Chameleon in a Mirror Page 4

  It was very irritating — she was not the crying type. She would just have to pull herself together and try to figure out a way back home. In the meantime, adapt. She'd done that often enough, bumming around Europe with a guitar and a backpack, living on her wits and her voice. It was exhausting, but it was an adventure too. She'd adapted to months of constant change; she'd adapted to graduate school in England; she would adapt to the seventeenth century as well.

  Adapt to the seventeenth century. Right. If she thought bumming around Europe was an adventure, what would life in the Restoration be like?

  “You slept like the dead, my dear girl!” Aphra greeted her as she entered the sitting room, which also served as a dining room. “That must have been quite a journey!”

  Billie nodded. Over three hundred years. The rehearsal of The Dutch Lover meant the year must be 1673; now all she had to do was find out the month. To judge by the cold, it wasn't October.

  “I've lost track of time on my travels.” (Oh how true that was!) “What is the date today?”

  “'Tis the twenty-seventh of January, my dear,” Aphra said with a smile. “Friday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I've something for you, Clarinda. Katherine?” Aphra motioned to the servant carrying a tray of steaming beverages. Billie inhaled the scent of real coffee and felt a wave of sheer delight. It appeared her normally even-tempered nature was reasserting itself if she could appreciate the simple smell of coffee.

  “Can you get the things for Clarinda?” Aphra asked her maid. Katherine nodded and disappeared, returning with her arms full of rich fabric. Billie gasped.

  At her reaction, Aphra smiled. “Merely a few old rags of mine to get you started. I can understand that your male garb is convenient for you as a woman alone, but I can't very well have a man alone staying at my home now, can I?”

  It seemed an interesting distinction for Aphra to make, with the way she flaunted her lovers for all of society to see. Billie shook her head. “I suppose not.”

  “The gowns will be too short for you,” Aphra continued, looking Billie up and down critically. “But Katherine is very good with a needle. If there isn't enough material to let out at the hem, she'll think of something. And of course they have to be taken in, as slim as you are. Break your fast, then you can try them on.”

  After a hearty meal of coffee and bread and cheese, Aphra led Billie into her own room, Katherine following with the garments. After Billie had been helped into the first dress, she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, her eyes wide. The heavy gray-blue silk hung loosely at the bodice on her spare frame and barely reached her ankles, but she felt transformed anyway.

  Here was the true masquerade.

  Aphra nodded curtly. “It will do for a start.”

  “For a start?” Billie said, shaking her head and turning to Aphra. “Why are you being so generous to me, a perfect stranger?”

  “'Tis nothing, lass — a spare room and an old gown. The color of this one never suited me.”

  “You are a silver maiden, Miss Clarinda; Astrea is gold,” Katherine said, her nimble fingers already at work at the gown, pulling and pinning.

  Aphra smiled. “I never should have bought the cloth. It was the way the light reflected on it, I couldn't resist.”

  Billie fingered the rich material appreciatively. “It's beautiful.”

  “And you'll look beautiful wearing it, ma'am,” Katherine said.

  Aphra nodded. “'Tis as I said, you'll make as handsome a maid as you do a man.”

  “Hardly a maid,” Billie said.

  “So the truth will out?” Aphra said, laughing. “Pray don't proclaim your secret to the whole world.”

  “Not likely.” Billie looked down at the silk gown again, smoothing it against her body. “I am deeply in your debt.”

  “Nonsense. 'Tis not every day I run across a heroine, the likes of which I create in my plays. Mary Davenant puts up actresses in her house; what difference if I put up a musician in mine?”

  Mary Davenant — that was the manager of the Duke's Company after her husband, William Davenant, died. Billie's research was starting to pay off after all. “But how can you afford all this?” Billie asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. The image of Behn in the biographies was of an impoverished writer, just scraping by, which didn't exactly fit with the house, the servant, the silk.

  Aphra shrugged. “The takings of the third night are often modest, but my 'Prince' had a long run. We're not grand, but we're comfortable, are we not, Katherine?”

