The Escapades of Tribulation Johnson

PROLOGUE

An honest man, being troubled with a scold,

Told her, if she continued so bold,

That he would have a case made out of hand,

To keep her tongue in, under his command

Anatomy of a Woman’s Tongue

The potshotten woman tangled in the sheets beside me looked and smelled like a corpse. Paler than the moon which, against nature, still sat in the heavens, and colder than Papa’s stare, she lay unmoving, mouth gaping, arms and legs akimbo. It wasn’t until I nudged her a few times and she emitted a foul-smelling groan that I saw with no small measure of relief she was alive. I knew where the blame would have fallen had she indeed gone to meet her Maker.

I squinched out of the bed, scratching and wriggling in my night shift, which was now inhabited by the fleas that called the mattress home. The innkeeper had sworn this was his best room. Easy to declare — even honestly — when standards were so low.

Before I washed, I checked my travelling companion once more, pressing my fingers to her scrawny neck. A pulse knocked the tips. What was I supposed to do? We’d a tilt boat to meet.

My mind chirped and wheeled, much like the swallows outside, who rose in a mighty flock to greet the dawn. First breaking through the ice coating the washbasin, I quickly dragged the frigid cloth over my face and under my armpits, rinsing my mouth and rubbing my teeth for good measure.

‘God save me.’ The words rasped like a blacksmith’s chisel.

I swung around and faced the relic stirring in the bed. Abstinence Gumble. A widow and distant cousin of the Bishop of Canterbury, she’d been paid to accompany me to London. With her chicken-coop hair, bleary eyes and shaking hands, she wouldn’t have been able to accompany a hymn let alone a person. Why, when a person has been cursed with a Puritan name, did others assume the appellation defined them? The only thing Mrs Gumble had abstained from as she drank the thirsty sailors under the table last night was any modicum of self-control.

Then again, I was called Tribulation and, for some reason, trouble always followed me.

Or, as Papa repeated ad nauseum, I caused it.

If you asked me (and no-one ever did), it was really a matter of perspective rather than truth. Though if I hadn’t said what I did, when I did, I wouldn’t be banished from Chartham and here, at the Gull’s Cry in Gravesend, en route to London to live with a relation I’d never met.

With, let’s not forget, a tap-shackled beldame in tow.

‘Oh, my head, my head,’ wailed the tap-unshackled beldame, fingers pressed to her temples. One eye cracked open. ‘Please, please, child.’ Mrs Gumble pouted. ‘Fetch me a posset. A tincture of herbs from an apothecary — anything to stop the raging storm in my skull, quell the churning ocean in my stomach.’ With a whimper (and a ripe toot from her rear end), she pulled herself into a sitting position and looked about, smacking her withered lips together.

‘Here,’ I said, with less sympathy than I should. ‘Drink this.’ I poured the remnants of wine from a jug into her goblet.

With wide blood-crazed eyes and a canny smile, she gulped it down. ‘Good girl,’ she said, wiping her mouth on the sheets. ‘If you could procure some more, I’ll be right in a few hours. The inn-keep will oblige.’ She began to ease herself back under the covers.

‘But, Mrs Gumble.’ I went to the window and pushed it open. The air was redolent with fresh frost, fish, barnacles and bilge water. ‘We don’t have a few hours. The boat will depart with the tide.’ I pointed at the river and said craft.

Already the docks were busy. Men from the East India Company crawled over the rigging of anchored ships, and on the smaller wharves fishing boats were mooring while the tilt boat to London was being prepared for passengers. Whistles, shouts and even a song cleaved the air, giving the day an urgency my ailing chaperone clearly did not feel.

I summoned an authoritarian voice. ‘We must make haste, Mrs Gumble.’ I flung the cloth back in the water and began to rummage through my burlap. What I donned today was important. I needed to make a good impression.

Mrs Gumble waved a careless hand. ‘Haste? Why I can barely move.’ She adjusted the pillows and gazed about, blinking. ‘It’s not so bad here. I’m sure your cousin won’t mind if we’re a day or two late.’ She began to yawn. It turned into a belch she didn’t even try to disguise. ‘Nor your father for that matter. I mean,’ she said, slapping her chest a few times to loosen whatever adhered to the inside then dragging the covers up to her chin like an invalid, ‘he hardly needs know.’ She winked, as if we were conspirators. ‘Let’s remain here.’

I stopped midway through pulling out a gown. ‘Here? A day or two?’

She nodded amiably and shut her eyes.

I wanted to shake her. Mrs Gumble had seemed so respectable yesterday when we left Canterbury. All smiles and prayers and ‘yes Reverend Johnson, no Reverend Johnson’ as Papa gave her instructions on where to go once we reached the city and listed his expectations regarding my behaviour. She was especially humble when he gave her coin to cover our expenses, but the moment the coach left the city walls and we were no longer observed, she produced a small leather flask and tipped the contents into her mouth.

I continued to stare at this woman who was supposed to deliver me safely to my cousin’s door in Bridewell.

When I was forced to leave Chartham, the village in which I’d spent my entire life, my sister, Bethan, pointed out I should be pleased. I was always threatening to go. But, as I said to her, it wasn’t the leave-taking causing me distress as much as the manner of it.

