Chameleon in a Mirror Page 8

  Billie took a deep breath, hoping this wasn't her last chance to get back to her own era, but fearing it was. The museum lute in hand, she began to recite the most recent song lyrics she could think of to her reflection in the mirror. Nothing. Perhaps they had to be British, since in her own time the twin of this mirror was also in Britain? Or maybe song lyrics didn't work, and it had to be poetry? She knew some lines from T. S. Eliot by heart, but landing somewhere in early twentieth century London would be little better than staying in the seventeenth century — except of course for the fact that they had electricity and running water.

  She racked her brain for contemporary British bands and singers, but her brain wasn't cooperating. She knew plenty of Rolling Stones lyrics by heart, but nothing that had been written recently. Billie was beginning to regret not being a total fan girl about the music she enjoyed and had once sung so happily on street corners. The last time she'd been busking was only a little over a week ago, but it felt like forever.

  Increasingly desperate, she went through her complete repertoire, even when she knew the songs were from American artists. Including Simon and Garfunkel, songs so old her grandfather was a fan. It had stopped mattering where she would end up, as long as it was someplace without hangings in the streets, someplace that looked vaguely like home.

  Nothing worked. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  What was she going to do? She still knew some lines from Gary Snyder, but if they worked, those might put her in Oregon before she was born. She didn't care. She recited poetry full of longing and cherry blossoms, all without a hint of nausea, without the weird depth of the spooky mirror fulfilling its promise.

  When Billie finally gave up, she was mentally and emotionally exhausted, too empty to even cry.

  She put her head on her arms and slept.

  Hands on her shoulders shook her awake. “Will, lad, wake up!” Aphra said. “Your cousin has been worried sick about you! What are you doing here in the tiring room?”

  For a moment, Billie thought the nightmare was repeating itself, beginning all over again, but then she remembered, she had been trying to get home. This was a new nightmare, a much more real nightmare, one she was afraid she would never escape.

  Her head sank back down onto her arms. “I will never be able to go home again.”

  “There is no such thing as 'never',” came Aphra's energetic voice. Strong arms Billie suspected were Katherine's pulled her up, and the next thing she knew, she was being handed into a chair, a method of transportation she'd sworn never to use.

  When they reached Aphra's house, for some reason she was still feeling foggy, although she'd regained her senses. Odd what existential disappointment could do to a gal.

  Uncharacteristically meek, she allowed Aphra and Katherine to put her to bed, even allowed Katherine to give her a draught “to calm her.” And so she slept yet again...

  The hangings of her bed were pulled back, and Billie covered her eyes with one forearm to block out the brutal sunlight streaming into her refuge. No, she didn't want to face the day, not here, in a four poster bed with hangings, a definite sign that she was still in the wrong time!

  “You disappoint me, Clarinda,” Aphra said. “I took you for stronger. You traveled from the Americas to London, escaped whatever it was you were fleeing, took London by storm with your masquerade, and now you spend two whole days in bed, refusing food, refusing to talk.”

  Billie rolled on her side and pulled the covers over her head. You don't have a clue. I didn't escape anything. My life has been torn away from me.

  “Accepting the role of victim is the surest way there is to becoming the victim, my dear. Believe me, I know. Of course, not accepting the role is no guarantee of success, but accepting it will almost certainly lead to failure.”

  Billie ignored the words of wisdom from outside her haven of peace. Eventually she heard the door open and close again.

  And so she slept ...

  The hangings of Billie's bed were pulled back again, but this time the murky winter light that invaded her sanctuary was much more in keeping with her mood.

  Aphra stood in front of her shaking her head. “Tonight is the music meeting I told you about. 'Twould be a perfect opportunity for us to follow up on our plan.”

  Billie laid one arm over her eyes. This was Aphra Behn, her idol. And she wanted Billie's help.

  “Clarinda, you must face life again eventually. Unless, of course, you prefer to leave it. Not only do I sincerely hope that is not the case, I do not take you for that kind.”

