Aphra smiled. “We must learn to beat the men at their own game, Clarinda. We must become female rakes.”
“Are you?” Billie asked, grinning.
“No, I fear not. My dear friend Mrs. Barry is something of one, I believe.”
Billie thought about how Rochester had called Elizabeth “my bawd” the day before and shook her head. “It does not look that way to me. Lord Rochester is a rake and Elizabeth Barry is his mistress. The things he says to her ...!”
“But he does not have our Amoret in his power, Clarinda. Elizabeth makes her own choices. The Earl knows that, and I think 'tis the reason he stays with her. You have not had time to grow accustomed to his wit — he is that way with everyone.”
“I noticed,” Billie said with a frown. “I would have liked to challenge him for the way he insulted you today!”
“What is a silly remark about my age?” Aphra said, chuckling. “Did you notice he said nothing about my plays? 'Tis practically a compliment!”
“But it reminds me of what people ...” Billie broke off with a start, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. She had almost started to tell Aphra about the future. But then, why not? Wasn't this a perfect opportunity to implement one of her half-formed plans?
“Clarinda, are you well?”
Billie tensed her whole body, straightening up suddenly from her lounging position, and opened her eyes unnaturally wide to stare just past Aphra's face into some unrecognizable distance, trying to imitate the gaze of mediums in movies and TV shows. “What people will say ... what people will say ... the critics will not judge your works on their merits, only the woman who wrote them. History will not remember you as a contemporary of Dryden and Otway and Etherege, but only as a lewd widow,” she intoned, hoping she wasn't overdoing it. “They will alter your biography and belittle your accomplishments, saying you could not have done what you did because no woman could have. Some will say Ravenscroft wrote your plays, others will say Hoyle. Scholars will 'prove' you were never in Surinam, that Mr. Behn was as much as a fiction as your works. Your plays will be forgotten and only few will know your name.” She let her head fall back against the chair and closed her eyes. It was a bit campy, but at least nothing she'd said had been a lie. And she couldn't think of any other way to tell Aphra what she wanted her to know.
Aphra jumped up and took Billie's limp hands in her own. “Clarinda!” When Billie didn't respond, Aphra grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Billie opened her eyes and gazed at Aphra with what she hoped was a dazed expression.
“Clarinda, what is the matter?”
Billie shook her head slowly and rubbed her eyes. “What? What happened?”
Aphra gazed down at her with a pinched look, and Billie felt a twinge of guilt. “You don't remember?”
She shook her head.
If possible, Aphra looked more anxious than before. “Then I will have to try and forget it as well,” she said, distress obvious in her voice.
Billie immediately felt bad that she'd caused Aphra pain. What kind of stupid idea had that been anyway? According to Bruce, she couldn't change the past — or if she did, she'd end up in some kind of parallel universe when she returned to her own time.
She hoped her little performance hadn't been a mistake.
19
The happy Minute's come, the Nymph is laid,
Who means no more to rise a Maid.
Blushing, and panting, she expects th' Approach
Of Joys that kill with every touch:
Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame.
Song from The Town Fop
It was their last day at High Lodge, and they were breaking their fast in the small parlor. Despite the fresh air of the country setting, Billie would not be sorry to go; the emotional turmoil of daily contact with Ravenscroft was becoming exhausting.
Aphra looked up from the manuscript she was reading, a new song Ravenscroft had written the night before, a wide smile on her face. “May I use this song in my next play, Damon?” she asked. “I know the perfect place for it.”
Ravenscroft bowed. “I would be honored, Astrea.”
Aphra handed the manuscript to Billie. She put down her cup of hot chocolate (she couldn't and wouldn't get used to drinking beer for breakfast) and took the sheet in hand. Still struggling with the unfamiliar style of handwriting, it took her a moment to scan the lines. She grinned. Raising her head from the page, her eyes met Ravenscroft's, and he broke out in exuberant laughter.
