But seeing as she was not actually a man, nor was she comfortable as a woman in the Restoration, it did not bode well for her survival in this century.
Through all the introductions and curious inspections, Greenhill and Ravenscroft remained at her side, Ravenscroft growing visibly irritated. Billie loved it. The man had absolutely no right to be jealous, after all, and Greenhill was amusing, wild and humorous, drinking heavily of the sparkling wine everyone referred to as “new” and relating anecdotes about the other guests. She liked him. He was much more her type than Ravenscroft. But for some reason, her gaze kept straying back to her earlier acquaintance, checking how he was taking Greenhill's attentions.
“Ah, there comes Astrea's young protégée, Elizabeth Barry,” Greenhill said, indicating a short, dark figure coming their way. He lowered his voice and whispered in Billie's ear. “The playwright has given her a role in her new play, but Mrs. Barry had best be an exceptional actress — she has no beauty to speak of.”
Billie had heard of Elizabeth Barry before, and if it was one of the few names she'd retained from her cursory reading of theatrical history, the actress must have become quite famous, despite Greenhill's patronizing remarks. It was true that Elizabeth Barry wasn't beautiful, with her hooked nose and slight squint, but her dark eyes were arresting, and she moved with purpose.
“Faith, 'tis the fallen Mr. Boys following her,” Greenhill continued, grinning. “Soon the cabal will be complete,” he added in a louder voice.
“Cabal?” Billie repeated.
“Mrs. Behn has a cabal to rival that of the King.”
“Surely not that of the King, Mr. Greenhill,” Aphra protested. “Our intrigues are a matter of reputation, hardly of political importance.”
Billie watched Boys bow over Aphra's hand as Elizabeth Barry stood by, blushing — because Boys had so recently been Aphra's paramour? The actress did not have the delicate kind of blush that was becoming; it flushed her whole face rather than just dusting her cheekbones. Aphra and Boys, however, acted as if nothing were amiss. As they exchanged superficial greetings, Billie inspected the blond-wigged cavalier under her lashes. He really was quite a beauty, despite the ridiculous wig. By seventeenth century standards, the wig wasn't ridiculous at all — several gentlemen present sported stiff ringlets that made Billie want to gape and laugh. She wondered if they shaved their heads to wear the things, or if they just cut their hair short.
A red-faced gentleman in a much more elaborate wig than that of Boys was making his way directly towards them, and Aphra smiled. “Sir Thomas! I wasn't aware you were in London! You are so often out of town.”
“Aphra, my dear,” the gentleman said, bending over her hand. “Who is your lovely companion?”
“This is Clarinda Armstrong, my American friend. She is staying with me. Clarinda, this is Thomas Culpepper, an old acquaintance. You could say we grew up together.”
Someone Aphra grew up with! Billie had the strangest urge to immediately pick his brains. So little was known about Aphra's early years, if she found out something she could capitalize on in the twenty-first century, her career would be made.
But she might not ever make it back to the twenty-first century.
Billie found herself clenching her hands at her sides. Perhaps giving up hope was impossible. And perhaps she should try to corner Culpepper alone sometime.
On the other hand, it might not be such a good idea while she was dressed as a woman, given the way his gaze was traveling from her waist to her breasts to her lips and back.
After Sir Thomas excused himself to make a leg to the rest of his acquaintances, Hoyle took Aphra by the elbow and drew her aside. “Your companion is quite the rage.”
Aphra glanced over at Clarinda and her circle of admirers, pleased with both herself and her guest. Ravenscroft was standing immediately behind Clarinda, his arms folded in front of his chest, a forced smile on his face. “She is, isn't she? And Ravenscroft doesn't care for it.”
Hoyle lifted one dark eyebrow. “He would have us all believe he is the most careless of lovers, but his actions do not match his words.”
“Greenhill's interest is hardly excessive,” Aphra observed, repressing a laugh. “But Ravenscroft's jealousy is.”
