Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  “Aphra should be in the pit, but I don't guarantee you will have any success in finding her.”

  “But surely after the play?” Billie asked.

  The door to the tiring room opened again, and a brilliant vision in a suit of red brocade and a sumptuous blond wig stood in the doorway, eying them with a look of deliberate unconcern. He ignored Billie and addressed the actress. “What after the play? Should you not be preparing for your entrance, my love, rather than dallying with beardless youths?”

  Elizabeth squared her shoulders at the tone in the gallant's voice. “I was telling Mr. Armstrong that Astrea would be in the pit, but he might not be able to find her until after the play. You remember Mr. Armstrong, my lord?”

  The figure in red turned his attention reluctantly to Billie. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure.”

  “Mr. Armstrong and his cousin were guests of Aphra's several years ago. Do you not recall the American cousins?”

  “Ah!” the fine gentleman said, his eyebrows arching as he gave Billie a searching look, very different from the jealous glance he'd shot at her on his arrival.

  “Excuse me for my lapse in manners,” Elizabeth said to Billie. “Will Armstrong, this is John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester.”

  Billie stared. The Earl of Rochester had been a great friend of the King himself, and was supposedly one of the all-time greatest writers of erotic poetry. Billie couldn't judge, since the stuff rarely made it into the anthologies, and she'd never gone to the trouble of finding it. Rochester was one of the most famous libertines of the Restoration, the historical prototype of the rake-hero. Under the circumstances, his show of jealousy when Billie was kissing Elizabeth's hand was mildly ridiculous.

  That the man had the potential to be quite a lady-killer was undeniable. His nose was perhaps a bit too long and his lips a bit too full, but otherwise his features displayed a classical perfection. The hint of a smile played around his mouth, pushing up cheeks too smooth for the rings under his eyes and the lines on his forehead. Billie could just imagine what a heart-stopper he must have been a couple of years ago. But even with the yellow tinge to the whites of his eyes, Rochester was still gorgeous.

  And he didn’t look the least bit like Johnny Depp.

  “My pleasure,” Billie said, bowing.

  Elizabeth Barry sat down in a chair in front of the mirror. “Would you accompany Mr. Armstrong to the pit, my lord? As you pointed out, it is soon time for my entrance.”

  “How can I resist a request from my fair charmer?” Rochester kissed the actress's hand.

  “Easily, as I well know,” Barry said, taking up a rouge pot and turning to inspect her reflection. It was a blatant invitation to go.

  “Do you mind if I leave my lute here, madam?” Billie asked.

  “Certainly not, Mr. Armstrong. Just see that you take the Earl of Rochester with you.”

  Except for the poem she'd quoted to get back to the Restoration, Billie didn't much care for Abdelazer. She appeared to be in the minority, however. At the sight of the ranting and raving on stage, the audience was much quieter and more focused than Billie had ever experienced in the seventeenth century. The wits, the ladies, the masks — all flirted at a lower volume than usual. The orange girls cried their wares intermittently when at all, their attention fixed on Betterton in blackface and Barry in tears.

  “Would you not say I trained her well, Mr. Armstrong?” Rochester asked with a proprietary tone.

  “You trained Mrs. Barry?” Billie asked.

  Rochester nodded, a light in his eyes that surprised her. While he claimed responsibility for the actress's talent, it appeared he admired her abilities anyway. Billie looked away from the libertine and back to the stage — and Elizabeth Barry's very real tears. “I congratulate you, sir. She is much improved since I last saw her on stage.”

  “She is the best,” Rochester said simply.

  “Have you told her that, my lord?”

  “You do not tell women such, lad.” The Earl glanced at her, once side of his mouth curling up, despite the betrayals and murders on the stage above them. “But it appears Mrs. Barry might have some new competition in acting.”

  Billie nodded her head slightly at the compliment — since the comment seemed to have been meant in that spirit. It was strange how quickly she was slipping back into Restoration games, not to mention how well she enjoyed them. The playful way people adopted roles and masks suited her. She loved the extravagant costumes of the men, the long hair, the lace at cuff and collar, the wide-brimmed hats and rich materials. Her fingers itched to touch. Men in the twenty-first century pretended more often than not that they never preened for women at all. But Billie had seen a man check the fit of his jeans once too often to believe that particular myth.