Nevertheless, Bethan was right. I’d always dreamed of leaving our small village and seeing London and many more places besides. Maybe the stories I relished had given me ideas that had no place in my head (or any woman’s, for that matter, according to Papa), but it was also because I’d always felt there had to be more to life than simply listening. For that’s what women did. From the moment we entered the world, we were compelled to keep our lips sealed and ears primed so our fathers, brothers, other men, God, could pour their wisdom into them. So they could tell us what to read and eat, when to retire to bed and attend church, when to speak and, most of all, when and whom to marry. All the while, we had to smile and nod, regardless of our opinion on the matter. ‘Yes, sir. No sir. As you wish, sir.’ Through it all, we had to be agreeable, lest we upset some unspoken law or rule or, worse, offend the men.

Bethan might have been content to abide by the directives that bound us, obey the constant instructions, but I was not. It required a docility and silence I simply couldn’t endure, nor even pretend to. Papa always said I was unnatural — that I’d too much to say for myself. He said a great many other things besides, all of which included the prefix un: ungrateful, ungodly, unguarded, unlike other girls.

I oft wondered, especially as I grew older and seemed to forever land in scrapes, if a part of me was broken — the part that would enable me to be more like Bethan and the other village girls, accept what God and our fathers willed.

When Papa first decided I must leave, he hadn’t known where to send me. The Bishop of Canterbury had even been consulted. Could I be a teacher for young ladies? A governess? Companion to one of our titled cousins? Anything that didn’t involve me remaining in Chartham.

Every suggestion left my blood frostier than a winter morn.

Christmas had been a miserable affair, made worse by the fact that I knew the negotiations for Bethan’s nuptials were stalled. The business of removing me took on fresher urgency.

Then, a bolt from the blue. Bethan announced she’d heard from a relation. Though they were once close, time had created a distance between them that, magically, was suddenly bridged. A solution presented itself. I was to board with this lady. Letters went to and fro and finally arrangements were in place.

During this interminable season I seriously contemplated running away, becoming one of those Missing People advertised in the news-sheets all the time, rather than wait for others to decide my fate.

What changed my mind was Bethan.

A few weeks before I was due to leave, my biddable sister came to my room and sat on the bed.

Thirty-three years of age, which made her sixteen years older than me, and having suffered the loss of our many siblings in between, Bethan was so sensible, so obliging. It was as if every negative attribute a female could possess had been distilled into me to abnegate her cooperation. (That’s what I overheard Papa saying one day. I was ear-wigging. Again.) She was also ridiculously lovely, with thick chestnut hair and large brown eyes. No wonder Sir Marmaduke had proposed — until he retracted his offer, having, in his mind, found a better alternative.

Surprised at Bethan’s temerity (had not Papa forbidden anyone to talk to me?), I determined not to mention her suitor.

She began our conversation like so many others between us — with a long sigh. ‘Oh, Tribulation. How often have I warned you to hold that uncouth tongue of yours?’

The question was, I assumed, rhetorical.

My sister, her back straighter than a schoolmaster’s cane, hands in her lap, bestowed her usual look of sad remonstrance. ‘And still, you never learn.’

‘But I do. I just refuse to accept the lesson.’

‘Life is not a series of escapades, Tribulation,’ she said impatiently, quoting Papa, ‘but a matter to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, you’ve been given an opportunity. What you choose to do from hereon is entirely up to you.’

‘If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be travelling to London to become a companion to some old woman and her widowed daughter.’ I was unable to keep the derision out of my voice.

‘Shush, you little fool,’ snapped Bethan. It was most uncharacteristic of her, even when dealing with me. ‘I never thought it a mistake to surrender you to Lady Adeline’s influence. Alas, she put injurious ideas in your head that you allow an unhealthy encouragement.’

I swallowed the sadness thoughts of Lady Adeline always conjured.

After our mother died, followed closely by Bethan’s husband, my sister, who up until then was unknown to me as she married when I was but a babe, was forced to return to Chartham. This was mainly so she could take up my care but, over the years, I heard tattle. Bethan’s marriage had been conducted in such unseemly haste, it was only once she became Mrs Pratt that she discovered her sweet-faced carpenter husband, Joseph, preferred fists to embraces. Not only that, his death left Bethan in such debt she’d no choice but to return, Papa grudgingly paying her creditors so she could put the past behind her.

I vaguely remember her homecoming. Excited to think I’d have a sibling to bother, especially an older one who could answer the many questions forever spinning in my mind, I was disappointed when she first spent a great deal of time holed up with Papa in his study and then, when free, was so quiet and unassuming. I began to wonder if we were even related. Able to affect the role Mama once held by managing the household, when it came to me she remained remote, barely offering a word. She treated me as if I were a vase she afeared to break, or an exotic pet to be studied. She’d order the maids to dress my hair, prepare food, ensure I learned my letters and repeated the catechism. Together we would attend church and occasionally the market, but we were rarely alone. It wasn’t until she’d been back a few years that she started to come to my room when I was abed and spend time reading with me. I loved those moments.

Perhaps feeling sorry for Bethan and the manner of her return to Chartham (or maybe it was that she had to return at all), Lady Adeline invited her to the manor on a regular basis. Ever since I could remember, milady had lived alone outside the village. When her duties at home were complete, Bethan would oblige, offering the old woman companionship. As I grew older, and no doubt more demanding, Bethan passed the task to me, stating it would keep me from mischief. Each day, I would walk across the fields and, propped in a comfortable chair in Lady Adeline’s parlour and, later when she grew ill, by her bed, read a host of stories, plays and poems all from her vast library. As milady said, I may not have had the same education my brother received (for all the good it had done him), but through our reading, I learned not only about history, gods, goddesses, mighty and poor rulers, but many other important lessons: ones only the ancients, the philosophers and poets, could impart.