  “That we are, ma'am,” Katherine said with a smile.

  Billie wondered what Aphra actually got for a third night, the playwright's take during the Restoration. Instead of a percentage, playwrights received all of the proceeds from every third performance. If a play didn't last three days, they got nothing.

  “And this house?” Billie persisted. If this wasn't a dream, it was the chance of a lifetime to uncover some of the mysteries in Aphra Behn's biography. Assuming she could find her way back to the twenty-first century, that is.

  “You like it? The only thing old Mr. Behn left me other than his name. Not a good bargain.” Aphra's voice betrayed only a trace of bitterness.

  Billie shook her head. “I thought — you said you write for bread.”

  “I did?” Aphra's eyes narrowed.

  “Didn't you?” Aphra must have written that later. Now she was only at the beginning of her career.

  “That may be, but if I write for bread, does that make it impossible for me to own a house?” Aphra asked. “A house is not an income.”

  “Then why were you in debtor's prison? Why didn't they confiscate this place?”

  Katherine's hands stopped in their task and Aphra looked at Billie sharply. “So you know that too? What do you not know about me?”

  Billie swallowed. She had be more subtle about asking questions. “Well, you are famous, you know,” she said gaily, doing her best to maintain the pose of an enthusiastic groupie.

  “I can hardly credit that my fame has reached all the way to the Americas,” Aphra said, shaking her head.

  “Actually, you're the reason I'm here,” Billie confessed, truthfully enough. “I want to be a writer too.”

  Aphra blushed. “Thank you.”

  “When did Mr. Behn die?” Billie asked, feigning fan-girl curiosity.

  “In the plague,” Aphra said shortly.

  “And how did you meet?” The elusive Mr. Behn was a mystery to Aphra's biographers — if Billie could find out something about him, it might make her career when she got back to the twenty-first century. If she got back to the twenty-first century.

  No, she wouldn't think that way. Something had triggered the magic, and she would figure it out. But while she was here, she would learn more about Aphra.

  “Family connections.” Aphra had a wary look in her eyes, but Billie pretended not to notice.

  “Was he very much older than you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Aphra replied, growing increasingly tight-lipped.

  “And was it as awful as they say?” Billie persisted, turning her gaze from the mirror to her hostess.

  “Yes. Don't marry for money. No matter what your relatives tell you to do.”

  Billie nodded. She would have to tread warily — Aphra was obviously sensitive about certain areas in her past.

  Aphra turned to the closet and pulled out what looked like a blue silk shawl. “If we want our masquerade to be a success, you will have to play the modest maiden. That neckline will never do.”

  “In plays, people never notice when a maid plays a lad. Why do you think they'll assume Will and Clarinda are one and the same?”

  Aphra laughed. “Life may imitate theater, but theater rarely imitates life.”

  Billie took the shawl and draped it over her shoulders thoughtfully. There was definitely something fishy about Aphra's past, but Aphra wasn't telling. If Billie wanted to discover information that migh
t be useful in her own age, it looked like she would have to find other informants.

  Billie gasped. “Do I have to go through with this?”

  Katherine pulled the laces tighter and Billie winced. “Of course you do! You act as if you've never worn a corset before.”

  “There are definite advantages to a boy's dress.”

  “That may be as it may be, but now you are to play the lady, Miss Clarinda.” Katherine's dark eyes held a mischievous glint as she yanked on the strings again.

  “Ouch! Is this really necessary? You said yourself I was 'wondrous thin.'“ Katherine didn't realize how true her words about “playing” the lady really were. This getup was way beyond Billie's experience, and the rules for behavior were no different. She would have to watch and learn.

  “And a corset is a corset. Here, some silk is sure to improve your mood.”

  Billie slipped into the wealth of luxurious material and admired herself in the mirror. A wide flounce at the bottom of the dress brought the hem below her ankles. “It actually fits me now. Thank you, Katherine.”

