Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  When they arrived at his rooms in Chancery Lane, his companion was giggling and weaving. Ravenscroft had her arm linked through his, and he was painfully aware of the way her side was pressed to his during their walk. But as soon as her dark head hit the pillows, she was asleep. Ravenscroft looked at her regretfully, smoothing back a lock of long hair, and left the room to sleep on the daybed, a faint smile on his face.

  Ravenscroft woke abruptly and sat up on the daybed, his heart pounding. Something was wrong — he wasn't alone. A hint of daylight seeped through the windows, and his houseguest was standing in the door of the sitting room, her billowing silk shirt out of her pants and her long hair in tangles.

  “You startled me,” Ravenscroft said, staring. His heart was pounding wildly, both from the sudden awakening and the sight of Will — Clarinda — standing in front of him half-dressed, sleep tugging at her eyelids.

  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A bit headachy but better than might be expected.” She dragged one hand through her curls, pulling the hair back from her face. “Don't you want to come to bed?”

  Ravenscroft suddenly felt like the air was being squeezed out of his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded and held out her hand. Ravenscroft took it.

  “I do not need to be asked twice.”

  20

  My Amoret, since you must know

  The grief you say my eyes do show:

  Survey my heart, where you shall find,

  More love than for yourself confin'd.

  And though you chide, you'll pity too,

  A passion which even rivals you.

  Aphra Behn, “A Ballad on Mr. J.H. to Amoret, asking why I was so sad.”

  Billie rolled over on her back and stretched. Ah, but she felt so good, it was unreal; and that with a borderline hangover. She hadn't had sex for a while — it was only a few days in the twenty-first century, but according to subjective time, which was all that really mattered, it had been something like two months.

  She should be feeling guilty, but her physical satisfaction was too intense to allow for anything as mundane as regrets. She'd committed at least two chronological sins in less than twenty-four hours: poker and a zipper. Billie grinned. Ravenscroft was astonished and fascinated when he discovered the zipper, momentarily delaying further exploration. But only momentarily. Billie had explained the zipper as she did everything — it was American.

  At least Ravenscroft was unlikely to copy the technology of the zipper, and Nat Lee had been familiar with a game similar to poker. If she could really screw up history, wouldn't she have done it with her first trip already? What about sleeping with a guy who had been dead for centuries before she was even born? She should be a ghost or something, not a physical presence in an era where she didn't belong. But she wasn't complaining.

  Ravenscroft — Damon — turned and draped an arm over her, pulling her closer drowsily. Billie snuggled up to him and closed her eyes. Maybe if she slept just a bit longer, the rest of the headache would go away.

  The second time Billie woke up, she was no longer quite as euphoric. Damon fed her bread and cheese and hot chocolate and offered to walk her home, but she refused, telling him she needed to be alone. She was grateful he respected that. Her headache was gone, but her reason had returned, and it was nearly as unpleasant as the headache would have been.

  What the hell was she going to do? What was she doing in the first place? She had no intention of staying in the seventeenth century. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada. The smells assaulting her nose this very moment reminded her of the filth she hated almost more than anything else in this age. It was a warm day in early September, and slops dumped from the windows were fermenting in the streets. The smog of twenty-first century London was no joy, but it wasn't anywhere near as vile as the air she was breathing now. The Great Plague of 1665 had killed nearly 100,000 in just a few months. Billie did not want to remain in an era where rats roamed the streets openly, an era without plumbing and decent hospitals and reliable birth control.

  Which reminded her, she would have to ask Aphra about those home remedies against pregnancy, and soon.

  But why was she worrying about not wanting to stay in 1676? She'd slept with Damon once — well, one night. A woman was supposed to worry about a man's intentions, but all Billie could worry about was her own. She had no idea what she wanted from him. His intentions had been clear all along: he wanted to seduce her. And then he'd done the gentlemanly thing and allowed her to seduce him.