‘And the correspondents,’ I added, gesturing to the news-sheets that, unbeknownst to Papa, I also read to her.

Lady Adeline had laughed. ‘Correspondents are not poets, nor do their words carry weight — or much truth. Remember that, dear child.’

I remembered that and a great deal more, especially the time we read a play by William Shakespeare. It was called The Merchant of Venice and I recall being thrilled — not by the love story or Shylock’s misguided intentions, but by the heroine Portia’s ability to control her own fate, even donning masculine attire to do so. When I said this to Lady Adeline, she smiled. ‘Ah, Tribulation, this is but a feat of imagination to be performed on stage. Only there can a woman be whatever she wishes. Only then is a woman heard.’

‘On stage? Or in the imagination?’

‘Both,’ said Lady Adeline. ‘It’s why some women pick up the pen.’

I’d run home and burst into the parlour, puffing and panting from my exertions. ‘I want to be an actress,’ I declared. Or a writer. It was an afterthought, but no less potent. Encouraged by Bethan and milady, I was always scribbling down thoughts, inventing tales of derring-do, battles, and even love.

Bethan had begun to rise from her chair. With a mere look, Papa forced her to sit.

‘What did you say?’ he asked quietly, putting down his Bible.

I repeated my declaration, striking a martial pose to drive the point home.

Papa’s eyes blazed. In three strides, he’d crossed the room, and struck me so hard across the cheek I fell to the floor. He stood over me, a rabid dog, barking and slavering. His fury was intense; he could see nothing, not even me. ‘As long as you’re my daughter, you’ll not step foot on a stage, do you hear? We’ve enough shame to bear without you contributing more.’

His reaction was so unexpected, so harsh, I never questioned it. But it stayed with me.

‘What makes our cousin different?’ I asked Bethan as my memory faded, trying not to let disbelief inflect my words.

‘She makes a living from writing.’

I glanced at Bethan suspiciously. ‘What does she write?’

Bethan faltered. ‘My understanding is she mainly writes on men’s behalf.’

I took a moment to drink that in, then frowned. ‘What does Papa say? You know how he feels about women who write, even under a man’s name.’ Or holds opinions, thinks for herself, talks too much. ‘And what about her mother?’

A little spark of defiance appeared in Bethan’s eyes. ‘Truth be told, I haven’t been entirely honest with Papa.’

My mouth dropped open.

With a smile, Bethan used a finger to push my jaw back into place. ‘Her mother lives nearby, but not under the same roof. I believe they’re estranged.’

I regarded Bethan curiously, unable to escape the notion something more was amiss. Certainly, she couldn’t meet my gaze.

She rose, patting me on the shoulder. ‘You must keep what I’ve just told you a secret. If Papa learns our cousin lives alone, he’ll never agree to send you.’

I could scarce believe it; Bethan was both defying and lying to our father — not by telling falsehoods exactly, but by omission. What else was Bethan hiding? And what did she mean by mainly on men’s behalf? It was this more than anything that not only reconciled me to the plan but allowed me to anticipate the future.

‘What’s our cousin’s name?’ I asked.

‘Aphra,’ she said, peering into corners and lowering her voice, as if she’d conjured an evil sprite. ‘Aphra Johnson. At least, that was the name she once went by.’

A tiny thrill raced through me. Aphra … Where had I heard that name before?

‘Bethan,’ I asked suddenly. ‘Why are you doing this? Sending me to someone of whom Papa would scarce approve?’

Her face twisted into something unrecognisable, as if some internal wrestle was occurring. Then, her features regained their usual composure.

‘Because, for once, I’m being allowed a say in your future.’

I stared at her. ‘What about my say? What I want?’

Her eyes flickered over me. ‘Tribulation.’ There it was. Another sigh. ‘Until you leave here, I fear you won’t have a future. Not the kind you deserve.’

She was right about that, but before I could quiz her further, she’d left.

A volley of moist coughs jerked me back to the present. Right now, I had to persuade Mrs Gumble to rise and board the tilt boat tied to a Gravesend pier. Best I was dressed for that. My hands landed on a piece of clothing I’d almost forgotten I’d packed. Before leaving, in a rush of sentimentality, I’d gone to the attic to see if there was anything I wished to take. Apart from a few books, gifts from Lady Adeline that Bethan had made me hide, the best discovery came when I opened a chest to find my brother’s old clothes.

Though Fabian died before I was born, fighting against Cromwell in Scotland, I’d grown up hearing about him. Like me, he’d been inclined to defy authority, to land in trouble all the time. It was why he’d gone against Papa’s and Mama’s wishes and joined the Royalist cause in Scotland. Bethan said, despite their reservations, our parents had been proud. After he died, they were just sad.

I often wondered if they’d used up all their happiness and pride on Fabian, hence there was none left for me.

So I took some of Fabian’s clothes in the hope a little of his spirit, his courage, would rub off on me.

I drew them out of the burlap, and another thought crossed my mind. A woman travelling alone would draw comment, unwanted attention and even censure. But a young man — well, no-one would look twice, would they?

Did I dare?

As Mrs Gumble swooned and beseeched me to fetch more drink, I dressed in Fabian’s clothes. Being tall for a woman, and unfashionably slender, all I had to do was roll sleeves, tuck shirt and tie hose, then bind back my mop of dark curls and pull down the wide-brimmed hat. The large frilly collar concealed any hint of breasts as did the long, wide-lapelled coat. My own boots served. When I peered in the mirror, I was pleased. If one didn’t look too closely, I passed for a fellow quite well.