  “And now not Pity, but my Sex's Cause,

  “Whose Beauty does, like Monarchs, give you laws,

  “Should now command, being joined with Wit, Applause.”

  The audience complied enthusiastically with the epilogue's plea, and Billie had high hopes that this play would bring a rich third day, and perhaps even a sixth or a ninth.

  Rochester did not clap his hands quite as vigorously as his neighbors. When he saw Billie watching him, he shrugged. “It is not Astrea's best, don't you agree, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “I prefer comedy myself.”

  “So do I. Still, I hope I can persuade the King to come the third day. The takings would be great, and Astrea deserves another success.”

  Billie rose with Rochester and followed him to the doors leading backstage. “Do people come to see the King more than the play, then?”

  Rochester threw back his head and laughed. “The American innocent!”

  “Rochester!” A fat gentleman hurried to catch up with them. “I did not think to see you in London for the next half year!”

  “I could not miss Mrs. Barry's performance now, Harry, could I?”

  The man addressed as Harry shook his head. “But all the same, be careful, my lord. You do not want to be escorted from the playhouse unwillingly.” He looked at Billie curiously.

  “This is Will Armstrong, Harry,” Rochester said. “A friend of our fair Astrea. You might recall when he was in London several years back with his cousin. You remember the American cousins?”

  Recognition lit up Harry's features. “Yes, I remember now! I saw you play in The Dutch Lover. It would have been a good play if it hadn't been ruined in the acting.” He subjected Billie to intense scrutiny, and she wondered if everyone in London had heard of “the American cousins.” The notoriety was strangely gratifying.

  “Mr. Armstrong, this is my good friend, Mr. Henry Savile,” Rochester said, drawing Billie forward.

  “My pleasure,” Billie said, bowing.

  “Mine entirely, I assure you,” Henry Savile said with a wide grin. He turned his attention back to Rochester. “My lord, I urge you to leave London as soon as possible. There are those who would like to see you in the Tower again.”

  Billie was about to ask what the problem was when she noticed Aphra coming down the hall between the tiring rooms, surrounded by a group of admirers. At the sight of the trio entering the backstage area, Aphra stopped and stared.

  Billie had to restrain herself from running into Aphra's arms. For her, the separation had been a matter of less than twenty-four hours (although it seemed like more), but for Aphra it had been three years.

  “Cl— ... Will?” Aphra stuttered. Billie responded with her best courtier's bow, lacking the flourish of a hat, of course.

  “Will!” Aphra repeated and rushed forward, took Billie's hands in both her own, and pressed them warmly. “I am so glad you are well! Why did you not send word?”

  “I was hindered, madam,” Billie said with admirable composure, given the growing warmth of her ears. She grinned. “Besides, I am a poor correspondent.”

  “And how is your cousin?” Aphra asked with great presence of mind.

  “She is well.” />
  “You must tell me all,” she insisted loudly, hooking her hand in the crook of Billie's elbow. Under her breath she added, “Do you have a place to stay?”

  Billie gave a short shake of her head.

  “Then I will instruct Katherine to let you in tonight.”

  The noise of the crowd outside of the tiring rooms grew noticeably less, and Aphra's hand tightened on Billie's elbow. With a flutter of anticipation and fear, Billie turned to follow the direction of Aphra's gaze. Ravenscroft stood very still at the end of the hall. At least he had too much composure to let his mouth hang open. But how did all these people know to quiet down, and why were they looking at her so expectantly? She caught the Earl of Rochester's slow smile out of the corner of her eye and wished she could wipe it off his face.

