She found the lady near a door, about to flee. “You were looking for me, madam?”
“Oh!” At the way Mary's eyes went wide, Billie felt a twinge of guilt, but she suppressed it. This “acquaintance” who'd grown up with Aphra might well know something important, something Billie could use later, and a guilty conscience would not be convenient.
“I ... I wanted to ask if you might teach me the American method of playing the lute,” Mary stammered. “I've watched you play, here and at the Duke's Theatre, and you have a very original technique.”
Billie bowed, sweeping her plumed hat before her. “I would be happy to be of service, Lady Twysden.”
Mary's color changed rapidly from an unhealthy pale to an unbecoming pink. “That would be very obliging of you. I will be in touch.” She paused, and her eyes sought the figure of Aphra in the crowd. “Are you still staying with Mrs. Behn?” she asked with an effort.
The hint of distaste in Mary's voice strengthened Billie's resolve. “Yes. Mrs. Behn has been very kind in providing lodgings for me and my cousin. You are acquainted with the playwright?”
Mary did not reply immediately, and when she did, the aversion was even more pronounced. “Mrs. Behn and I were neighbors when we were children. Of course, she was only the daughter of a barber, so we had little to do with each other.”
Billie no longer felt guilty at leading the lady on. “Is she not foster sister of Colonel Culpepper?” Billie asked, lending her voice a note of mild surprise.
Mary gave a refined shrug. “Her mother was nurse to Sir Thomas and his sister, and when his own parents died, Mrs. Johnson was something of a foster mother to him.”
“You know quite a bit about her for someone you had little to do with,” Billie said softly.
“'Tis not like London there,” Mary said. “In villages like Hackington and Harbledown and Wye, everyone knows everything about everyone else.” She did not sound happy about the situation, but Billie considered it very good news indeed.
“'Tis hard to imagine you might have played childhood games with our fair Sappho,” Billie said, pretending not to be aware of the distaste in her companion's voice.
Mary shook her head. “She was always the favorite. Always putting herself forward.”
“Good training for the stage.”
“And other things as well.”
Enough was enough, even to get information that might make her career in her own time. “Lady Twysden, I consider Mrs. Behn my friend.”
Mary clenched her hands in her skirts. “You must think me very uncharitable, Mr. Armstrong, but I assure you, I have good reason.”
“It does not sound as if you had nothing to do with the illustrious Astrea as a child.”
There was a tense pause. “No. I knew her well,” Mary admitted finally.
A rush of exhilaration made Billie draw in a quick breath. This must be the way someone felt on a hunt with the fox just out of sight but within reach. She would definitely cultivate this woman's acquaintance.
The crowd shifted, and Billie caught sight of Aphra again. They gazed at each other across the room, and Billie thought she detected a curious and almost disapproving expression on Aphra's face.
“I must return to my hostess.” Billie bowed over Mary Twysden's hand. “Your servant, madam.”
Mary nodded, a frown forming between her brows. “Mr. Armstrong.”
“What is your game, Will?” Aphra asked when Billie joined her.
“Game?” Billie replied with a grin.
“What are your intentions towards poor Lady Twysden?”
Aphra seemed to have more charity in her soul than the lady. Mary Twysden wouldn't have cared what anyone's intentions towards Aphra were — except of course Billie's.
Billie shook her head. “Are you perhaps jealous, Astrea?”
“Don't be ridiculous!”
“But the lady appears jealous of you.”
“With good reason, the way you have been dallying with her.”
Billie raised an admonitory finger. “Ah, but she is the one who began it.”
“Faith, I certainly hope so.”
Billie chuckled. “No, I would no longer have any confidence in my own taste if I had been first.”
“Cruel!” Aphra said, trying not to laugh.
“Ah, Will has returned,” Ravenscroft said, sauntering over. “Where have you been hiding? And where, may I ask, is your charming cousin?”