I sniffed loudly, scratched my non-existent crotch and spat for good measure. Oh, that was ghastly. I fetched the cloth and wiped it up. Next, I’d be pissing out my breeches.

The entire time I was dressing, Mrs Gumble watched, her uninterested gaze slowly turning into round-eyed disbelief.

‘What are you doing, Mrs Johnson?’ she asked as I turned first one way then the other before the small mirror.

‘Playing the breeches part.’ I’d heard about actresses who oft played men’s roles, causing great excitement. Shakespeare’s Portia did — and look how well things turned out for her.

‘What on earth for?’ she asked.

I sat heavily on the bed, swinging one leg up over the other and clutching my ankle as I’d seen the sailors do last night. ‘Well,’ I began, drawling and deepening my voice, ‘it’s like this, Mrs Gumble. You may not wish to make haste, but I do. The way I see it, you were asked to escort me to my cousins’ door. Now —’ I said, holding up my hand to stop her objections ‘— you can either do that today, as agreed — even though you’re in no fit state to rise, let alone leave the room. Or I can pay what you’re owed and you can remain here.’

‘What about you, Mrs Johnson?’ she asked, eyes on the purse I held in the palm of my hand.

‘I’ll make my own way to London. I’ve the directions. I’ve the fare.’ I patted a pocket.

‘What about your father?’

I smiled. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Mrs Gumble, you may consider your duty discharged. I don’t see any reason to inform Papa conditions changed, do you?’ I placed the purse in her hand and curled her fingers around it.

She returned my smile, her thin lips retreating over large grey teeth. ‘Oh, not at all, Mrs Johnson. Mum’s the word. You can count on me.’

I heaved myself off the mattress. ‘Thought I could.’

I took one last look around to make sure I hadn’t left anything, then threw the burlap over my shoulder and hauled the chest filled with my belongings upright by its sturdy handle. Lord, it was heavy.

‘Good day to you, Mrs Gumble, and thank you for your … companionship. I hope your megrim improves.’

I made for the door, dragging the chest. It was going to be quite the nuisance.

‘Oh, Mrs Johnson … I mean, Mr,’ Mrs Gumble said in a sly voice. ‘You couldn’t see it in your heart to send an old woman up some ale or wine, could you?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘Maybe, both?’ God help me. ‘Remember,’ she added, ‘Mum’s the word and all.’

She wasn’t above a threat.

With a long sigh, I nodded and tugged my hat. ‘And only drink’ll drown ’em,’ I muttered as I lugged the chest down the rickety wooden stairs and ordered enough ale to not only fell a sow but ensure an old woman forgot I was ever there.

ACT ONE

Winter 1679–Spring 1679

From Bride to Bridewell or, Preferment Postponed

… when a Woman has once lost her Modesty, she is fit for all sorts of Mischief.

Thomas Dangerfield’s Answer To A Certain Scandalous Lying Pamphlet, Entitled Malice Defeated or, The Deliverance of Elizabeth Cellier, Thomas Dangerfield

The penalties and discouragements attending the profession of an author fall upon women with a double weight …

Public Characters, Anonymous

SCENE ONE

An old maid is now thought such a curse as no metric fury can exceed, looked on as the most calamitous creature in nature.

The Ladies Calling, Anonymous (Richard Allestree)

The wherry pitched wildly against the water stairs, causing me to stumble as I leaped off the craft. I found my feet and quickly turned to slip a coin in the oarsman’s filthy palm, colliding with other passengers who cursed and pushed past me roughly. Once the last person disembarked, the waterman signalled me forwards and, together, we heaved my wretched chest out of the boat and carried it up to the landing.

Before I could thank him, he was back in the prow, herding a fresh flock of customers on board.

Forced to stand aside, I took in my surroundings with a little frisson of satisfaction. Against the odds, I was here, in the ward of Farringdon Without.

Before me rose the magnificence of Dorset Garden Theatre. I could identify the building because, as the wherry steered towards the stairs, a couple of passengers had begun a heated debate about which of the two London theatre companies was better. There was the Duke’s Company (named after the King’s brother, James the Duke of York) based at Dorset Garden Theatre — the structure looming before us — and also the King’s Company, whose members performed at Drury Lane. In the end, the passengers couldn’t agree which company provided better entertainment but decided both buildings, at least, were deserving of admiration. Not having seen Drury Lane (yet), I had to admit, Dorset Garden was most impressive. Built of white stone, it comprised three storeys and was capped by a little domed tower replete with flagpole. Large windows captured views of the Thames behind me. The two higher levels were jettied, protecting the many patrons milling in front of and upon wide steps that led to a grand entrance.

There were women in flounced dresses and velvet capes, wearing pattens over their pretty shoes. Their faces were artificially pale; some wore black patches upon their cheeks and breasts. These included star shapes, a crescent moon and even a horse and carriage galloping across a generous décolletage. The poor beasties, forever plunging into a fleshy canyon. Jewels glistened in the grey afternoon light: rings sat atop satin gloves, dripped from ears and adorned white necks. I’d never seen so many bedizened people in one place, not even at the bishop’s ball in Canterbury, where church men strutted about in their religious finery worse than peacocks.

The men were just as ostentatiously garbed. Frills and laces burst from necks and the ends of sleeves, and towering periwigs made them seem impossibly tall, as did their brightly coloured heels. I wished Bethan could see them and was ever so glad Papa could not.