  “Excuse me, madam,” she said to Aphra, disengaging her arm. “I must greet another friend.” Billie approached Ravenscroft with more confidence in her stride than her heart. That particular organ might not be on her sleeve, but it was hammering wildly. How strange — she had seen him less than a day ago, but here he was, noticeably older. Three years older. Probably older than she was now (although her own age was getting increasingly difficult to calculate). It seemed he'd caved in to fashion and wore a wig. His hair was the same honey-brown color she remembered, but it was fuller than when she'd seen him last. Hopefully he had more to show than a crewcut under the wig. There were also signs of dissipation in his face, although not as strong as in the earl's: his color was more sallow than she remembered and he looked like he'd hardly slept for a week. And he had more laugh lines around his eyes.

  Billie extended her hand and Ravenscroft took it, his long fingers enclosing hers, thumb and forefinger meeting at the back. “Well met, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

  “Very much so, lad,” Ravenscroft said with a slow smile. “I see you have been in the colonies again — you are hopelessly out of fashion.”

  Billie shrugged. “I have no ambition to compete with the likes of you and your friends.”

  “And well it is too.” There was a spurt of laughter from those witnessing the scene. “You have not changed at all, Will. The years have passed you by without even the hint of a beard.”

  “Perhaps he will remain as much of an angel as our friend the earl,” Henry Savile commented with a chuckle. Lord Rochester acknowledged the reference to his smooth cheeks with a slight bow.

  “Are you just from the ship?” Ravenscroft asked Billie, indicating the leather bag slung over her shoulder.

  “When I heard a new play by our fair Astrea had opened, I made haste so as not to miss it.”

  “I admit, I was a bit put out that you missed mine,” Ravenscroft said, the tilt of his eyebrow a question and an accusation.

  “Ah, but it was a success without me, was it not?”

  Ravenscroft chuckled. “Clever lad.”

  “Did you expect any less, Mr. Ravenscroft?”

  Billie heard Aphra's laugh behind her, and she turned to her with a smile. “Madam?” she said, offering her arm, and they proceeded to make the rounds of Aphra's admirers, the playwright accepting compliments for her success.

  Finally they joined the circle surrounding Elizabeth Barry. Although hardly a beauty, the actress was swamped. It must have been her commanding presence that did it; that and her air of untouchability. Restoration rakes loved a chase, and this was a woman who could be chased forever.

  “And how did you enjoy the play, Mr. Otway?” Aphra asked one of the men in her friend's court.

  “You will oust us all from the stage, Astrea,” Otway said absently, his attention more on Elizabeth Barry than the conversation.

  “It was capital!” a plump little man contributed.

  Aphra inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mr. Pepys.”

  Pepys and Otway now too! At this rate Billie would end up meeting the King. She smiled to herself, enjoying being back in the past — now that she knew she could leave again. Free from fear, she could appreciate where she was and what she was experiencing far more. She turned her attention to the other actresses holding court. Mrs. Leigh, the first person she'd ever seen in this century, wore the costume of the queen and behaved accordingly. Mrs. Betterton, her arm linked through that of her husband on stage and in real life, giggled like a girl twenty years younger.

  Yes, it was good to be back in the Restoration.

  16

  Let us, since wit has taught us how,

  Raise pleasure to the top:

  You rival bottle must allow,

  I'll suffer rival fop. . . .

  All this you freely may confess,

  Yet we'll not disagree:

  For did you love your pleasures less,

  You were no match for me.

  John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, “To a Lady: in a Letter”

  “Oh, Clarinda!” Aphra said when they were finally in the privacy of her own sitting room. She pulled Billie into a friendly embrace and then stepped back to look at her. Aphra's age was beginning to tell. She still didn't look the thirty-five or thirty-six she must be. But while three years ago there had still been something girlish about her, now the rounded line of her cheek looked almost matronly.

  “It's good to see you again, Aphra.” Billie felt ridiculously moved as she said the words.

  “Faith, you've hardly changed at all,” Aphra said with a smile. “I see the years have been kind. And I'd been in fear for your life!”

  “I'm sorry I sent no word, but it was impossible.”

  “And have you escaped your kidnappers now for good?” Aphra asked.

  “There is no one who can force me to go back,” Billie said, surprised at her own words. Well, she would just have to make up her story as she went along. She owed Aphra one.