Sitting down next to Billie, he helped himself to a slice of fragrant spiced bread. “Perhaps Will can write a tune for the song,” Ravenscroft suggested, liberally spreading toasted cheese flavored with herbs, asparagus and anchovies on his bread. “In fact, I insist on it. If you let Will set it and sing it, you are most welcome to use it for your fop.” The look he gave Billie reminded her of the embrace they'd shared a few days ago. Part of her had been trying to forget it, but another part of her relished the memory.
“I will be happy to set the song to music, Mr. Ravenscroft,” she said, taking another piece of bread. Food in the seventeenth century was so much better than Billie would have imagined — if she'd even bothered to think about it. Much of what she was learning in this time fell into that category — things she'd never bothered wondering about. Take women's roles, for example. She'd known about the rules and regulations circumscribing women's movements, but she had never really considered what it meant. That even the women who abandoned reputation, whether by choice or by folly, were still watched and judged more closely than any man. What it meant for Billie was a creeping sense of claustrophobia, even in the midst of an age of sexual abandon, and it made her wary.
Still, she was enjoying herself; it was a visit, not a trap. She helped herself to the turkey pottage, a kind of hash flavored with onions, cheese and nutmeg. Flavors were more pungent, not as diluted or purified as in her era — the quality products, at least. Billie would not like to be exposed to the kind of diet the poor had in this age.
Lord Rochester, looking almost glum, entered the parlor with Elizabeth Barry and joined them at the table. Billie wondered if the glum look was because Elizabeth would be leaving after breakfast, or only the effect of the wine the night before.
“Damon has produced a new song in your own fashion, my lord,” Aphra said gaily, handing him the manuscript. She glanced at the door, but no one followed Rochester and Barry. While Rochester had brought a hangover with him to the breakfast table to see Elizabeth Barry off, Hoyle was still sleeping off his excesses.
“No one produces songs in my fashion except myself,” the Earl protested.
Aphra turned to Ravenscroft. “I do hope you still intend to write the epilogue you promised me as well, Damon.”
“You doubt me, madam?” Ravenscroft asked with a wide grin.
“I have reason.”
Rochester, his arm around Elizabeth Barry's shoulders, sipped his small beer and addressed Billie. “You are sure you do not want to stay to take part in the races, Armstrong?”
Billie grimaced. “The ride to London is quite enough for me, my lord.”
Ravenscroft gave an exuberant laugh. “Perhaps we should leave Will with you after all, Rochester. I think he needs riding lessons.”
“He comes with me,” Aphra insisted. “I need his lute and his fine voice.”
“And nothing else, Astrea?” Rochester asked with a sly look at Billie's silk-clad thigh.
“If there were anything else, I certainly would not tell you, my lord,” Aphra replied pertly. “It would be in a broadside the next day.”
A week after they returned to London, Aphra invited the actors and actresses of the Dorset Garden Theatre to her home for a reading of her new play, The Town Fop. Yet another aspect of seventeenth century theater life that was new to Billie: the playwright reading the play to the players. She wondered if Dryden did the same thing. Occasionally, Aphra asked one of the actors to r
ead a part for a while, someone she seemed to be considering for the role, but most of the lines she read herself. It was a miracle her voice didn't give out.
Aphra finished reading and turned to Ravenscroft. “I hope you have brought the epilogue you promised, Damon.”
Ravenscroft nodded. “Shall I read it, Astrea?”
“Please do.”
Billie watched as he pulled a folded sheet out of a breast pocket and began to read. The lines were not as witty as the repartee of his plays, but he had a fine reading voice, musical and expressive. It was not the baritone bombshell of Richard's voice, that sexy low rumble that gave her goose bumps, but it was a very pleasant voice, a voice of decided accents and appropriate intonations. A lawyer's voice, probably. And a lawyer's speech, damning the fool with the metaphor of a trial. Billie smiled.