Billie gazed into the watchful, heavy-lidded eyes. “She said she needed to retire. She found the atmosphere potentially harmful.”
Aphra laughed out loud, and Ravenscroft grimaced. “Don't tell the King that, Will.”
Billie shook her head. “I assure you, I won't.”
23
... there's never smoke, but there's some fire.
Aphra Behn, The False Count
Winter came suddenly, descending on them early and fierce, forcing Billie to acknowledge how time was running away from her. She'd arrived in the seventeenth century in summer — and now winter had arrived in the seventeenth century. True, she hadn't accomplished her purpose (if she could even figure out exactly what that was), but it was also true that she was dawdling. Mary Twysden hadn't contacted her as promised, but Billie could have figured out a way to “run into” the lady. Nor had she found out anything about the mysterious play, The Sign of Roxanne; Aphra had no interest in talking about such a failure, growing upset when Billie even raised the subject. And Billie had not yet managed to find another opportunity to suggest Aphra write her memoirs and set history straight.
All excuses, and Billie knew it. Just as she knew the excuses had something to do with the man walking by her side.
She could see her warm breath competing with the cold air, and her companion's earnest face beyond the little clouds she created. Yet another riddle in this puzzling era, her laughing libertine turned serious — and jealous.
Snow crunched beneath their boots as they made their way to the frozen Thames. The citizens of London were treating the thick ice on the river as an excuse for a winter carnival. Clever merchants set up temporary shop close to the shore, selling hot spiced wine and other treats, and the ice was full of skaters and pedestrians, slipping more than walking. Billie had read of the Thames freezing over in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and of the frost fairs during the “little ice age,” as it was called, but she'd never thought to experience it herself.
“Any further word from the King?” Ravenscroft asked as they reached the Temple stairs and descended to the wide expanse of ice.
“No. Clarinda has been 'out of town'.”
“So you truly have no interest in replying to the summons?”
“I told you — no!” She whirled around to face him and slipped on the ice. Ravenscroft caught her elbow.
“I beseech you, forgive me,” he said quietly. “I have been a coxcomb.”
“In truth.” It wouldn't fit into her head that Ravenscroft found it so hard to believe she had no interest in a one-night-stand with the King. She looked out over the frozen river, amazed at the traffic it held. Some people had even come out in their carriages.
“When will Clarinda return?”
Billie shrugged. “When His Highness has had time to forget her.”
“Unfortunate,” Ravenscroft said. “I would fain see you in skirts again.”
“Now that's ripe, when you so obviously do not want to see Clarinda fall into the royal clutches. I presume you would also like a cup of mulled wine?”
“Ripe?” he echoed, following her to the nearest booth.
Billie didn't bother trying to come up with an excuse for her slip, and ordered instead.
“I am beginning to feel the want of female companionship,” Ravenscroft murmured.
“Hah!” Billie paid for the hot spiced wine and handed him a cup. “I think you have quite enough of that.”
Ravenscroft looked at her in a way hardly appropriate to her male apparel. “In fine
, I would acknowledge our relationship,” he murmured.
Billie gripped the warm cup in both hands and looked down into the steaming depths. Whatever he might mean by the words, it was impossible. She didn't belong here; she'd stayed much too long already.
When she didn't respond, he continued, his voice low. “With the contract from the King's Company, I will be much more comfortable. I thought perhaps I could find rooms for you.”
Her stomach bottomed out, and the cup of wine slipped out of her hands. But she was in a public place, dressed as a man, in an era that punished homosexuality with jail. She could not make a scene and endanger her lover, however much she might be inclined to.
“You would like to find rooms for me.” The spilled wine formed a stain at her feet like blood. “Which you would pay for, I take it.”
She realized that her hand had gone to the hilt of the sword she'd grown so used to wearing when in her male guise.
Ravenscroft bent down to retrieve Billie's cup. “Take your hand off your sword,” he whispered as he rose again. “Your female admirer is approaching.”