“What is to be said?” Hoyle shrugged. “The man was born under a jealous sign.”
“And you were not?”
“The freedom I claim for myself I also grant.”
“Ha!” Aphra looked straight into Hoyle's black eyes. “I doubt it. Every man I have ever known claims a freedom for himself that he is unwilling to grant another.”
“Would you fain put me to the test, madam?” Hoyle said, his voice ironic but his dark eyes fierce, demanding a response from her that she was surprised to find herself supplying.
Aphra had long been aware of Hoyle's fascination for her sex — and his own as well — but she'd considered herself immune. Or, if not immune, then appreciative on a merely aesthetic level. She had even once warned a friend about him, publicly, in a poetic broadside. Perhaps that was the reason he was so attentive tonight — he knew about the poem and considered her a challenge? Whatever it was, she had never been the recipient of the full force of his charm until now. Force was doubly appropriate when applied to Hoyle. He did not court with gentle words and melting looks.
But was he courting her? Aphra did not want to get entangled with the likes of Hoyle, a man proud of the way he loved and left, a man of false love and false promises — like Will Scot. Aphra had learned her lesson on the other side of the world.
She had thought.
“Ah, there is Mr. Dryden with Mistress Reeves and Mr. Killigrew,” Hoyle remarked.
“The poet laureate looks rather pale,” Aphra said. “Could it be the fair mistress on his arm has given him a touch of the French disease?” Aphra tried hard not to envy her pudgy colleague. She admired his writing, but he had the connections and the money to disregard taste and write as he pleased, and then the gall to criticize others when they wrote to please the crowd. His marriage to Elizabeth Howard had come after the scandal with the Earl of Stanhope made her despair of a party of her own rank, and it was no coincidence that Dryden's first play was produced by the King's Company the same year: Elizabeth's brother was a supporter of the Company and a good friend of Thomas Killigrew, the manager.
“Given Dryden's association with Mrs. Reeves, and her association with so many others, it would not be surprising if a visit to the sweat-tubs were in order,” Hoyle said with a sadistic smile. “But perhaps it is the failure of his play, my dear. And he will hardly be pleased with you for that.”
“'Twas not I who cried it down,” Aphra said.
“But your presence condoned it.”
“Then I will have to do without an epilogue from his pen. He surely would not fail of his word otherwise.”
“Did Dryden promise you an epilogue for your Dutch Lover?” Hoyle asked.
Aphra nodded. “He said he owed me a favor for the feathers of the Indian princess that I brought from the colonies.”
“You had best look to another then.”
“I will twit him on it,” Aphra said.
“I don't doubt you will,” Hoyle said, his voice warm. His eyes rested on her with a look that was more than admiring.
If he wasn't courting her, then she no longer knew the meaning of the word.
Billie enjoyed the baroque music more than the baroque furnishings; it wasn't nearly as bombastic. The music and the champagne and Ravenscroft's presence beside her were a heady combination. And then there was the thrill of hearing a tune by the child prodigy, Henry Purcell. Billie had, of course, heard of the famous composer, but she hadn't known that he was already famous when he was barely a teenager.
At the end of the piece, a pleasant chaconne for strings, the beardless composer took a bow and thanked the audience so sweetly, Billie would have liked him even if she hadn't known that he would eventually write the score for a revival of Aphra'
s play Abdelazer.
At a break in the music, Ravenscroft rose, offering his arm. “Shall we avail ourselves of more of this bubbly new beverage, madam?” Billie glanced at Aphra and Hoyle, who had their heads together, oblivious to the world, and stood, hooking her hand through the proffered elbow.