When Ravenscroft finished reading his conventional lines about how every man in the pit was as much of a fop as Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Aphra proceeded to acquaint the actors with the parts she designed for them. Emily Price was to play Celinda, the female lead, and Elizabeth Barry Betty Flauntit, a brazen whore and the most original character of the play.
Ravenscroft drew Billie aside as the cast assignments were being discussed. “And what role are you to play, Will?”
“The boy who sings your song.”
“Does it have a tune yet?” Ravenscroft asked.
She nodded. “Certainly.”
“I would fain hear it from those sweet lips,” he whispered, grinning as if he were telling a casual joke.
“Ravenscroft!” Billie protested at the open flirtation.
“Damon.”
“Damon.”
“Come with me to the Rose for a pint, Will?” Ravenscroft asked, one eyebrow arching. “I have seen so little of you since we returned to London.”
Billie couldn't resist the challenge in his raised brow — or the hint of longing in his voice. “Paint the town, huh?” she said with more levity than she felt.
“Excuse me?”
“'Tis an expression we have in the colonies,” Billie said. “It means it would be my pleasure.”
Ravenscroft's grin grew wider. “I doubt that is the true meaning. But if you come along, it matters not what you say to agree.”
Billie stood to the right of Ravenscroft's shoulder and watched him play a heart. The wits and writers assembled at the table were deep in a game they called “triumph.” It resembled bridge, but Billie was having problems following — there were enough rules that were different to leave her thoroughly confused. Or perhaps it was this brew. She drank deeply of the strong beer and placed the mug on a table behind her.
Ravenscroft won another hand and turned around to face Billie. “Quite sure you don't want to play, Will?”
Billie shook her head. “I understand the basic rules well enough from watching, but not well enough to bet silver on my cards. I may be young, but I'm not green.”
Lord Lovelace laughed. He was back from the races at Woodstock Park, while the Earl of Rochester lingered on in continued disgrace, with Etherege and Savile to keep him company. “Why, what do they play in the colonies, Armstrong?”
John Hoyle entered the tavern and joined them, his dark and dangerous eyes smoldering as usual. Not for the first time, Billie wondered if it were all an act. He had been pretty scarce at Aphra's since he got back from High Lodge. She caught Ravenscroft looking at Hoyle with a hint of resentment and almost laughed. If there was one thing she and Ravenscroft had in common, it was their protective affection for Aphra.
She turned her attention to Lovelace, shrugged and took another manly swig of the flavorful beer. Now this was one thing in the seventeenth century she could get used to. Just not in the morning. “Among other things, we play poker,” she replied.
“Is it difficult?” the tragedian Nat Lee asked. He certainly looked tragic enough tonight; he could probably ill-afford to lose to Ravenscroft again.
“Not really,” Billie said. “A single game is quite short, but you can bet quite a lot.”
“How many can play?” Killigrew asked.
“As many as care to.”
“Come, Will, show us how the game goes, then you will not be left out,” Ravenscroft said with a smile.
“If you insist,” Billie replied, pulling up a chair and sitting down at the heavy wooden table. “But I will steal your last farthing if you let me.” She took the deck of cards and began to shuffle carefully. They were heavier than the cards she was used to, not quite as pliant, but a bridge could probably be made with them as well. She shuffled like a card sharp and Lovelace whistled.
“Armstrong will steal your last farthing at that, Ravenscroft,” Killigrew said, observing Billie's quick hands.
“Or yours,” Billie replied. “Who's in? We could play a couple of rounds with no betting first.”
“No betting on the first round,” Nat Lee agreed, enunciating each word with care.
“Where's the pleasure without money on the game?” Lovelace complained but gave in with good grace.
“Are you playing too, Mr. Hoyle?” Billie asked, still shuffling the cards absently.
“I believe I'll watch,” Hoyle said.
First Billie dealt out some sample hands, face up, and briefly explained the rules of the game.
