Chameleon in a Mirror

by Ruth Nestvold

  Although she loved London, Aphra was not as happy with the St. Bride's address of the residence her mother had chosen. The old merchant Richard Behn lived only a few streets away, and shortly after they settled in, he'd come to call. Fat and plagued with gout, he had a son older than Aphra. But he also had a house in Popinsey Alley with 16 chimneys and another smaller one in the vicinity. While her father was still alive, Aphra had been able to resist the advances of the rich old goat, but she feared her mother would not be as understanding.

  Her only chance was to devise a means of making her own way in the world, and she hoped the contents of the basket she carried would help. As she and Katherine approached the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, Aphra's steps quickened. It would do no good to be timid. Besides the manuscript of her play, she also had a letter of introduction to Killigrew from Sir Thomas Culpepper, as well as an assortment of exotic feather headdresses she intended to present to the King's Company. Thomas told her the company recently performed a wildly popular drama entitled The Indian Queen. Aphra hoped her gifts could be used for the costumes in the planned restaging.

  She also hoped they would help her avoid a fate perhaps not worse than death, but certainly close.

  Aphra entered the playhouse with more confidence than she felt. The portly playwright, poet laureate of the realm, was giving instructions to the actors and actresses. “Wait here,” she said to her maid. Katherine nodded.

  She approached a dark-haired woman standing on the side of the stage. “Prithee, can you tell me where I might find Thomas Killigrew?”

  “He's not here right now, lass,” the actress replied. “But if you want a part in the play, you can speak with Mr. Dryden.”

  Aphra felt a surge of sick disappointment. “Nay. I wanted to give him this.” Aphra took the linen cover off the basket she was carrying and pulled out a feathered headdress. The actress gasped.

  Aphra's courage returned. “I brought it and several others back from America. I heard the King's Company was staging a play where they might be of use.”

  “The Indian Queen,” the actress murmured, taking a colorful feather between her fingers. “They would be perfect.”

  The playwright joined them so abruptly, they were both startled. “What is the attraction here, Mrs. Marshall? There is work to be done!”

  “I had no lines, Mr. Dryden. And you must see what this young woman brought — perfect for The Indian Queen!”

  Dryden took the headdress from the actress's hands, staring at the clever arrangement of colorful feathers. “This is incredibly good,” Dryden said, looking up from the feathers and into Aphra's face. “Where did you get it?”

  Aphra made a hurried curtsey. “I am fresh arrived from the colony of Surinam, Mr. Dryden. I brought the headdress with me, and several others as well. I also brought an assortment of unusual insects ...”

  Dryden waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You can present those to His Majesty for his zoology collection. But this ... this we could use.”

  “I would be happy to present them to your company.” The words nearly stuck in her throat in her excitement. “When are you expecting the master of the company, Mr. Killigrew?”

  “He did not plan to come to the theater today, to my knowledge,” Dryden said, and Aphra's face fell. “If you leave the headdress with me, I will give it to Mr. Killigrew.”

  “I had something particular to give him,” Aphra stammered.

  “I am one of the shareholders of the company, Mrs. ...?”

  “Johnson.”

  “I will make sure it gets to Mr. Killigrew.”

  Aphra pulled a sealed letter out of her basket, along with the painstakingly copied manuscript of The Young King, and handed them to Dryden. “This is a letter of introduction from my foster brother, Thomas Culpepper, and a play I wrote while I was in America.”

  “A truly American play,” Dryden said with a sarcastic smile. “Not like our London Indians.”

  “Oh no, nothing of the kind,” Aphra hastened to reassure him. “'Tis based on a classical precedent!”

  Dryden raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  The actress shook her dark head and smiled. “The times are changing, are they not, Mr. Dryden? Women are already actresses. Perhaps playwrights next?” Dryden didn't look pleased, and Mrs. Marshall gave Aphra a conspiratorial wink.

  “I will give these to Mr. Killigrew, Mrs. Johnson,” Dryden said in a tone of dismissal. “Good day.”

  “Good day, Mr. Dryden, Mrs. Marshall,” Aphra said curtseying, and turned to leave.

  The actress and the playwright watched the copper-haired woman and her maid leave the theater. “A woman playwright would be quite a novelty, would it not?” Anne Marshall said, baiting the playwright, not well-liked among the actors.

  “That it would,” Dryden agreed.

  “Enough of a novelty to mean serious competition?” the actress added, a malicious gleam in her eye.

  Dryden glanced through the pages of fine handwriting, quickly skimming a passage. He was relieved to see that the writing was bombastic and artificial, and although the public was often pleased with much less these days, he probably would have little difficulty persuading Killigrew not to take it. “Only if she wrote better than this one does,” he said. “Come, Mrs. Marshall, it will soon be your entrance.”

  Aphra could barely open her eyes, but she could feel her mother's presence hovering near her bed.

  “Did you do it a purpose?” her mother asked, a hint of suppressed anger in her voice.

  “Nay,” Aphra replied wearily. No matter what the goal, she could not possibly have wished this kind of pain on herself. She opened her eyes. “But now I shan't have to marry that old goat, at least.”