  There it was, the real choice she now had, given that she would probably never be able to go home again. Did she still want to live, even if that meant living in the seventeenth century —in a world she didn't know, where her loved ones were not yet even born? As Aphra had pointed out, when it came right down to it, the alternative to life was death. And Billie would rather face the seventeenth century than never face anything again.

  She dropped her arm and pushed herself up on her elbows. Aphra was just about to reach for the handle of the door, but at the movement, she turned.

  Aphra's smile was radiant. “Welcome back, Clarinda.”

  6

  I saw the Softness that compos'd your face,

  While your Attention heightened every Grace;

  Your Mouth all full of Sweetness and Content,

  And your fine killing Eyes of Languishment:

  Your Bosom now and then a sigh wou'd move,

  (For Musick has the same effects with Love.)

  Your Body all easey and tempting lay,

  Inspiring wishes which the Eyes betray,

  In all that have the fate to glance that way.

  Aphra Behn, To Lysander at the Musick-Meeting

  Aphra tapped gently on the door to Clarinda's room. At her guest's “Come in,” she pushed down the handle and entered. Clarinda stood in the middle of the room in her shift, the brocade gown Katherine had made on the bed. “I came to see whether you would be man or maid for the music meeting tonight.” She wished the American lass would confide in her, especially after the way she'd been dead to the world for almost three days. But luckily after a bath, Clarinda had at least responded to humorous bantering during their midday meal — so humor it would be.

  “I see 'tis to be maid,” Aphra said teasingly.

  The color in Clarinda's smooth cheeks mounted, and she made a face. “I ... yes. I hope you don't mind?”

  “Mind? Why should I mind?”

  “You won't have a male escort.”

  “Methinks we will have male escort enough.” She examined the other woman's slim figure. Her beauty was more boyish than feminine, but beauty it was, no denying that. And the boyishness was what made the masquerade so successful.

  That, and Clarinda's naturally masculine ways. Even wearing pantaloons, Aphra doubted she would ever be able to stride or lounge the way Clarinda did. She must have been masquerading as a youth for some time. Given what her young guest might well have been through, it was understandable that she'd collapsed. Aphra's own life had been quite adventurous, and she knew from experience that adventure was not always pleasant. Nonetheless, she was not a woman who could be kept down, and she doubted Clarinda was either.

  Still, at times it was difficult to remain brave. The critics frequently griped at her lack of decorum, not only for her subject matter, but also for her effrontery in writing for the public stage at all. Women who wrote poems and plays for private consumption suffered little more than smiles for their eccentricity. But a private audience wasn't enough for Aphra — and besides, there was no income in it.

  She was determined to prove her critics wrong. The success of her first play could have been attributed to her status as freak; a woman daring to produce a play for the theater was as much of a curiosity as the monstrosities sometimes displayed at Charing Cross fairs. The huge success of The Amorous Prince last year, however, proved she could command a more lasting interest than a dwarf or a giant.
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  “Here,” she said, holding the underskirt out for the taller woman. Her hand brushed Clarinda's briefly. The hue of the other woman's skin was perhaps a trifle too dusky, a bit exotic, like a gypsy, but otherwise it was perfect, smooth and without blemish.

  Aphra could understand completely that Ravenscroft seemed interested in her houseguest for more than just the mystery she embodied.

  Billie slipped her arms into the sleeves of her dress, trying to banish the despair that had laid her low for days. She had to seriously consider that she might now be in this century for good; if she was, she had to decide what to do.

  For now, dress for a music meeting.

  But what about the long term? She could hardly expect Aphra to pay her way forever, and she doubted if she could support herself with her music. Lowering thought. Perhaps she could become an actress. But most actresses in the Restoration used the stage in order to find a “protector” — a paying lover to put them up in their own establishment. Billie didn't even know if an actress's wages were enough to survive.