“Why, 'tis a bit like brag,” Nat Lee said, his expression brightening. Although with his long, sallow face it was hard for him to look anything other than dejected.
“Do you play a game like this here too?” Billie asked, surprised.
“I don't know it,” Killigrew said. “But it seems simple enough.”
“I think it's French,” Nat Lee volunteered.
“Or Italian?” Lovelace suggested.
Billie grinned and guzzled her beer. She would make a killing tonight.
With insults to his male vanity, she goaded Hoyle into playing and took him and Killigrew for all they were worth. The revenge for Aphra's sake was sweet — and profitable. Billie had to admit she liked Killigrew more than she expected, though; he had a biting wit that reminded of her of the Earl of Rochester. But it was his lack of support that had put Aphra in debtor's prison all those years ago — or so the biographies said.
Ravenscroft's golden eyes were on her the whole evening, and Billie suspected he knew the way she was manipulating the game, drawing Hoyle and Killigrew out, losing to Nat Lee on purpose now and then. Of course, she couldn't control the cards, but she was an excellent bluffer. Lovelace called her on it a couple of times, but luckily those were times when her hand wasn't bad enough to make it obvious how much she was winning out of sheer bravado.
“What's the game?” a voice behind her asked.
“Poker, Colonel Culpepper. 'Tis an American game young Armstrong is teaching us,” Killigrew said. “Care to join us in making the rustic rich at our expense?”
Colonel Culpepper? Was it really Aphra's foster brother? How many Colonel Culpeppers could there be? She wished she could throw her hand down right now and interrogate him about his childhood.
Culpepper looked at the pile of coins in front of Billie and shook his head. “Must retire early. Off to Ireland tomorrow.”
“Ah, my deepest sympathies,” Killigrew said.
Billie did her best to hide her disappointment. “When do you return?”
The colonel shrugged. “When the Irish Problem has been solved?”
Culpepper wished them all a good night and left. Billie watched his retreating back, her hopes of ever learning anything useful about Aphra's past sinking with each step he took.
When they ended the American game and got up from the table, Ravenscroft noticed that Will was on the verge of weaving. Given all the money she'd won, he was surprised; inebriation led more often to losing than winning. She'd had the advantage of knowing the game better than the rest of them, though.
He followed her out the door; yes, she was walking with concentrated precision. As they turned down Drury Lane in the direction of the
Strand, Ravenscroft glanced over at her. “The sum of your talents is truly amazing, my friend.'“
“Ha,” she said, and stumbled.
Ravenscroft caught her elbow and pulled her up. Her other arm went around his neck, and she drew his face to hers. Ravenscroft met the parted lips hungrily.
He chuckled and she drew back with a smile. “What is it?” she asked.
“I was only thinking that you are a rather tall mouthful,” Ravenscroft answered truthfully. That was another nice thing about this woman, he realized — he had no fear of speaking his thoughts. The only other woman with whom he could be so honest was Aphra.
She giggled and leaned her cheek on his. “My place or yours?” he thought she asked. Ravenscroft's hand tightened on her elbow compulsively.
“Is that how you go about these things in the colonies?” he replied. She nodded and giggled again. He looked into her unfocused eyes and knew there would be no relief for him tonight. She did not know what she was doing, and although she was obviously willing, it was not his way to take advantage of women. But given the hour, it would still be better if she came to his rooms rather than waking up Aphra and Katherine. “Since you do not have a 'place,' I think mine might be the better choice.”
She grinned, and he kissed her again.
“They will arrest me for buggery yet,” Ravenscroft said when he came up for breath, already regretting his honorable intentions.
Billie shook her head. “Not you. But Hoyle they will.”
The certainty with which she said it gave Ravenscroft an eerie feeling, and he was reminded of her prophecies in Tower Street. He still did not know anything about her, not really. For all he knew, she could be a witch. He didn't believe in witches, but there were so many things about the woman in front of him that couldn't be explained.
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