  “The banns have already been cried, Aphra,” her mother said, more gently this time. Perhaps the line of pain on Aphra's brow impressed her.

  Aphra closed her eyes again and let out a ragged sigh. “Must it be?”

  “I am afraid so.” She reached out and took Aphra's hand. “I also had to marry your father when I did not wish it.”

  “But you were carrying his child. You slept with him willingly enough.”

  “Aphra!”

  “Ah, mother, 'tis hardly an accusation. At least Bartholomew Johnson was young and handsome, his muscles hard from work in the field. What woman would willingly sleep with the likes of Mr. Behn?”

  Her mother shook her head. “I'm sorry, Aphra. I had no choice.”

  Certainly, most people would think her mother had no choice, but Bartholomew Johnson would not have seen it that way. He had been incapable of forcing Aphra to do anything she didn't want to do. Her mother was good-natured enough, but she would not put up with an unmarried, pregnant daughter — she had been there herself, and people were notoriously intolerant of their own weaknesses. But marriage to Richard Behn was too high a price to pay for her sins.

  The foreign feathers made their stage debut a few weeks later. They were a great success, even though Aphra's strategy was not.

  Neither was her marriage.

  Flanders, 1666

  With a feeling of exhilaration, Aphra stood on the deck of the Castel Rodrigo with her maid Katherine and her brother Stephen, watching yet another foreign port, Bruges this time, come into view. Richard Behn had left her a mountain of debt on his death in the plague, but at least she was free to make her own way in the world. Only a year ago, she had been convinced her life was already over before it had barely begun. She knew it was wrong of her to feel such relief at the death of another human being, but if the great plague had not killed Richard Behn, marriage might well have killed his young wife. Aphra had difficulty finding charity in her heart for the man who had bought her like a slave and used her like one too, however brief the business transaction. She had willingly given up his fortune and sold the large house to satisfy the creditors.

  When the messenger arrived from Thomas Killigrew several weeks later, Aphra was overjoyed. Unfortunately, the
summons was not what she expected; in addition to being head of the King's Company, Killigrew was also Groom of the Bedchamber and assistant to Lord Arlington, the head of the King's intelligence service. And it was not Aphra's talents as a writer he wanted, it was her services as a spy — and her former intimacy with Will Scot. Aphra was being sent to Holland to meet her old lover and persuade him to “become a convert,” or, in other words, to stop working for the Dutch in the present war and provide information on their activities to the English.

  She was free and she was going to meet her old lover — a lover she couldn't trust.

  Through the window of the rooms she had taken in Antwerp, Aphra watched Will Scot emerge from the carriage, and despite herself, her breath caught in her throat. Dishonest or not, he was a dangerously handsome man, one few women would be able to resist. She could hardly blame her younger self for her weakness. Even now, although she well knew he was a liar and a traitor, the way the hair curled away from his high brow made her fingers itch to touch it. She let the curtain drop and turned back to the sitting room.

  Katherine led Will in, exuding disapproval. “Your guest has arrived, ma'am,” she said with a curtsy.

  “Thank you, Katherine. That will be all.” Aphra drew a deep breath. The lines in his face were deeper, but his hair was still the same honey gold. He'd let it grow out, however, and the ringlets on his shoulders were a bright contrast to his dark coat. “Welcome, Mr. Scot. Would you care to take a seat?”

  Ignoring her formal words, he strode up to her and took her hands in his own. “Aphra! Why are you here?”

  With only a slight hesitation, she pulled her hands away. “I am here to persuade you to enter His Majesty's service.”

  “No other reason?”

  “No other reason.”

  Will Scot grinned. “His Majesty could not have chosen a more persuasive messenger.”

  Aphra recognized the sarcasm in his voice immediately, but she was determined not to be taken in by him a second time. “You will be offered a full pardon and a sizable reward.”

  “And what might that reward be?” Scot asked, running a tender finger down her cheek.

  She turned her head away. Strangely enough, Scot's sudden attentions were making it less difficult for her rather than more. “If you are interested, I will try to get a specific offer from my employers.”

  “I am.”

  She repressed a smile of triumph. Perhaps she would have more success as spy than as writer or wife.

  Aphra sealed the letter and handed it to her brother. Stephen was still young, barely eighteen, but she would trust him with her life.

  “Be sure you give it directly into the hands of Thomas Killigrew and none other.” In order to prove his sincerity, Scot had finally revealed important information — a Dutch plan to block the Thames and attack the royal fleet. She had no details on when the plan might be carried out, but she hoped the information would be enough that she would finally be paid for her work. Aphra needed money desperately. Her contact, Halsall, had sent her none since her arrival, and she had been obliged to pawn several of her rings.

  Stephen bowed gallantly. “None other, dear sister,” he said with a grin.

  “And send me word of the damage the fire caused,” she added. “Mother's missive was too hysterical to be informative.” Aphra could not imagine what the city was like now. Perhaps the Dutch were exaggerating, but she'd heard that fully a third of London had burned.