  She should be regarding the incident as a fling. Unfortunately, that was difficult. After the months she'd spent in the seventeenth century, she'd grown very fond of Ravenscroft, on a level that went beyond sexual attraction. He was a buddy, someone to hang out and explore Restoration London with, especially in the corners where women were not welcome. She knew he regarded her as an object, but she was almost certain her feelings of friendship were reciprocated as well.

  But now that sex had entered their relationship, was friendship still an option? Did she even want it to be?

  There it was, the big question. Billie did not want to remain in the seventeenth century, but at the same time, she was already emotionally invested. She wanted Damon to fall in love with her. Which meant she must be pretty far along that road herself.

  It made no sense. Where would it lead if she didn't want to stay in his time? She could hardly drag Ravenscroft back to the twenty-first century with her — he still had several plays to write, and for all she knew, those plays had an important influence on someone who came after him. Even though literary history in her era had forgotten him, he was hardly a nobody now; Dryden wouldn't bother feuding with a nobody. If she thought just sleeping with him a chronological sin, taking him back with her (assuming she could even persuade him to come) might make her own world vanish or something.

  She felt her headache returning.

  When Billie returned to the brownstone she called home in this era, Aphra was pacing the sitting room carpet, Elizabeth Barry on the settee watching her, a slight frown creasing her high forehead. At Billie's entrance, Aphra graced her with a weak attempt at a smile.

  “I will not ask you where you spent the night,” she said, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “'Tis obvious from the expression on your face.”

  “And does Damon fulfill the promise of those golden eyes?” Elizabeth asked with a wicked grin.

  Billie smiled and took off her plumed hat, unsure how she should reply. Apparently women in the seventeenth century joked about men and sex in much the same way Billie's contemporaries did.

  “We can discuss Damon's talents some other time,” Billie replied, and the other two chuckled. “Now tell me what's wrong.”

  Aphra and Elizabeth looked at each other.

  “Men,” Elizabeth finally volunteered. “Or rather, one man. One very selfish man.”

  “Ah, but Amoret,” Aphra protested. “Perhaps it means nothing.”

  Elizabeth Barry's frown returned. “And if it does not, still he wanted you to know. He is hurting you intentionally.”

  “So what did Hoyle do now?” Billie asked, draping her silk jacket over the back of a brocade chair and sitting down. People wore too many clothes in this century. No wonder they used so much perfume.

  “He has written to tell me he will go to a dance, and he does not want me to come.” Aphra resumed her pacing. “What can it mean?”

  “He is provoking you, Astrea,” Elizabeth said. “'Tis simple enough.”

  “But why?”

  Elizabeth Barry shrugged nearly bare shoulders. “Mayhap because you left Woodstock without him in order to finish your play. He likes to think his person more important than some play.”

  “He does not want me to make our relationship public; why should he object when I act independently?”

  “He would have you love him but does not want to l
ove in return.”

  Billie listened intently, but kept out of the conversation. She was honored to be included in the intimate discussion at all — Aphra had never discussed her love life in Billie's presence before. This was obviously a conversation between best friends, and Billie had not reached that status yet.

  She was very glad she had taken Hoyle for all he was worth the night before.

  “He bid me write, and write I will,” Aphra said, sitting down at her table, silks swirling around her. “But it will not be the letter he wished to receive!”

  “Bravo, Astrea,” Elizabeth said, applauding.

  “I cannot just ignore the affront as you would, Amoret. 'Tis not in my nature.” She pulled out a piece of the paper Billie had given her. “I hope all the women there will be ugly, ill-natured, ill-dressed, ill-fashioned and unconversable, and his time will be filled with thoughts of me!”

  Elizabeth rose from the settee and went over to Aphra to plant a brief kiss on her temple. “Write him that,” she said with a smile. She turned to Billie. “I would return home now. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

  “Certainly,” Billie replied, getting up and slipping her jacket back on. She was enough of a cavalier that she would not say no to a lady, even if the lady was an actress and, according to the morality of the times, a whore. According to the morality of the times, Billie was a whore too. When she wasn't a man.