A nearby group threw some pointed looks in my direction, laughing. I tried to ignore them, lifting my chin and smoothing the lapels on my coat. Fabian’s clothes might be outdated, but they’d allowed me to travel unscathed. Dressed as a man, I’d enjoyed a liberty the likes of which I’d never experienced and suspected I’d forever envy.

Barrows and carts set up to trade everything from hot chestnuts to fans and crude vizards shared the space outside the theatre. Between a couple of flaming braziers stood two young women selling oranges out of woven baskets. It wasn’t their oranges that caught my eyes so much as the way their breasts balanced on the brinks of their necklines, threatening to burst their linen banks. At least three carriages and a well-worn sedan chair pulled up as I gawped, setting down more theatregoers who swiftly ascended the steps.

Time for me to move as well. I found the note with my cousin’s address.

Dorset Street, upon Dorset Rise, next to the sign of the Quill and Ink.

Flakes of snow began to spiral from the heavens and a chill wind rose from the water. I shivered. The sunshiney promise of the morning had dissolved into a typical wintry day. If only my stomach would settle. My fist flew to my mouth as I stifled a rather unpleasant belch. Dear Lordy, my belly was rioting worse than a London apprentice.

What did I expect after purchasing oysters from a dirty-looking urchin? When the tilt boat disgorged its Gravesend passengers at Billingsgate Dock in the heart of London earlier, allowing those continuing upriver to change craft, I’d been starving. Keen to put Mrs Gumble behind me, I’d foregone breaking my fast, determined to be at the river on time. Clearly, oyster-girl had seen a mark. The creatures may have just been shucked, but they weren’t fresh. No wonder she’d disappeared the moment I paid her. They were slimy and very metallic. Since then, my stomach hadn’t stopped protesting, and not just because the wherry careened side to side the entire way to Dorset Stairs.

Still, there’d been a great deal to distract me. While I’d heard and read so much about London, it defied expectations. Having come from the country with its expanse of sky and fields and small clusters of houses and shops, the city was just so … so … full. Seeing it crammed with buildings, people, animals, vehicles, sound, smells and so much more, I was reminded of an adult trying to don a child’s gown and finding the seams split or the length wrong. It was bursting with life, all wreathed in thick grey and brown smoke. Even before I caught a glimpse of the capital, I could smell it. With every push of the oars, the air had grown denser, thicker. It coated the roof of my mouth, filled my nostrils. The smells of piss, shit and a ripeness like rancid meat hung in the air, as if London were a corpse that hadn’t yet been buried.

A line from one of John Donne’s poems sprang to mind: ‘In that the world’s contracted thus.’ Aye, that was the city, the bridge and river too. Cramped, crowded. Noisy. There were the frenzied shouts of watermen trying to avoid slamming into each other. Dock workers directing cranes and crawling across decks, yelling as cargo was unloaded. The grind and screech of carriage wheels, carts, the endless tolling of church bells, the cacophony of thousands of voices all competing to be heard. There were white faces, red and black ones, brown too. People with arms missing, eyes, a man with a wooden stump where his leg should be. There were chickens clucking, swine snuffling, a herd of sheep, some ribbed cows. Skinny dogs, tails-awagging, tongues lolling, darted between legs, thrust their noses into snow, buckets, barrels, groins, barking joyously or whining in fear.

Wherever I looked (and my head was like a weathervane in high winds), it was pungent, heady. No market day in Chartham, Wye or even Canterbury could compare.

It was bloody marvellous.

A bell then a whistle sounded, making me jump. Suddenly, all the milling people headed in the same direction, towards the wide theatre doors, where a withered man waited, rattling a large box. I had to decide — to see the play or not to see the play? I struck a pose (a rather provocative habit I’d developed, according to Bethan, only matched by my tendency to use ‘ripe’ language now and then; one can’t live in the country without harvesting some), holding my chin, the other hand on my hip, frowning.

Before I could reach a decision, a young man in a long coat and dark hat approached.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked warily.

My arms fell to my side.

He offered a weak smile. ‘I can tell you’re not from here.’ He was too polite to reference my clothes directly. ‘And, since you’re not going inside —’ he gestured to the theatre ‘— I’m guessing you might be lost?’ He doffed his hat. ‘Timothy Shale, publisher, at your service.’

Mr Shale waited patiently as, playing for time, I lowered the burlap back to the ground, fussing when the strap became caught in a dangling coat sleeve. As a woman, it was most improper to speak to this gentleman … but then, I wasn’t a woman. Not on the outside. Better still, for the first time in my life, there was no-one to tell me what I could or couldn’t do or say, let alone rebuke me. Nor did I have to wait to be introduced. I could speak to whomever I damn well pleased. This nice man seemed very pleasing.

It was then I realised the flaw in my plan. I couldn’t reveal my sex. It would cast aspersions upon me and, worse, upon my cousin, that she could house such an improper female. Someone who boldly strutted about the streets like a common slut, pretending an authority to which she’d no right. For her sake and my own, I had to maintain my façade.

‘My name is … Howell Johnson … errr …’ I’d told the curious passengers on the tilt boat I was a student going down to Oxford. A flapping poster, advertising a past performance at Dorset Garden and stuck on the nearest colonnade, caught my eye. The name, Thomas Otway, stood out in bold letters: he was identified as author of the play Friendship in Fashion. Dare I?

‘I’m a writer,’ I finished.

Well, I did write. Most of it execrable. All of it in secret. Poor efforts I never kept long before burning, lest Papa found them. Well, Papa wasn’t here. I was. I could claim to be whatever I wanted; may God forgive me.