  “No husband?”

  Billie shook her head.

  “No father to force you into marriage?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Then the news is good,” Aphra said with a smile. “I would you'd tell me the story someday. I've imagined a thousand adventures for my lovely American heiress, escaping the evils of forced marriage in a pair of breeches.”

  Billie gave Aphra a pained smile and did her best to put a hint of unshed tears in her voice. “'Tis not quite as you imagine. Give me time yet, and perhaps I will be able to relate it.” Assuming she could come up with it, that is.

  “You have been so far away, you may not have heard how the nobility is inspired to imitate you.” Aphra was obviously changing the subject for her sake, and Billie was grateful, but for very different reasons than Aphra probably imagined.

  “No, I haven't heard.”

  “Perhaps half a year ago, in January, if I recall, the Duchess of Mazarin arrived in England dressed as a man. 'Tis rumored the King himself is interested in her.”

  “Well, I have not come here to seduce the King,” Billie said drily.

  Aphra let out a peel of laughter. “I am so glad you are back in London, my dear. And all is well.”

  There was just a hint of a question in the last sentence. Billie nodded. “All is well.”

  “I am talking too much and you must be tired from your travels.” Aphra took Billie's arm and began to lead her toward the door. Billie snatched her lute and bag from the settee. “I have had Katherine prepare the room you had before. You will find the things you left behind there.”

  The old lute! What a relief that Aphra hadn't just given or thrown it away. But it seemed people rarely threw things away in the seventeenth century. “'Tis so kind of you to take me in again,” Billie said. “But this time I would like to repay you.”

  Aphra made no reply, only taking a candle and leading Billie up the stairs. Suddenly Billie noticed that she really was exhausted, although it was barely dusk. It was like jet lag — she'd changed centuries as if they were time zones and missed a night in the process.

  “What was all that about the Earl of Rochester today?” Billie asked as they entered her room. “
Henry Savile said he shouldn't be in London.”

  Aphra's features froze. “That he shouldn't.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lord Rochester's friend Mr. Downes was killed in a drunken prank at Epsom,” Aphra said, still frowning.

  “Prank? How can someone be killed in a prank?”

  “I believe Mr. Downes was trying to pull Rochester away from the constable when the watch came up from behind and cleft his skull. The worst of it is that Rochester ran away from the scene.”

  Billie shuddered and sat down on the bed, dropping her bag on the floor. “How can he be as merry as he was tonight?”

  “He is ever so. And half the time he is in his cups.” Aphra's affection for the Earl was obvious in the tone of her voice, despite the criticism. “'Tis a mad age we live in, Clarinda.”

  Billie nodded. It certainly was mad. The twenty-first century liked to think it had a corner on the market for craziness, but the seventeenth could easily challenge it in that department.

  “Stay, Katherine,” Billie said as Aphra's servant was about to leave the room. “I brought a few things with me, and I thought perhaps you could help me dispose of them most profitably.” She picked the bag up off the floor and emptied the contents onto the bed, all except the ream of paper for Aphra. She would have to unpack that first before anyone saw the wrapping.

  Katherine's eyes grew wide at the treasures, and Billie smiled. “Do you think I can get something for these trinkets?”

  “Certainly, Mistress.” Katherine approached the bed and lifted up a long strand of black freshwater pearls. “The form is irregular, but the color is quite unusual. But these! Perfect!” The pearls gleamed in the light of the candle as Katherine draped them across her palm.

  “I have some earrings as well,” Billie said, picking up the pearl drops and the inlaid silver and showing them to Katherine. “Lace as well. And these are for you,” she said, handing her a package of pins and a package of needles.

  “Oh, it must be at least a hundred, and so fine!”

  Billie felt mildly guilty at Katherine's enthusiasm — it was just a package of pins, after all. Too late she noticed that she hadn't thought about the small plastic box holding the pins. Well, hopefully one little box wouldn't change history. She quickly picked up the rest and put them back in her bag. She would have to repackage them before she gave them to Katherine.