Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  “Be kind, Damon,” Aphra said. “I must admit, I feel sorry for Mary.”

  “I doubt she would care to hear that.”

  Billie gazed up at the boxes, wondering which of the many ladies this Mary Twysden was. Given all the names Aphra and Ravenscroft had let fall, she could be key in discovering something important about Aphra.

  The play was entertaining, but Billie found herself contemplating lost plays and glancing repeatedly at the boxes above the pit. Willoughby and Culpepper and Winchilsea — all important in the Behn biographies. If only she could sort out all the threads! Perhaps the “gray mouse” held the key. Only how did one make the acquaintance of a respectable lady when one belonged to the disreputable theater crowd?

  But the company of writers and actresses was one thing for Clarinda Armstrong, another thing entirely for Will. And Will would find a way.

  Ravenscroft could hardly conceal his elation when the audience laughed in all the right places and clapped enthusiastically after the curtain fell. It would be yet another success for the Dorset Garden Theatre. Elizabeth Barry was quickly becoming a favorite with the crowds, and Ravenscroft didn't regret his decision to give her the role of the invisible mistress. She had developed a way of expressing nearly every emotion with the slant of her dark brows and the curve of her back. Of course, the Earl of Rochester's attentions helped tremendously — everyone wanted to see the girl who could tame the heart of London's most notorious libertine. It was hard to believe Elizabeth had been such an unpromising beginner until the Earl wagered he could make her the toast of London. And he had. It was too bad Rochester couldn't be here himself to watch his protégée's triumph — the pressure had grown too much, and he had retreated to Woodstock Park.

  Yes, this little play showed all the signs of being a success, but somehow Ravenscroft didn't feel as smug as he would have liked. All during the play, Clarinda's gaze kept drifting to the box behind them, the box where Mary Twysden sat. What interest could Clarinda possibly have in Aphra's cousin? Perhaps his senses had played a trick on him all those years ago in Vauxhall Gardens? Or was there really a Will as well as a Clarinda?

  Ravenscroft's head swam.

  But he had Clarinda on his arm and a flock of admirers around him — and now Sir Thomas Killigrew, manager of the King's Company, was striding purposefully in his direction, audience and actors parting before him like the waters before Moses. Not quite as portly as Dryden, he sported a short pointy beard of the type that went out of fashion when Charles II came back into power.

  “'Tis good to see you have returned to the stage, Mr. Ravenscroft,” Killigrew began. “And with such an entertaining piece!”

  Ravenscroft bowed gracefully. “The Inns of Court can hardly compete with the charms of the stage.”

  “Then why do you not leave Gray's Inn entirely?”

  Ravenscroft shrugged. “I do not have the leisure to make my own choices. I am only a younger son in a large family, Sir Thomas.”

  “I might be able to assist you if the theater is the choice you would make,” Killigrew said. “Of course, we would have to speak with the Bettertons first, but perchance something could be arranged. Seek me out in Drury Lane if you are interested. But now I must be getting back to my own company. Good day, Mr. Ravenscroft, Mrs. Behn.” Killigrew bowed and disappeared.

  Aphra looked up at Ravenscroft, smiling widely. “I do believe he is going to make you an offer, my dear Damon.”

  “One he can't refuse?” Clarinda added.

  “Mayhap the poet laureate is not enough for the King's Company,” Ravenscroft said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Won't Mr. Dryden be happy to hear this news?” Aphra murmured.

  “I do think you should go as a woman, Clarinda,” Aphra said. “'Tis one thing to perform your masquerade for an hour or a day, but another thing entirely to continue it for a whole week.”

  Billie, in a dashing blue brocade suit she'd bought with her profit from the pins and needles, was aimlessly plucking chords on her lute. Rochester had invited them to High Lodge at Woodstock Park where he'd retreated until the incident at Epsom was no longer the talk of the town. Elizabeth Barry was invited as well, of course, along with several other actresses — and Edward Ravenscroft. Billie had been keeping her attraction in check since she returned to the seventeenth century, but if she spent a week in skirts, giving him more chances to flirt with her, she might not be able to resist his charm much longer.

  “Clarinda?” Aphra prompted, the hint of a laugh in her voice.