There was a burst of excited laugher. A woman with long feathers sticking out of her hat and a decorative vizard hiding her face slapped a man in a frock coat with her fan, before he swept her through the theatre doors, flapping and squawking. They were like dressed chickens.

‘A writer,’ repeated Mr Shale, indicating we should move further away, especially as more carriages and chairs arrived, unloading people faster than a Three Cranes docker. He grabbed the other handle on the chest and carried it out of the way with me. ‘It’s a pastime I indulge in on occasion myself. What a stroke of luck you being here. Though,’ he said, lowering the trunk, ‘not really. After all — theatre —’ he gestured to the building ‘— writer.’ He flipped his hand towards me. ‘Made for each other; like chocolate and cinnamon.’

It so happened I liked the combination very much.

Mr Shale jerked his chin towards the theatre again. ‘It’s almost three of the clock. Play’s about to start, though I’ve seen it already.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels as he spoke, like an excited child. ‘To see Mr Thomas Betterton strutting the stage, declaiming in that voice of his, well … His turn as Goodville,’ he pointed to the poster from which I’d borrowed an occupation, ‘was exceptional. The current production, The Libertine, is excellent and will test the sourest of critics’ minds. And believe me when I say, some are so very, very sour.’ Was the man preening? ‘Though I can’t help but feel a great deal of disparagement arises from the fact that the plays are being performed by the Duke’s Company, what with the King’s brother being so out of favour with the Commons because he’s Catholic and in line to the throne now the king has failed to produce a legitimate heir. It all just adds to fears of a Papist resurgence, doesn’t it?’ Upon seeing the expression on my face, he paused. ‘Forgive me, Mr Johnson. I shouldn’t be saying things like that — about the royal succession and such — not with the mood in the city so volatile, especially with all this Popish Plot business.’

I’d heard of the Popish Plot. It was impossible not to, even in Chartham. The news-sheets reported little else: how a former priest named Titus Oates had told the King and Privy Council about a dreadful plan, concocted by Jesuits in league with many powerful English Catholic nobles, to assassinate his Majesty and place his brother, the Romish Duke of York, on the throne in his stead. As if to prove Mr Oates’s claims, the magistrate who’d taken down his evidence was murdered. Since then, there had been many arrests and executions. It was said Newgate was bursting at the seams with Papists and plotters.

And here I was outside a theatre that claimed a Catholic as royal patron. Papa would have conniptions.

The crowd had all but moved inside and the reluctant snow turned into steady sleet. Icy shards hurled themselves to the ground, lodging in cheeks, sticking to clothes. I glanced up and rubbed my face.

‘We must escape this foul weather,’ said Mr Shale. ‘Pray, Mr Johnson, who are you here to see?’

The whole time Mr Shale had been talking, and thank goodness he had, my mind was working swiftly.

‘Actually,’ I began, ‘I’m here to see Mrs Aphra Johnson. Do you happen to know her? I have her address …’ I reached into my pocket.

Mr Shale’s face altered. His smile disappeared. His wide grey eyes grew colder than a fish’s fin. ‘Mrs Johnson? Aphra, you say. Hmpf.’

Was that a disparaging noise?

‘She’s my neighbour.’

This was a good sign.

Mr Shale’s eyes narrowed and not just because of the bitter flurries. ‘Are you related to her?’

‘Indeed,’ I said, marvelling at how such a promising word sounded so ill upon his lips. A wave of nausea clenched my stomach. It made my next utterance sharper than intended. ‘I’m her cousin.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘What?’ My belly began to rumble and the feeling of discomfort grew. An unexpected wave of empathy for Mrs Gumble accompanied it. I decided to ignore Mr Shale’s sardonic tone. I needed assistance and fast. ‘I’m uncertain exactly …’ I waved a casual arm ‘… which direction to head in.’

Mr Shale sighed wearily. ‘Since you seem to have arrived ill-equipped to deal with your —’ he gestured to the chest ‘— luggage, and your destination is next door to mine, I feel obliged to help you.’

‘Oh, please.’ Sarcasm shaped my response. ‘Don’t discommode yourself on my account.’

‘I must.’ He glanced skywards. ‘We should try and make it there before the storm breaks.’

The day had darkened and not just because the sleet was thickening. Bulging slate clouds glowered above. In the distance, there was a long, low growl, much like I’d heard as the boat drifted past the Tower. Only this was no lion. I mended my tone somewhat. ‘I’m very grateful, sir.’

‘Let us tarry no longer then.’ Mr Shale clamped hold of one end of the chest, waited until I hefted the other, and headed quickly towards the street to the left of Dorset Garden Theatre.

Houses of stone, with fine glazed windows and snow scattered like dandruff on their stoops, stood side by side with narrow, ramshackle buildings. We squeezed past men outside a tavern, crowded around braziers, hands in fingerless gloves waving to and fro above the flames. Further along, women young and old stood mithering behind carts and barrows half-filled with day-old offerings. I studied them, collecting the sights the way a tinker did cast-offs. There was a woman with no teeth, a child with a stump where his arm should be, a man with a twisted foot. There was a broken window in a heaving tavern, poorly mended with pigskin. Mould adorned the window of the book-seller. A contented cat with a black patch over one eye licked its paws beneath a costermonger’s cart. A little girl with pink cheeks sat wrapped in a shawl beside it, sharing her vittles, sticking out her tongue to capture the flurries. Days-old snow had gathered in crevices and corners, barely disguising filthy walls, veined with the same soot and grime marking the faces of those who paused to inspect through curious eyes the stranger linked to Mr Shale by a battered old chest.

