and at least the smell of smoke in the air was not as bad as usual.
They turned down Chancery Lane, Billie doing her best to imitate the sedate walk of the ladies she observed. Her natural long stride was more appropriate to her male garb.
“I still don't quite understand how this little literary feud got started,” Billie said. “What do you have against Dryden, or he against you, Mr. Ravenscroft?”
“Dryden takes himself much too seriously. He can write a good comedy, but his heart is in his heroics.” His eyes rested on her with a look that made her feel like she could give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money, but he did it without making her want to slap him. It was a trick most guys in the twenty-first century seemed to have forgotten; many either leered or acted like a buddy. She preferred the buddy and told the ones who leered in no uncertain terms what she thought of them, but she was at a loss how to deal with an admiring glance like Ravenscroft's.
“But that's no reason to cry down the play,” Billie said, proud of herself for actually using that little phrase in conversation.
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