  “Why do you think it would be so hard for me to play Will for a week?” There was no question whether she would go along, only which gender she should assume. Now that she could get back to her own time whenever she wanted, Billie felt no desperation about leaving, despite the chamber pots. It was like an exotic vacation: in exchange for the new experience, she put up with the inconveniences. Besides, she hadn't completed her mission yet — to find out something that would change both her future and Aphra's. And the tantalizing hints she'd picked up at Ravenscroft's play only made her more determined to find out more.

  “The drinking and gambling at Rochester's estate is legendary,” Aphra said with a wry expression.

  “I don't have to do either,” Billie insisted. No, skirts would not be good with Ravenscroft around. Billie wasn't the type to have flings when she was on vacation.

  “But it would be commented on if you didn't.”

  Billie put the lute down. “So you think my identity would be revealed if I went as Will?” Aphra nodded and Billie grinned. “Shall we bet on it?”

  After two days in the saddle, riding from London to Oxford in the heat of August, Billie was not so sure about putting up with the inconveniences of seventeenth century life anymore. When they finally arrived at Woodstock Park, it took all the willpower she possessed to just walk normally. In her own time, Oxford was little more than an hour's drive from London, depending on traffic — certainly less painful than two days on a horse. In her time, horses were a hobby and not a method of transportation. The only reason Billie could even stay on anything more spirited than a half-dead nag was because her best friend in high school, Gina, had a life-long love affair with horses and dragged Billie along for riding lessons. Now Gina had a small ranch on the Idaho side of the Tetons and half a dozen horses of her own, while Billie hadn't been on one in years.

  A day later she still ached. She avoided sitting down as much as possible, even in the earl's sitting room. Billie rubbed her butt surreptitiously, trying to make it look like she was smoothing down the material of her jacket.

  “'Tis strange that a young man who grew up in the wilds of the colonies is such a reluctant rider,” Ravenscroft said, a twinkle in his tawny eyes. So he hadn't just been gazing absently out the window of the sitting room. She should have known he would notice. Very little escaped him.

  Billie leaned casually against the mantel, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “The colonies are not as wild as you might think.”

  “Then the northern colonies must be quite different from the southern,” Aphra said, the tone of her voice wry.

  Rochester laid a possessive hand on Elizabeth Barry's shoulder. “We have races at Woodstock every September. Would you like to stay and participate, lad?”

  “We must be back in town by then,” Aphra threw in. “I promised Betterton a new play for the beginning of the season.”

  “Armstrong does not have to go only because you do,” Rochester protested mildly.

  “But he will be playing the lute for me again,” Aphra said, and Billie sent her a grateful look under her lashes. She strode over to Aphra's chair, took the playwright's hand, and gave it a courtly kiss. “Anything for my dear Astrea.” As she raised her head, her gaze sought out Hoyle, who was standing in a corner, playing the brooding rake. His dark eyes were smoldering.

  “I brought something for you, my lord,” Aphra said to Rochester, apparently feeling a need to change the subject.
“The elegy for Greenhill that you requested.”

  “Greenhill?” Billie sputtered, her aching backside forgotten. “The painter?”

  “None other, lad,” Ravenscroft said gently.

  Rochester took a bit of snuff. “He drowned himself in a puddle.”

  Elizabeth Barry took pity on Billie, expanding on her lover's caustic explanation. “He fell into a gutter when too drunk to walk home one night. By the time his friends called the watch and got him home to his lodgings, it was too late. He died the same night, whether from drink or filth, no one knows for sure. 'Twas only a few months ago.”

  The irreligious company fell silent. Billie recalled Greenhill's big laugh, the way he'd teased her in St. James Park shortly before she fled the seventeenth century. It occurred to her that this generation was nearly as excessive and tragic as the idols of early rock and roll. Drugs and abandonment had not been discovered during the Sixties, they had only been reinvented.

  “So Astrea is out for literary revenge after all these years,” Lord Rochester said sardonically, examining the way the light of the candles played on the red wine in his glass. A servant had just lit them; it was Sunday evening and dusk was coming on. The plates from an incredibly lavish meal were cleared away, and the party was sitting up over yet another bottle of wine. Billie found it hard to grasp how much alcohol these people consumed, especially the earl. He drank wine like it was fruit juice. It was no wonder his eyes were tinged with yellow.