Though I was able to cope with the fusty stench of unwashed bodies, ordure and damp, squalid corners, it was the smell of cooking meat that almost undid me. Just past an ordinary, I was forced to stop. I gripped my middle as bile rose.

‘Are you alright, Mr Johnson?’ asked Mr Shale.

‘I ate something that didn’t agree with me.’ I was afraid if I named the culprits, I’d not be responsible for my actions.

Mr Shale put down his end of the chest and took the burlap from my shoulder, transferring it to his. ‘Let me ease your burden.’ He considered me. ‘You’re very pale. Can you walk a little further? The house is just up this hill.’

The hill took on the proportions of Mount Olympus, but I grimaced and nodded, praying either the house or a privy (and preferably both) would materialise soon.

Sure enough, less than a minute later, Mr Shale stopped. ‘Your cousin’s house, sir.’

Together, we lowered the chest to the ground.

Four storeys high, jettied from the first storey up, looking like a gust of wind might topple it over, the house rose just above its neighbours. It was completely unremarkable, even in a street filled with unremarkable.

I stood beneath the curtain of sleet, unable to move, blocking the thoroughfare.

People pushed past, muttering abuse, spitting, looking over their shoulders, raising brows at Mr Shale who, swiping moisture from his face, shrugged.

Finally, he cleared his throat. ‘That’s me.’ He signalled the business next door. ‘The Quill and Ink.’

I tried to thank him, I really did. Reassure him he need not remain. My limbs began to feel as if they no longer belonged to me, as if I was a puppet with severed strings.

‘Shall I?’ asked Mr Shale impatiently, and, when I didn’t budge, he rapped on the door.

There was a rattle, the creak of a handle, and the door swung open.

A woman with dark, coffee-coloured hair threaded with silver, deep hooded eyes and a rosy complexion stood on the threshold. She wore a generous smile. The moment she saw us, it vanished.

‘Oh,’ she said, disappointment rearranging her face. ‘It’s you, Mr Shale.’ Her eyes swept over me. ‘I was expecting …’ Her voice trailed off.

Mr Shale waited for me to speak, but I couldn’t, daren’t.

‘Good evening, Mrs Behn.’

Did he say Behn? Surely this couldn’t be the Aphra Behn?

Mr Shale sniffed somewhat disapprovingly, and reluctantly doffed his hat. ‘May I present your cousin, Mr Howell Johnson? I found him at Dorset Stairs.’

‘Howell Johnson?’ said the woman, frowning, studying me top to toe and back again. ‘I may not have seen him for almost twenty years, but this person is not Howell Johnson.’

Mr Shale’s face blanched. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Behn. I didn’t … I wouldn’t … He told me he …’ He huffed and blew. ‘You scoundrel,’ he said.

‘My name is —’ Pain tore through my belly. I clutched it with both hands and fell to my knees. A great guttural groan escaped. God was paying me back for abandoning Mrs Gumble, making her complicit in my deception.

For treating life as another escapade.

‘Oh, my lord,’ said Mrs Behn, bending to assist.

Before I could utter a word of warning, I erupted. A river of hot human lava, chunks of undigested oysters spewed forth on a stream of breakfast ale, splattering my brother’s breeches, Mrs Behn’s skirt and Mr Shale’s stockings. It poured across the doorstep and melded with the downpour.

Mr Shale vaulted out of the way with a yelp that made the dog opposite scramble to its feet. He stared at the mess upon his shoes, his hose, wrinkling his nose.

Mrs Behn didn’t shriek, nor attempt to move. She simply stared as I purged and purged.

When nothing except a couple of empty burps issued, I calmly wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve.

I’d so wanted to make a good impression, win my cousin over with manners, cleverness, wit and daring: ensure from the outset she’d no cause to regret taking me in.

Instead, dressed like a cavalier of old, I’d cast my insides all over her doorstep.

All over her.

I rose on shaky legs, one hand resting on the doorframe. Determined to muster what remained of my dignity, I smoothed the coat, the aged jacket and large collar, tugged the stained lace cuffs and tried to pretend everything was as it should be.

I raised wet lashes. ‘I am family, Mrs Behn.’ I glared pointedly at Mr Shale then turned back. ‘I’m your cousin Howell’s youngest daughter.’

Mr Shale looked me up and down with undisguised revulsion. ‘God’s truth! You’re a maid.’

‘Tribulation.’ I spat, and wiped my mouth again. ‘Tribulation Johnson.’

‘My, my,’ said Mrs Behn finally, hands on hips, looking from me to Mr Shale to the mucilaginous mess. ‘Haven’t you been aptly named?’

SCENE TWO

A learned woman is thought to be a comet that bodes mischief wherever it appears.

Bathusa Makin — ran a school in Tottenham High Road London in the mid-1600s

Little more than an hour later, I was washed and wearing clean clothes. I sat in the parlour, a filled wine glass beside me, and a bowl of delicious chocolate (with cinnamon) cupped in my hands. An elderly woman with grey hair peeping beneath her cap, a large nose and kind hazel eyes, introduced as Nest (if I didn’t know differently, I would have thought her Mrs Behn’s mother), had seen to my every comfort, even insisting the two young housemaids, Millie and Molly, took my clothes to the laundress — after they’d cleaned the stoop, that was.

They were not happy.