  They left the house and headed in the direction of Pall Mall, making polite small talk for a while until Elizabeth got down to business. “I think you should change to skirts again for a while,” she said, her hand tucked demurely in the crook of Billie's arm.

  “Why is that?” Billie asked.

  “You may be a part of the reason John Hoyle is being so difficult. Not that I would care if their relationship came to an end, but Aphra seems to.”

  Billie nodded. “Does he mind that I am living at her house?”

  “Mr. Hoyle is very nice about appearances.” Billie laughed and Elizabeth grimaced. “Precisely. Our libertines demand very different standards from their women, be she wife or whore, than they do from themselves.” Elizabeth Barry was obviously thinking about her own situation and Rochester's beautiful wife in the country, who had produced yet another daughter this year. Billie wondered what her feelings towards the wife were, but didn't dare ask.

  “I must play the lad for my part in The Town Fop, but I will try to appear as a maid more often in the future.”

  “Thank you. For Aphra's sake.”

  They shook hands to seal the deal. “For Aphra's sake.”

  They were passing the great houses that lined the Strand, a broad street once nearly as grand as Pall Mall. Essex House, York House and Arundel House had survived the fire, but they had not survived to the twenty-first century. Despite the impressive palaces still standing in the seventeenth century, the Strand had obviously seen better days. House after house stood empty; only Somerset House, a favorite residence of Queen Catherine, retained some of the glory of what the Strand must once have been. Savoy Palace had become a hospital and a sanctuary, attracting undesirable elements and making this a dangerous place to walk alone. Here, the sword at Billie's side served a more important purpose than masquerade.

  But although the Strand was more dangerous and smelled worse in the seventeenth century than in the twenty-first, it was more picturesque. And at least the smell was not as bad here as in the side streets. The great who still occupied the old medieval and Tudor mansions did not empty their slops out the window. Once again Billie was confronted with the skewed chronological perspective time traveling gave her: she couldn't help thinking of the two eras as simultaneous, or even of this London as the later of the two, since it came later in her own experience.

  Elizabeth gave her arm a light shake, and Billie looked down at the actress with an apologetic smile. Elizabeth Barry stopped and gave her pseudo-male companion a critical look. “You make an extremely charming man, Clarinda, if abstracted. 'Tis a shame for our sex that you are not.”

  “Why thank you, Mistress Barry,” Billie said, raising Elizabeth's smooth hand to her lips and bestowing a lingering kiss. She found herself liking the actress more and more, and she was starting to understand Elizabeth Barry's attraction for a man like Rochester, who could have practically any woman he wanted. Elizabeth's acerbic tongue was a bit much for a new acquaintance, but she was a survivor; she was so self-assured and self-possessed, part of her would always be unreachable, and that was precisely what would tantalize a typical Restoration rake. Elizabeth was definitely a match for the earl.

  “For shame, Mr. Armstrong,” Elizabeth said, pulling her hand away and returning to the charade, her eyes glittering with mischief. They were both players at heart, Billie realized, and she gave Elizabeth her best slow, sexy smile. They loved the stage and the masquerade and everything that went with it.

  “I was only trying to please,” Billie teased.

  “And would you please our audience too?” Elizabeth asked. “For I fear we have one.” She gestured in the direction of Somerset House. Billie turned to see a fine lady frozen in front of the palace, staring at the two of them. When Billie's eyes met hers, the lady started, a pained expression on her face, and looked away.

  “Who is that?” Billie asked, trying to recall where on earth she might have seen the woman before. It didn't help that it wasn't a face to remember.

  “'Tis Astrea's little cousin, Mary Twysden, the lady,” Elizabeth said chillingly. Apparently she didn't have a very good opinion of ladies.

  “Ah, yes, now I remember.” Billie felt her pulse quicken. Mary Twysden was the one whose name had called up so many important associations the opening night of The Wrangling Lovers, the lady she'd been determined to try to contact — until she'd forgotten about her in her obsession with Ravenscroft.