  Aphra shrugged. “Mayhap I am only following the 'mode' established by my respected colleague.” She nodded at Etherege, and the portly playwright standing near the fireplace bowed in acknowledgment.

  “Our friend Sir Hewitt deserves any abuse he receives,” Ravenscroft said mildly.

  Lord Rochester laughed out loud. “One would think you had your revenge already, Damon!” he said, gesturing at Ravenscroft with his glass. Some of the wine lapped over the side, spilling on the carpet.

  Billie was lost. “I don't understand. What does this have to do with the play Aphra is working on?”

  “Do you remember the fop in the audience at The Dutch Lover?” Ravenscroft asked.

  Billie nodded.

  “Why did you not say the fop at Dryden's Assignation, Mr. Ravenscroft?” said an aristocratic gentleman standing at the window, one perfectly curved eyebrow raised. Lord Lovelace was several years older than the Earl, and one of his closest cronies, a frequent visitor at High Lodge.

  Ravenscroft ignored Lovelace's question. “The fop was Sir George Hewitt. When Astrea mentioned she was writing a play about a fop, it was he we naturally thought of.”

  “But your method of revenge is a bit more direct, is it not, Ravenscroft?” Hoyle asked.

  “A lady does not have the option of trying to run someone through who insulted her,” Lord Rochester said. He turned to Billie. “I am not the only one who has been banned from London for inappropriate behavior.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Harry Savile chuckled. “Why, only that Ravenscroft tried to force a duel in a theater.”

  “It was outside,” Ravenscroft corrected.

  Billie tried not to stare at this man who attracted her so much — and drew swords on silly acquaintances. She'd known he was high-spirited and disinclined to ignore an insult, but she didn't realize he would take fighting back so literally. “You attacked a man because he said you wrote doggerel?”

  “There's no better reason that I know,” Etherege said.

  Ravenscroft shrugged and grinned. “You sound like a Puritan, Will.”

  “In the northern colonies we all are a little,” Billie replied.

  “Good thing that you are, Mr. Armstrong, with so few women around to entertain us,” Harry Savile complained.

  Lord Lovelace shook his head. “'Tis certainly unfortunate so few actresses accepted your invitation of a week in the country, Rochester.”

  “Mrs. Price said the country was boring, Mrs. Hughes had to learn a new role, and Mr. Armstrong's cousin was not feeling well,” the Earl said, shrugging. “I am content enough.” He leaned over and kissed Elizabeth Barry's shoulder, and she gave him a quelling look.

  “There are others watching, my lord,” Elizabeth warned in an icy voice, standing up and facing him.

  “Why, and they are welcome to, I am sure,” Rochester said, his words slightly slurred. “Is this not my house? And are you not my bawd?” He tried to pull Elizabeth onto his lap, but she twisted away.

  “To the best of my information, this house belongs to the King, and I, my lord, belong to no man.” She stormed out of the room. Aphra rose and followed her, muttering a hurried excuse.

  “Damme, I think she's right,” the Earl said, his eyes on the door where Elizabeth had disappeared.

  “Certainly she's right, Rochester,” Etherege said. “But women need to be shown their place now and then.”

  Lord Rochester dashed down the rest of the wine at his elbow. “You would never try to fondle Astrea in public, would you, Mr. Hoyle?”

  Hoyle shook his head, one dark eyebrow raised. Apparently they all had that trick, these Restoration rakes. “If I did, she might write a play about me,” Hoyle said, and the other gentlemen laughed.

  “Why, my friend Etherege has written a play about me, and it bothers me not at all,” Rochester replied.

  “But you were the hero, my lord.”

  “Mr. Armstrong.” Billie nearly jumped at the sound of her name. She'd been trying to stay in the background since the discussion of women began. She would have loved to follow Elizabeth and Aphra out the door, but she didn't have the excuse of being female, at least not in this garb.

  “Do you think Mrs. Barry will forgive me?” Rochester asked.

  Billie shrugged. “With all due respect, your actions definitely were not wise, my lord.”