  The reply Aphra received from Killigrew was like none she would have expected. Sir Thomas Culpepper wrote as well, both of them ignoring her information and chastising her for her irresponsibility in sending Stephen as messenger. Killigrew had shown her letter to Sir Thomas, and according to her foster brother, even the King himself was irate at her actions.

  How could they all be so angry, none of them even acknowledging the import of her missive? She began to wonder why she'd been sent to the Lowlands at all if no one intended to take her seriously.

  Katherine entered the room. “Mr. Corney is here, ma'am.” Aphra sighed. “Should I send him away?”

  Aphra shook her head. “No, show him in. He will only blab all in public if he does not do it here. But he will probably blab all in public anyway.” Thomas Corney was also in His Majesty's service in Flanders, and singularly inept at it too. But in all probability the agents in London took him more seriously, just because he was a man.

  A foppishly attired young man entered the room, and Aphra rose.

  “Good day, Mrs. Behn.”

  “Good day, Mr. Corney.”

  “Disturbing news has reached my ears, and I hurried to come to you to discover the truth. I heard you were seen in the company of that rogue, Will Scot, and I wanted to warn you of his character.”

  “I know the gentleman, but I assure you I have not seen him for some time, Mr. Corney.”

  “But my informant was quite sure about your identity.”

  “Perhaps he mistook the date.”

  “Oh, no, certainly not. I have been making enquiries, and I am beginning to worry about you, Mrs. Behn. You should not be seen in such disreputable company.”

  Aphra nearly groaned out loud. God save me from fools and fops, she thought fervently. If word got out that she was meeting Will Scot, he would no longer feel safe in her company — and her mission here would be finished without being completed.

  Aphra continued to send missives regularly, warning Halsall, Killigrew and Lord Arlington of Dutch plans and Thomas Corney's loose tongue, and including transcriptions of letters from Scot. But after a single payment in September, she got no more for her services. Soon she had no more rings or trinkets to pawn. When Will Scot saw how His Majesty treated those in his service, he reconsidered switching sides, and Aphra found it increasingly difficult to persuade him the English government would stand by its word.

  Shortly before Christmas, Scot was imprisoned for debt, and after a miserable New Year, Aphra received orders to return to London — but no funds to either pay her debts or her passage back. She borrowed money from an English admirer in Antwerp, and finally in May, she and Katherine set sail for London.

  As if the troubles of the last six months had not been enough, their ship was caught in a storm and sank, but luckily they were close enough to shore to make land in the skiffs. Aphra arrived in England nearly drowned — as miserable as was humanly possible, she thought. But she still had a bit farther to go.

  A month after her arrival in London, Dutch ships blockaded the Thames, while a smaller fleet sailed up the Medway, destroyed the Royal James and carried off the Royal Charles — the ship that had carried the King so triumphantly to England only seven years before. If Aphra hadn't been so heartbroken, she might have felt vindicated. But still no payment was forthcoming for her work in Flanders, and the debt she owed her Antwerp admirer was a constant threat.

  At least he was on the other side of the Channel.

  The situation couldn't last. A year later, Edward Butler returned to London and demanded his money. The military man, younger than she, was generous enough to offer her a deal: if she couldn't pay, she could marry him. The prospect wasn't nearly as frightening as that of old Mr. Behn, but Aphra was determined never to sell herself in marriage again, no matter what. A woman alone had few enough rights, but a married woman had none.

  Aphra petitioned Halsall and Killigrew again and again, but the Royal Purse opened more readily for mistresses than spies. Soon Butler's patience ran out and Aphra was facing the threat of debtor's prison. Thomas Culpepper, her only real friend in London, was unable or unwilling to come up with the massive sum of 150 pounds to save her from imprisonment. The day before she was to enter Croome House, Aphra penned another desperate letter to Thomas Killigrew:

  I have cryd my self dead and could find my hart to break through all and get to the King and never rise 'till he weare pleased to pay this; but I am sick and weake and unfitt for it; or a prison; I shall go tomorrow. But I will send my mother to th
e King with a petition for I see everybody are words: and I will not perish in a prison ....

  Thomas Killigrew gave a marginally respectful nod of his head. He had been in the royal employ too long and in too intimate of circumstances to maintain reverence for his sovereign. “You should hear the petitioner, Your Majesty. She is the mother of one who was your spy in Flanders, and her petition has the support of Colonel Culpepper.”

  “Blustery fool,” His Majesty said.

  Thomas Killigrew nodded. “Certainly. But Mrs. Johnson's claims are not unmerited. Her daughter Mrs. Behn had a great deal of expense in Flanders, and she served Your Highness faithfully. Perhaps you remember her — it was she who provided the feather headdresses and ornaments used in The Indian Queen and The Indian Emperor.”

  “Ah!” Killigrew had finally caught the attention of his fickle employer. “A vivacious copper-haired beauty, as I recall.” Killigrew nodded. “She presented quite an extraordinary assortment of creatures from America for my collection.”

  “That she did, Your Highness.”

  “We would not want to see a beautiful woman rot in debtor's prison now, would we, Mr. Killigrew?”

  “Hardly, Sire.”

  The King examined his fine, long hands, certainly more beautiful than his wide, long nose. “The woman was not as persuasive in Flanders as we expected.”