“A breath of fresh air first?” Ravenscroft suggested. Billie nodded. The overwhelming stench of the competing perfumes combined with the heat from countless candles were making her light-headed. The terrace was probably not a wise place to go with Ravenscroft alone, but the seventeenth-century champagne made her daring. Champagne was always a good excuse. Besides, she had quarreled with her boyfriend, and he was far away — over three centuries away — and she needed a little distraction from her worries. Most of all, there was something incredibly charming about Ravenscroft. Damon. She liked the pastoral name Aphra gave him, better than his Christian name, Edward, which sounded so fuddy-duddy.
The look in those gold-tinged eyes was openly erotic, a look that seemed to predate Puritanism. But of course that wasn't true, either; England was only just emerging from Cromwell's rule. But it had been such a short reign, maybe it hadn't affected the way people gazed at each other yet.
She was staring. She was staring and she didn't care. Ravenscroft stared back, pulling her gently through the curtains into the frosty night air. Billie was grateful for the yards and yards of fabric encasing her.
Ravenscroft gave a short shake of his head.
“What?” Billie asked.
“I swear America breeds the most arresting beauties. And the most unconventional.”
Billie's ears grew hot despite the cold air. “Why do you say that?”
“London is full of beautiful women, but none that I know are both youth and maid.”
“I don't understand you, sir.”
“Come, come, we abandoned the 'sir' long ago, did we not?”
“I wouldn't exactly call it long. . .” Billie began and stopped abruptly. Shit! She could kick herself! That had been a conversation with “Will,” not “Clarinda.”
Ravenscroft let out a bark of triumphant laughter, his hand tightening on her arm. “Yes! I have you!”
“You don't have anything, Mr. Ravenscroft,” Billie insisted with more calm than she felt.
“I know that you and your 'cousin' are one and the same.”
“You thought you knew that before, did you not?”
Ravenscroft smiled. “But I was not as sure of myself as I am now.”
“What do you really know? Yes, there is a masquerade going on, but who is the one wearing the mask?” Billie wasn't sure if she even knew the answer to that herself.
“Excellent creature!” Ravenscroft said, chuckling. “You are the talk of the town, you know. At Will's Coffee House, the bets are even as to whether you are truly Will or Clarinda.”
“Why should everyone think the two of us are one and the same?”
Ravenscroft gripped her upper arm gently and pulled her around to face him. “My dear! How would you explain the appearance of two young Americans staying with one of the celebrities of London, two young Americans who never appear in the same place at the same time? The way the disappearance of the one corresponds with the appearance of the other is too obvious. But I take it you and Astrea want it that way. You are both much too clever to make such mistakes.”
“For all you know, I might be incredibly stupid. We only met a few days ago.”
Ravenscroft shrugged. “You might be, but Astrea is not.”
Billie laughed and shook her head. “Touché. I do like you. But it's time we went back in, don't you think?” She placed her palm against his chest, trying to push him gently in the direction of the door.
Ravenscroft caught her hand in his and drew it to his lips. “No, I do not think.”
Billie's stomach did a triple axle or something very much like it. “I'm getting cold,” she said, trying not to let her own excitement creep into her voice. “Would you let me pass?”
“Nay, madam, you are not to pass, not yet.” His lightly humorous tone and her own muddled feelings made it impossible for her to be angry. He was staring at her with a hint of a smile and pupils widened with desire. Billie stared back.
“What would you be at?”
“The man's at what he would be at — he's at you.”
“But you don't know who I am. You don't even know if I'm youth or maid.”
Ravenscroft drew her close to him slowly. “At the moment, you're maid enough for me.”
“Do you think so?”
“Gad, do I.”
At the intensity in his voice, Billie could no longer contain a ragged sigh. Impulsively, she leaned into Ravenscroft until their lips touched. After all the verbal foreplay, there was a kind of relief in the contact. Desire washed over Billie as Ravenscroft moved his mouth across hers, gentle and demanding.
So a good kiss was pretty much the same in the seventeenth century. And this man was hot.
As Ravenscroft put his arm around her shoulders, Billie came to her senses and pushed him away. “Enough,” she said.
“Hardly.” He looked as dazed as she felt, but the sardonic glint quickly returned to his eyes.