  “But will the lady forgive me, lad?” he insisted.

  Her gaze rested on the handsome face flushed with drink. “If you explain that you know you made a mistake and apologize, she will.”

  “Spoken like a true expert. Thank you for that ray of hope, Mr. Armstrong,” Rochester said mockingly, but Billie thought she detected a note of sincerity in his tone. “Now I need a bit of fresh air to chase the wine from my brain. Anyone game for a sprint down the hill?” Rochester bounded out of his chair and out the door more quickly than Billie would have thought possible. The other gentlemen shrugged and followed with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Billie among them. Perhaps a night jog would loosen her cramped muscles a bit.

  As they raced down the path through the forest, she found Ravenscroft beside her. “You're very quick,” he called over to her.

  Billie refrained from replying, saving her breath for the run. But then suddenly, Ravenscroft shot out ahead of her, and she couldn't resist the challenge. She was hampered by the darkness and her unfamiliarity with these woods, however, and Ravenscroft pulled away.

  She burst out of the trees and into the meadow next to the stream with relief — until she realized what the gentlemen who had already reached the clearing were doing.

  Billie stopped and stared.

  The moon was not yet up, but Ravenscroft and Rochester were unmistakably shedding their clothes. As soon as Savile, Etherege and Lovelace emerged from the trees, they joined them, flinging silk jackets and lace-edged shirts to the ground.

  “Come, lad!” the Earl called over to her. “Did you think we would swim in our breeches? If we don't laugh at Harry, we certainly won't laugh at you!”

  “No one said anything about swimming,” Billie stammered.

  “Oh, we do this quite regularly.” Lord Rochester pulled the beautiful silk shirt out of his pants and over his head. Admiration and embarrassment fought for control, but when Rochester reached for the waist of his breeches, embarrassment won and Billie glanced away. It didn't help much — everywhere she looked were the faint outlines of semi-naked men. By the mass of white flesh, she judged it was Harry Savile's portly buttocks
already heading towards the bank of the stream.

  “Afraid of the water, Will?”

  Billie turned at the sound of Ravenscroft's voice to see him stepping out of his breeches only a few yards away from her. It was too dark for details, but Billie had the distinct impression of a very well-proportioned male body, and her cheeks grew warm. Ravenscroft removed his wig and shook out his hair. She was relieved to see that he wasn't bald beneath it. His natural honey-colored hair came to just below his shoulders. “If you don't join us, everyone will know,” Ravenscroft murmured, standing naked in front of her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “And who knows what will happen if I do?”

  “The moon is not yet up. Play along, and they will be even more confused than they were before.” At that, Ravenscroft turned and dashed to the stream. Billie watched as the clean lines of his body became vague in the dark.

  She sat down on the grass and pulled off her boots.

  At the sound of another loud splash, the Earl turned around in surprise. “What was that?”

  Ravenscroft watched the dark head come up to the surface several yards downstream from them and chuckled. “I believe 'tis Will Armstrong.”

  Lord Rochester shook his head. “By God, I think you're right, Damon. Well, I'll be damned!”

  “I'm sure you will, my lord.”

  Rochester laughed. “But 'tis certainly an entertaining way to go, Mr. Ravenscroft.” He looked downstream to where the dark head was bobbing in the water. “If it weren't for Mistress Barry, I would be swimming after our young friend even now.”

  “I think not, my lord,” Ravenscroft said and tackled the earl, sending them both spluttering into the middle of the stream.

  “A race to Rosamund's Fountain!” Lord Lovelace called out, wading to shore. Billie dove underwater and came back up behind some undergrowth near the bank. It was hard to recognize the men in the dark, but she wanted to have them all accounted for before she came out herself. Behind the mound of flesh that had to be Savile and the slightly less bulky form of Etherege came several more admirable shapes: Rochester, Ravenscroft and Hoyle. Once they were out and running, Billie waded out of the stream and scurried back to the trees where she'd shed her clothes. The edge of the forest was barely visible as a dark line ahead. If only there were a little more light, she'd be able to orient herself by finding the path from High Lodge. She would just have to walk along the edge of the forest and keep her eyes on the ground — she'd stumble across her clothing eventually.