  “I'll fetch Katherine to do your hair,” Aphra said, heading for the door.

  Billie picked up a clasp from the dressing table and, gathering the loose fabric of her neckline, pinned it in such a way that it was just high enough above her admittedly modest breasts not to reveal anything with certainty. She didn't want to think that the time might come when she would have to adjust her neckline in the opposite direction in order to survive. Even if she was stuck here, there had to be another way.

  Aphra returned with her dark-haired maid, the two of them with their heads together like best friends, not mistress and servant. Or at least not like Billie imagined the relationship should be — not that she had any experience in the matter.

  She smiled. “The two of you gossip like old friends.”

  Aphra and Katherine exchanged a surprised look. “Friends we are,” Aphra said. “We grew up together in Kent, and Katherine accompanied me to Surinam. We have many memories in common.”

  Billie's eyes went wide — Katherine must be the “maid of good courage” Aphra mentioned in her book Oroonoko, the servant who went along on the outing to see the Indians, the one who experienced the slave uprising in Surinam with her. But how could Billie ask without betraying more of her unusual knowledge?

  She twisted on her stool to face the mirror and her eyes met Katherine's in the glass. “You were in Surinam too? It must have been fascinating!”

  Katherine stepped directly behind Billie and gathered her long, dark hair up in one hand. “Strange you should say that, Miss — you, who grew up in the colonies!”

  “But the colonies in the north are older.” She watched Katherine brush out her hair, grateful this era had not yet developed the powdered monstrosities that were to become prevalent in the eighteenth century. As opposed to the wigs many of the men wore, hairdressing for women in this age was quite natural. The same could not be said for makeup. She was expected to paint and patch, at least for an evening outing.

  Aphra raised one expressive eyebrow. “Implying the northern colonies are not as wild?”

  “Well, I grew up there, so of course they do not seem wild or exotic to me,” Billie said with a smile. “There it is much like England, only warmer. I have heard of huge jungles in the southern colonies.”

  Aphra gave her a skeptical look that told her just what she thought of the idea that America was “much like England.” “Yes, most of the place was jungle. But you must tell me more of the northern colonies sometime. Society in Surinam was often wilder than the scenery.”

  “Oh, we have our share of wild types,” Billie said carefully. “But I think London does too.”

  Katherine laughed. “You have lovely hair, Miss Clarinda.” She pulled some strands from the front to the back of Billie's head, twisting them deftly and affixing the whole with a few well-placed pins. Rather than her usual wavy tresses, Billie now had a wealth of curls around her head, the ends teasing her neck and shoulders.

  “How old are you, Clarinda?” Aphra asked abruptly.

  “Twenty-seven.” As soon as the words were out, Billie regretted her honesty. People aged much faster in this century.

  “Twenty-seven!” Katherine exclaimed. “But you barely look twenty!”

  “You are of an age with Ravenscroft,” Aphra said. “I never would have thought it.”

  Billie carefully applied a patch in the shape of a moon to her left cheekbone, near the outer corner of her eye. “How does a woman of twenty-seven look? Are you not older?”

  Aphra chuckled. “Certainly, but I have not had children yet. As much as I would have loved one, they steal your looks and your health quickly.”

  “Nor have I.” Billie stepped into the voluptuous overskirt of green and black brocade figured with a pattern of huge flowers that Katherine held out for her, wondering how long she would be able to stay young if she had to remain in this brutal era.

  Billie entered the drawing room of the house of Mr. John Bannister, composer, doing her best not to stare, but not succeeding very well. It was all just so much! Everything, but absolutely everything, was ornamented to excess: the walls, the floors, the furniture, the people. How could they stand so much gilding and flouncing and carving and frills? It made Billie's eyes ache. But it fascinated her, too. As she looked around with curiosity, a little more of her desperation fled.

  If she really had to stay here, somehow she would find a way to survive.