While Mrs Behn tended the fire in the small, smoking hearth, I studied my surroundings. Teetering piles of books and papers rested against damp-sullied walls, sat upon tables and chairs, and reclined along the mantelpiece. There were plates of half-eaten food, replete with lumps of hard cheese and smears of grease. Bottles lolled on a threadbare rug and any number of drinking glasses were toppled on the scattered tables and even reclined in the larger cushioned chairs. Stains marked all the furniture — as did deep scratches, which had either lifted polish off the wood or rent the fabric into shreds. The latter was likely the responsibility of the large ginger cat splayed across the top of one of the chairs. I saw her claw the headrest before she stretched, yawned to reveal a row of tiny daggers, and then settled herself down. She kept one golden eye upon me.

Nest gestured. ‘That be Hecate.’ She rubbed the top of the cat’s head. I swear Hecate growled.

‘And a right little witch she is too,’ said Mrs Behn, throwing herself in the chair opposite. ‘But don’t tell Jonathan I said that.’

Jonathan Cross, I was to learn, was an apothecary and one of the three lodgers who shared the house with Mrs Behn and Nest. The other two, brothers Michael and Robert Tetchall, were scriveners. There’d been another gentleman, Roger, a printer. About to get married, he’d left to prepare rooms at his parents’ house for his new bride. His absence was one of the reasons my presence was possible: they needed another lodger to share the rent monies.

Mrs Behn lamented the state of the parlour. ‘However,’ she said, scanning the room with a frown, ‘I refuse to apologise, which implies I’m somehow responsible for it. This is the men’s doing. I’ve told them, they can either clean it themselves or pay Millie and Molly more to keep it in order. Alas, as you now witness, they do neither.’ She swiftly explained that even in its current disarray, it was still more comfortable than the draughty kitchen. More importantly, it was away from the curious stares and talkative lips of the maids.

Two large windows faced the street, admitting a great deal of the silvery afternoon light. Sleet struck the windows, which rattled with the occasional gust. Dust coated the tables; cobwebs festooned the candles and corners. Yet, despite the dirt and lived-in appearance, never mind the odour — wet socks, bodies that had an aversion to soap, rancid meat and cat — it was cosy.

If Papa knew the kind of house he’d sent me to — one in such shambles let alone shared with three men — he never would have allowed me to step outside the manse, never mind Chartham.

Papa might not like it, but if I’d been a lanthorn I would have glowed.

‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Mrs Behn, tucking her legs under, and rearranging her skirts.

‘I am, thank you. And again, I’m so sorry —’

‘Hush, hush,’ she said. ‘No need to keep apologising. Though it’s not an entrance I’ll forget in a hurry.’

Nest snorted. I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Nor me.’

‘Now, let me have a good look at you.’

With the smuts and vomit removed and dressed as a woman once more, I must have seemed a different person. ‘Well …’ She exhaled, considering me with a peculiar intensity, then appeared to stop herself. ‘I confess, I’d never heard of your existence before Bethan’s letter. I was most astonished. The last I heard from her … oh, it must be almost twenty years ago — before you were born.’

‘I confess, Mrs Behn, up until a few weeks ago, I’d never heard of you either.’

‘Is that so?’ She appeared puzzled.

‘Not as a relation. No … But I have to ask,’ I began hesitantly. ‘Are you by chance the Aphra Behn, the playwright?’

I held my breath.

‘Indeed, I am.’

I began to fizz with excitement as thousands of questions rushed into my head. Before I could even consider what to ask first, what to say next, Mrs Behn held up a finger to forestall me. ‘Right this minute, the only topic I want to discuss is you.’ She studied me keenly. ‘You’ve a most unusual name, particularly as you’re not of Puritan stock.’

I sighed. My name was often a whip used to lash me. ‘I console myself at least no-one forgets it.’

Mrs Behn chuckled. ‘Which can work both for and against one, can it not? Mine’s the same. Believe it or not,’ she said, ‘there’s a St Aphra. The patron saint of female penitents. She was a prostitute who found Christ due to the ministration of St Narcissus. From whore to martyr via a popinjay — quite the journey. Speaking of which.’ She rapped a hand on the arm of her chair. ‘Tell me all about yours, and why you arrived dressed in Fabian’s clothes.’

I’d already given a rushed explanation as I changed, but this time I gave both Mrs Behn and Nest the story in full. I didn’t hold back about Mrs Abstinence Gumble either and was gratified when both she and Nest laughed heartily.

‘What’s in a name?’ asked Mrs Behn and, reaching over, she plucked my wine glass from the table, pushing it into my hand. ‘A toast,’ she declared. ‘Welcome, my dear. May all your tribulations be behind you, now you are before us.’ We raised vessels and drank.

Over the lip of my drink, I caught Mrs Behn regarding me with that strange expression once more. It made me catch my breath. She wasn’t simply looking at me, but inside me. It was fierce, yet also filled with a kind of yearning. When I thought I could bear it no longer and must ask if something was awry, she turned away.

After a while, and as our conversation wandered, I thought I must have imagined it.

We spoke of my impressions of London, Dorset Garden, how the family in Chartham fared. Mrs Behn revealed she and Bethan had spent a great deal of time together as children, when our families all lived in Canterbury. Then, she relocated to London and, much to her bafflement, a couple of years later, our family left Canterbury. She never did learn where the family had moved to or why, as all communication ceased. It was a subject never spoken about at home either. I hadn’t allowed it to concern me.

She shrugged. ‘We lost the connection. It happens. I didn’t know Bethan married. Or was widowed. And I was so sorry to hear of Jacquetta’s passing. That must have been difficult for you, losing your mother so young.’

I lowered my head. Difficult didn’t begin to