  “Stay, we're not yet done,” Katherine threatened as the door opened, and Aphra entered the room.

  “You will need to hurry then,” Aphra said. “We have a visitor.”

  “Who?” Billie asked.

  “Edward Ravenscroft,” Aphra said, and Billie felt her ears grow hot. “He has something for you — or rather for Will. And don't forget our plan!” she called over her shoulder as she turned to go.

  Despite the yards and yards of fabric, Billie felt almost naked as she descended the stairs. Katherine had looked at her blankly when she asked about underthings, saying that her shift was all the “underthings” she would get. And the dress — it reached below her ankles, but scarcely covered her nipples. She was encased in cloth, and her butt and her breasts were bare. Billie had a tremendous urge to yank the neckline up, but that would never do. At least she had a scarf tucked into her dress, so she wasn't really topless, but with the pressure of the neckline on her breasts it almost felt that way. And it was January without central heating. A wool sweater would be more appropriate than what she was wearing now.

  Ravenscroft rose as she entered the room, and his eyes went wide. Billie extended one hand to him gracefully as Aphra performed the introductions. “Clarinda is Will's cousin, the American lad who was at Dorset Garden the other night,” she explained.

  “A relationship there must be. They are very like. One as handsome as the other.” Ravenscroft treated Billie to a low bow of admiration, and she snapped open the silk fan she was carrying to hide a grin. This man knew something was going on, but he seemed more than willing to play the game.

  “Will told me about the plight of his cousin, and I said he should bring her to me,” Aphra continued.

  “I assume you're not at liberty to speak of your plight,” Ravenscroft said softly, addressing Billie.

  Billie shook her head and lowered her fan with a teasing smile, slowly beginning to enjoy her role. She would find a way back to her own time; she had to. In the meantime, the seventeenth century was hers to discover. Assuming she was even here, that is. And if not, she might as well enjoy the dream.

  She did her best to make her voice a little higher and lighter. “It would be highly indiscreet, sir. I couldn't afford to do that, only just arrived in London and all. To be sure, the whole town would know in a day!”

  Behind Ravenscroft's back, Aphra gave her an approving nod. “London would know in an hour,” she murmured.

  Ravenscroft laughed. “You do me an injustice, fair Astrea,” he said playfully, turning to her. “Do you doubt I can hold my tongue for at least a day with a tasty tidbit?”

  “Yes,” Aphra said baldly.

  “Ah, but you do not reckon the power of knowing a secret.”

  “We still will not reveal it to you,” Aphra said, going over to Billie and linking an arm through hers. “Mystery is our only defense against you men.”

  Ravenscroft nodded in acknowledgment. “A very effective one.” He turned to Billie. “When do you expect to see your cousin again?”

  “He'll be back tonight,” Billie said. “He's exploring the city.”

  “Perchance you would give him something for me?” Billie nodded, and Ravenscroft motioned the footman to his side and whispered in his ear. The servant disappeared and returned bearing a lute, which he presented to her with a flourish. Billie drew in a sharp breath; no one had ever given her such a beautiful present.

  This man was dangerous.

  “You play as well, I presume?” Ravenscroft enquired. Billie nodded, turning the instrument over in her hands. The paneling on the back of the pear-shaped body alternated between light and dark wood, polished to perfection. The rose on the front was exquisitely carved, and the pegs looked as if they might be ivory. She noted with relief that this lute had only five courses as well as the one single string, so she could tune it like a guitar.

  “May we ask the pleasure of a song?” Ravenscroft asked.

  “Come, Clarinda, do,” Aphra chimed in.

  Billie brushed her thumb across the strings tentatively; the chord that resulted sent shivers down her spine. The sound was full-bodied and pure, although it was smaller than the museum lute. She immediately set to work tuning it to a progression of notes that she would be comfortable with. Aphra and Edward exchanged amused glances.

  With a short laugh, Billie began an abbreviated rendition of “Stairway to Heaven,” that staple of guitar players, doing her best to make her voice sound delicate.