  Mary Twysden lifted her eyes again, a slow blush dusting her cheeks.

  “She certainly seems to remember you,” Elizabeth Barry said with heavy sarcasm. “I think, Mr. Armstrong, you have made a conquest.”

  Billie shrugged. “Let us hope that is a good omen for Aphra's upcoming play.”

  Aphra still couldn't believe how full the theater had been on the third night of her Fop. She knew she must have a silly grin on her face as Thomas Betterton, her leading man, raised his glass in a toast. “To the playwright!”

  The rest of the actors and actresses followed suit, laughing and cheering. “To the playwright!”

  Aphra was entertaining the company, as was customary after a successful third night. Her takings would be generous, and she could well afford a round for those who had made her success possible.

  “I have an announcement,” Betterton continued when the company quieted down. Aphra felt suddenly nervous. After Davenant's death, Betterton had risen to a managing position in the Duke's Company, so any announcements he had to make would be important. “The King,”— here the accomplished actor paused dramatically — “has requested a performance of The Town Fop at court.”

  There was a new round of cheering, and members of the company clapped her enthusiastically on the back. Aphra could hardly believe her good fortune. Not only did a court performance mean guaranteed income, it was one of the greatest honors a playwright could receive. Aphra suspected she knew who she had to thank for it — her friend Nell Gwyn. Nellie appreciated the difficulty of Aphra's position as the King never could. And she was a generous soul.

  Aphra tried not to let the thought of John Hoyle diminish the enjoyment of her triumph. But of course, as soon as she reminded herself of his absence, her mood sank. For weeks now, her heart had felt wrung out. She hadn't reacted this way to a love affair since Will Scot failed to see her off in Paramaribo. The dull ache of premonition clouded her sensations, and for a moment, she could do little more than nod and smile as those nearest congratulated and complimented her.

  Damon, with “Will” at his side, made his way through the theater crowd and laid a friendly
hand on her arm. “Astrea, my dear, a bit more joy is in order. A court performance is not only an honor, it is revenue. One cannot eat honor, but the revenue will feed your household for months. I envy you.”

  Aphra couldn't help laughing. “Ah, Damon, you are a true friend.”

  “An envious friend,” Clarinda corrected. Clarinda and Damon were together constantly now, but Aphra sensed a reserve in her young protégée that reminded her of Elizabeth Barry. Clarinda did not throw herself into her love affair the way Aphra did. While on one level Aphra was envious, especially on a night like tonight, on another she found it incomprehensible. She also worried about Damon. He could take care of himself, of course, and he had the male advantage in any love affair, with no need to worry about reputation. Still, she cared for him too much not to think he deserved more devotion.

  “Can not an envious friend be true, Will?” Aphra asked with a smile.

  “'Tis difficult, I think.”

  “At least I have Killigrew's offer to comfort me,” Ravenscroft said. “Although 'tis hardly likely to bring me the kind of revenue your Fop will bring you.”

  A dark figure appeared at the door and Aphra's attention shifted immediately. “Lycidus!” she murmured, flooded by a rush of fierce joy but resisting the impulse to rise and run to him. Her lover did not care for open demonstrations of feeling.

  John Hoyle let his gaze wander over the guests before finally settling on her, and Aphra's brief moment of exhilaration was over. There was calculation in those dark eyes. She tried to motion to him to join her, but he took another look at the crowd and made as if to go.

  “Excuse me,” she said and hurried to catch him before he could leave.

  This was no way to treat her on the night of her greatest success.

  Billie watched Aphra's progress across the room. When she reached Hoyle, the conversation was obviously serious, the smile on Aphra's face brittle. Hoyle seemed to be enjoying his power, and it made Billie seethe. Finally he turned to go, despite all Aphra's entreaties, and Billie spun away with an angry exclamation, catching Ravenscroft's amused but sympathetic expression from the corner of her eye.