“I can't have you uncovering my secret now, can I?” If she stayed out here much longer with this man, he would.
Ravenscroft shrugged. “I would be happy to uncover more than that.”
Billie blushed and laughed. “Not yet, you don't. I must return to Aphra.” She hurried back into the house, her stride that of her usual self, not the so-called feminine walk she adopted when in skirts. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she slowed down. She hoped her face wasn't too flushed. That had been close.
She should probably stop drinking champagne.
Ravenscroft leaned against the door frame and watched her move away with a wrench in his gut. Damn! He had been so close to finding out exactly what it was he was after!
7
“But Uncle, it is not now as it was in your young dayes, Women then were poor sneaking sheepish Creatures. But in this Age, we know our own strength, and have wit enough to make use of our Talents.”
Edward Ravenscroft, The Careless Lovers
Following the music meeting, Billie returned to wearing her male garb. The incident with Ravenscroft had been too much for her; Clarinda was “in the country.”
When she entered the sitting room one morning, Aphra was at her desk, pen in hand and a half-smile playing about her lips. She looked up at Billie's entrance, and her smile widened.
“Clarinda, I'm working on a new song. Could you perhaps help me with a melody so that we can add it to my Dutch Lover? I have the perfect scene for it!”
“On such short notice?” Billie asked. “Will that not be a problem for the actors?”
Aphra gave a nonchalant wave of one hand. “Oh, changes are often made close to performance. It only affects the actress who will sing the song.” She handed Billie a sheet of paper covered with impetuous handwriting. Billie scanned it, understanding only half; it would take her a while to decipher the seventeenth-century script.
“A love song, I see,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
Aphra shrugged. “What song isn't a love song?”
Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road, Billie thought. She wanted to get back to her own time. “Is it for anyone in particular?”
“Must you ask?”
At Aphra's happy smile, Billie tried to repress her misgivings. Aphra and Hoyle were making rapid progress in intimacy. Hoyle had become a daily visitor, and Aphra was often away. She shrugged and smiled. “No, not really.”
Aphra laid down her pen. “And what of you, my dear?”
She understood the question immediately — Ravenscroft was one of Aphra's best friends, after all.
“Damon is quite downcast,” Aphra added.
“He'll survive,” Billie said shortly. “I'll put this to music for you now, if you'd like.”
Aphra nodded.
“If you could finish it before the rehearsal, I'd be grateful.”
Billie returned to her room, angry at herself for the heat in her cheeks from the brief reference to Ravenscroft.
She laid the sheet with the lyrics on her bed and settled down with the lute Ravenscroft had given. The strings against her fingertips comforted her; the feel of the pear-shaped body against her abdomen, the smooth wood through the thin linen of her shirt — all that anchored her in the here and now, wherever that might be.
Aphra's addition to her play was a cheery seduction song, so Billie began to improvise with a standard succession of major chords. Minor chords were out, but a diminished thrown in here and there could provide a bit of variation. After little more than an hour, Billie had created a simple tune she hoped Aphra would like and returned to the sitting room with her lute under her arm.
Aphra rose. “What — finished already?”
Billie nodded. “Shall I play it for you?”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Aphra sank into the love seat. “Let us hear it!”
Billie sat down in an overstuffed chair opposite her hostess and launched into the bawdy ballad:
“Down there we sat upon the Moss,
“And did begin to play
“A thousand wanton Tricks, to pass
“The heat of all the day.
“A many Kisses he did give,
“And I return'd the same:
“Which made me willing to receive
“That which I dare not name.”
Aphra clapped her hands when Billie was done. “Tis lovely, Clarinda! I find it hard to believe you wrote the song in such a short space of time!”
“I didn't write the song, you did,” Billie said, smiling broadly. There was hardly anyone in any age whose praise could have meant more to her than that of Aphra Behn. “Finding a melody is easy — it's the words that are hard.”
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