  She ran her fingers along the inlaid marble top of a side table. The designs were intricate, the workmanship exquisite, but there were so many curls and clashing designs, she found it impossible to concentrate on a single pattern or detail. Billie enjoyed postmodern craziness, but this was garishness that took itself seriously, sans irony. Baroque splendor often amounted to a bad case of overindulgence.

  Then Billie's gaze fell on the music instruments in the corner, and her general distaste for things baroque vanished. She slipped her hand out of Aphra's arm to examine them up close. Besides the stunning examples of instruments she recognized, such as a lutes, cellos, harps and violins, there were a number of instruments she'd never seen before. She was drawn to a beautiful square thing, like a piano but with half as many keys and no legs, set on a small table. It was obviously meant to be closed after the performance; the open lid was decorated with a painting of a pastoral scene. Panels on the front and behind the keys were inlaid with frames of lighter wood surrounding smaller paintings of flowers and plants. It was a work of art.

  “There you are, my dear,” Aphra said, coming up behind her and taking her elbow. “You must be a true musician, to judge by the way the instruments attract you.”

  “They're so beautiful. We don't have anything like this where I come from.” She felt the shock of beauty pressing at her tear ducts, an odd reaction she got sometimes — be it to Van Gogh's Starry Night, or the sight of Niagara Falls half-frozen in winter, or now, to a miniature piano in a box. Of course, her response today could also be influenced by her recent bout of hopelessness, and her simple relief that she could still appreciate something so fine.

  Aphra tugged on Billie's arm. “Look who arrived just after us.”

  Billie blinked and turned, fearing her eyes still glistened, only to be confronted by Ravenscroft, Hoyle, and two gentlemen she didn't know. One of the strangers, an attractive young man with unfashionably short hair reaching just past his shoulders, sucked in his breath.

  “Clarinda, this is John Greenhill, painter, and Nathaniel Lee, poet. Mr. Greenhill, Mr. Lee, this is Clarinda Armstrong, my guest from the Americas.”

  It appeared artists had some kind of bohemian license even in the seventeenth century: of the four gentlemen, only Hoyle wore a wig. While Ravenscroft's tresses were natural, they were nearly of a length with the wig-bearers. By contrast, Greenhill and Lee not only disdained wigs, their hair barely reached their shoulders.

  Billie had to smile to herself that men with “short” hair were this so
ciety's rebels.

  “Charmed,” Greenhill said, lingering over Billie's hand longer than necessary. But the smile he gave her was so full of good humor that she couldn't take offense. She didn't understand the intricacies of this hand-kissing business anyway.

  Greenhill's eyes measured her in a different way than Ravenscroft's did. The look was obviously admiring, but there seemed to be something more appraising in it, almost as if he were putting her in an appropriate setting in his mind. Billie returned the admiring gaze openly. Greenhill was very attractive, with clear green eyes and full lips, his smile jolly.

  Lee, on the other hand, had the melancholy, self-centered expression of someone for whom the glass was always half empty. She'd been involved with his type once when she was too young to know any better, and it had left her with a permanent prejudice against angry young men.

  She had no time to discover if there were any truth to her first impressions; she was quickly surrounded by “admirers,” as Aphra had foreseen. Billie was overwhelmed. Aphra murmured names to her, but they went in one ear and out the other, so many and so unfamiliar she couldn't keep track. But despite her faulty memory, she did her best to play the lady, and if Aphra's smile was any indication, she was succeeding.

  The actress Billie met her first night at the Dorset Garden Theatre, Mrs. Leigh, came over to be introduced to “Will's cousin.” They exchanged a long stare as they curtsied to each other, Billie afraid the whole while that she would fumble the damn curtsy-thing. Once again, she was struck by the fact that, for the most part, she was much more comfortable as a male in this century than as a female. The skirts were amazing, but the behaviors they mandated took all her concentration. As “Will,” on the other hand, all she had to worry about was sword-fighting — at least until now.