  “What a lovely song. Well rendered!” Aphra said when she was finished.

  “And what a lovely voice,” Ravenscroft added. “Methinks I bestowed my gift on the wrong relative.”

  “Oh, Will is a far better musician than I,” Billie protested with a great show of modesty. Aphra suppressed a laugh, her warm brown eyes glowing in amusement.

  “Then I await his performance with anticipation,” Ravenscroft replied. Billie could swear he knew perfectly well that Clarinda and Will were one and the same, but he seemed more than willing to pretend they were different. Did he know which masquerade was the truth, though? When it came right down to it, Billie wasn't sure she knew, herself — this getup felt much less natural than her “boy's” clothes.

  Billie felt Ravenscroft's gaze on her and returned the look. The flecks of gold in his eyes reminded her of a cat. There was something very intense behind the humorous surface — intense but guarded. Usually she wasn't attracted to his type at all, so aware of his power over women, with the makings of a manipulator. She knew it, she recognized the signs of the chase but felt herself falling for his gimmicks anyway: his ardent attention, his gift.

  His gift. She strummed the strings idly, wondering why he had brought “Will” the lute — he didn't seem the type to be generous without a purpose, as Aphra was.

  Was he running after a man, a maid, or a mystery?

  4

  ... Marabarah sahem most did touch ye,

  That is: Oh how we love the Mamamouchi!

  Grimace and habit sent you pleas'd away:

  You damn'd the Poet, and cry'd up the play.

  John Dryden, The Assignation

  Mary Beale didn't care for people peering over her shoulder as she worked, but portrait painting in this day and age was a public occupation, especially with a prominent sitter like Aphra Behn. Over the years, she'd trained herself to concentrate, even when the studio held more than one spectator.

  She wondered if the youth without a hint of stubble on his cheeks was the playwright's latest paramour. If there was a woman over thirty in London who could attract a beardless youth, it was probably the incomparable Astrea.

  “Would you please incline your head forward a bit, Mrs. Behn? Yes, exactly.” Mary applied brush to canvas, touching up the shadow around the eyes. The eyes were always the most difficult, and the most important.

  “'Tis so like!” Mrs. Behn's young companion said. “But you
will never be able to do justice to the light in Aphra's dark eyes.”

  Mary smiled knowingly; the admiration in his voice went far in confirming her suspicions.

  Her sitter chuckled. “You compliment like a poet, Will.”

  “To be a poet is my greatest ambition, ma'am.” The young man sketched a courtly bow, and Aphra Behn laughed. Mary wondered where she had learned it, that extraordinary laugh, so full and deep, big enough to make a salon full of wits and gallants stop their empty chatter and turn to stare.

  Mary knew she wasn't supposed to like her sitter, with her shady reputation and bawdy plays, but she couldn't resist the famed Astrea's good humor and energy. Besides, they were both members of a new breed: the professional woman artist. But while Mary had the advantages of predecessors and a loving, supportive husband — who had helped her open her studio here in Pall Mall, kept the books and got her commissions — Aphra Behn was a widow who'd made her career on her own.

  Bawdy or not, Mrs. Behn deserved respect. Mary hoped she would be able to capture the humor in those dark eyes.

  Billie inspected the artist from under her long lashes. In the heavy woolen smock, Mary Beale looked more like a dowdy matron than an artist, but, Billie had to admit, the garment was practical for working with paint and canvas. Billie hadn't known there'd been any professional women painters before the eighteenth century, let along one who looked like an uptight duenna in a costume drama. On the other hand, what was an artist supposed to look like — Andy Warhol? The thought of Warhol in the baroque sitting room almost made Billie laugh out loud. But then another thought came unbidden: if this were a dream, Warhol would show up and create a colorful Pop Art version of the portrait of Aphra now on the easel. Each day that Billie woke up in this strange world was another day she was less inclined to believe it was a dream, and more inclined to believe the fantastic a reality.