Billie turned to see Mary Twysden walking carefully across the ice between the booths, a sour-faced maid in tow. “Mr. Armstrong! Mr. Ravenscroft. Good day, gentlemen.”
Mary held out one fragile hand, and Billie took it in her own more broad-boned paw — one of those features that made her masquerade possible. While it did not give her away in her male guise, her fingers were long enough that she still did not come across as a complete peasant when playing the female — the American female.
Billie flourished her plumed hat with one hand while she kissed Mary Twysden's dainty, gloved fingers.
“At our meeting at Whitehall, I was left without an address where I could reach you, madam,” she said when she straightened again. “Do you still desire lessons on the lute?”
“Lessons on the lute?” Ravenscroft said softly, one expressive eyebrow raised.
Mary blushed, her eyes sparkling with what seemed to be a combination of embarrassment and excitement, making her almost attractive. Billie could feel Ravenscroft's curious gaze shift from her to Mary Twysden and back, but she ignored him.
“Very much so,” Mary said. “I live in the new house on the corner of Russell and Bow Street.”
“And what would be a convenient time for us to begin your lessons, my lady?”
“I'll be out of town for a week, but I plan to be back again Thursday next.”
“Should I attend you on Friday afternoon?” Billie suggested.
“That would suit me well. I will see you next week,” Mary said with a pretty smile. “'Twas well met, Mr. Armstrong, was it not?” she added as she turned to leave, her maid looking on disapprovingly.
“Indeed it was,” Billie agreed.
It was time for her to pursue at least one of the goals she'd come for — none of which included being a kept woman for a Restoration rake.
Thoroughly confused, Ravenscroft watched Mary Twysden wind her way through the crowds. He had no idea why his companion felt inclined to lead the lady on — or why she should be so offended at his offer.
His gaze returned to Clarinda. “What is your game, Will?”
She remained stubbornly silent. Now that she no longer smiled for Mary Twysden, her expression reminded him of the effigies that once graced the niches of old St. Paul's, all gone now, destroyed in the Great Fire. She was not only offended, she was downright angry. It made no sense. She shared his bed, so whether she was of a good family in the colonies or not, her reaction could hardly stem from moral considerations. Providing rooms for her was a logical step, and certainly desirable for a woman in her situation.
When she still didn't answer, he glanced back at the retreating figure of Mary Twysden. “'Tis hard to believe she has heard none of the rumors that you may not be what you appear.”
Still no reply.
“Dammit, Will, at least tell me why you are suddenly so grim!”
She nodded shortly. “Let us walk.”
They strolled through the stands, farther out onto the frozen river, away from the stairs. Children played and dogs barked, but the crowds were less here. Clarinda clasped her hands behind her back and gazed at the picturesque winter scene. “So you want to 'keep' me, Ravenscroft?”
It was obvious from the emphasis she gave to the word that he was in trouble. He shrugged and tried to smile. “I thought you would be grateful.”
He glanced at the “lad” at his side. Her strong, unforgiving profile was framed by the curving black plume of her gray hat and the stark white of the frozen Thames. It was a bleak prospect. Suddenly he felt afraid.
“I'm not grateful,” she said, still not looking at him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I noticed.” He gazed at her, the hard gray eyes staring at the ice, the proud, masculine posture and stubborn jaw. No wonder she was able to pull off her masquerade with such ease. How had he ever thought he could force her into a recognizable role?
“Then why did you suggest it?”
Ravenscroft shook his head. “I don't know. 'Tis the accepted thing to do.”
“By whom? By libertines like yourself?”
“By our whole circle, Clarinda.” He wanted to take her by the hand or put his arm around her, caress the anger away, but her male garments prevented that course of action. “Look at Elizabeth Barry. I believe the Earl pays her expenses — whenever he can, that is.”
“Yes, but look at Aphra.”
“Aphra?” Ravenscroft repeated.
“She does what she wants and lets no man keep her.”
Ravenscroft shook his head. Clarinda could be incredibly naive at times. How did she think Aphra paid the bills all those years between her Dutch Lover and Abdelazer, all those years Clarinda had been gone? John Hoyle had been very generous in the first flush of infatuation. Ravenscroft suspected he also enjoyed the originality of the situation; he was the only wit in London who could claim to be keeping a playwright rather than an actress. Aphra was in love with Hoyle, of that there was no doubt, but she also had a strong practical streak. She took the gifts that came her way and put aside what she could. Of course, Katherine would probably never leave Aphra, even without wages, but food and clothes and hearth tax had to be paid.
“No,” he said slowly. “No one keeps her.”
Clarinda looked at him as if she were about to ask a question, but her gaze went back to the frozen Thames. “I find I grow tired of the cold. Let us return.”
Ravenscroft nodded. Without another word, they turned away from the winter spectacle and headed in the direction of the Dorset Garden stairs. It appeared it had not been such a good idea after all to try to force a change in their relationship. King Charles' interest in her had rattled him. If he set her up, clearly marking her as his, he would feel more in control — so he'd thought.
The rest of the way to Aphra's lodgings she maintained a rigid silence. Ravenscroft made a couple of attempts at conversation but soon gave up.
As they neared Aphra's small brownstone, Clarinda finally deigned to speak with him again. “I am not a commodity to be bought, Damon.”
“I did not think you were,” he began, but she cut him off.
“Shush! Obviously you did, or you would not have offered to set me up in my 'own' lodgings.” They had reached the stairs of the house, but with a curt gesture, Clarinda made it clear he was not to follow her. “It makes me sick at heart that you think it necessary to pay me for my 'favors.' I am not to be bought,” she repeated, her hand on the door, “and I am not your 'miss.'“
No, she definitely was not that. Ravenscroft stared at the door she'd slammed in his face, and despite the ache in his chest he had to smile. There might be words for Clarinda, (which he was inclined to doubt), but “miss” was not one of them.
24
Hellena.
I am as inconstant as you, for I have considered, captain, that a handsome woman has a great deal to do whilst her face is good.
For then is our harvest-time to gather friends, and should I in these days of my youth catch a fit of foolish constancy, I were undone: 'tis loitering by daylight in our great journey. Therefore, I declare I'll allow but one year for love, one year for indifference, and one for hate; and then go hang yourself, for I profess myself the gay, the kind, and the inconstant. The devil's in't if this won't please you!
Willmore.
Oh, most damnably. I have a heart with a hole quite through it too; no prison mine, to keep a mistress in.
Aphra Behn, The Rover
Billie was unfastening her thick woolen cloak when the door of the sitting room opened and Aphra entered the hall, her expression curious. “You are back earlier than I expected. Did Damon not care to come in?”
“I didn't ask.”
“Why, what is it, my dear?”
She shook her head. “Not now, Aphra, I beg you.” Now she had to go to her room and draw the bed curtains and try to forget Ravenscroft's offer. Forget his proposal to pay her for sex. Forget, too, the way he had shaken his head and paused before agreeing that Aphra would not be kept. Just as she seemed to have forgotten that they were from different worlds, forgotten in the enjoyment of her exotic adventure, her time out of time.
Suddenly she longed for Richard, a man of her own era — they played the same games, used the same rules. The rules of this time made her feel like she was negotiating an emotional minefield, leaving her exhausted and hurt. Richard had betrayed her, but he thought she'd betrayed him first and had lashed back in the most effective way he knew. Ravenscroft had not intended to hurt her at all.
The memory of Richard's deep voice saying, “I like your presence,” washed over her, and she closed her eyes briefly. She pulled herself together with effort. “Excuse me, please,” she said and made her way up the stairs.
She could feel Aphra watching her, perhaps even wishing Billie would confide in her, but right now, Billie barely had enough energy to make it to her room.
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