by Kit Brennan
Men carrying rugs, hundreds of candelabra, thousands of candles, dozens of huge gilded mirrors and other decorative luxuries were being set in place. Musicians wandered around, investigating the acoustics; they were members of the full orchestra which had been hired for the evening. Ventura was organizing all of the tables, chairs, silverware, glassware, and linens required, as well as hiring the best chefs in Madrid to create delectable concoctions for the hungry crowd of exuberant, disguised guests. He was also negotiating as good a price as possible for the necessary costs of policing by the national guard (as few as possible) while attempting to keep the barrage of free tickets the military officials were demanding (as they usually did) to a minimum. These events, it appeared, were feared by the authorities because they were considered a licence for disobedience and possible anarchy. The ticket price was another hurdle: Too steep a charge would keep people away, but at the same time it was important to discourage the riffraff, especially if very important and wealthy people such as the royal family (particularly) and the politicians (a necessary evil in the royals’ wake) were to be persuaded to come. “A masked ball without the confusion, shoving, and shriek of a crowd is worthless to us,” Ventura said. “The mayhem is its heart and soul.”
I love fancy-dress turbulence. I’d experienced some of it in India, on the arm of Thomas, but now I was free of jealous, grabby husbands, free to be my own spirited self! Great fun! And I’d decided on a costume. The ball had a theme, which Ventura advertised in the city’s papers: the Four Elements. He believed this gave great leeway for costumes of all styles and centuries.
“I want to be the Cloud with the Silver Lining,” I told him triumphantly.
He cocked an eyebrow, smiled. “Then let’s get to work. By the way,” and he took me rather sternly by the arm, “you must do something for us in the next few days.”
“What is that?”
“Diego mentioned it to you: security at the palace. Find out how many, where they’re placed, anything you can. Don’t dally. But be discreet.”
A skilled dressmaker had been hired to provide the costumes for all of us connected with the organization. And as the dress took shape over the next few weeks, I must say I was almost more pleased with it than with any other garment I’ve ever worn. It was all my own design: a huge froth of soft grey and white on the billowing, layered skirts, undercut with a cunning, shiny silver taffeta which peeked through occasionally when I moved, or when I danced—which I was intending to do, oh yes! There was silver undercutting the bodice, which was tight (of course) and very low (extremely becoming). My breasts sat as high as crisp apples on a tree. Or angels on a cloud—what you will. You couldn’t miss them even if you wanted to, which I couldn’t imagine anyone wishing to do—other than Father Miguel de la Vega, of course, should we be unlucky enough to have to endure his attendance at such an ungodly event.
While all of the fittings and so on were happening, the rest of the world didn’t stay in one place. I was still living at the palace, where I continued to avidly observe the magnificent Tia Lota and her indolent family, and smugly ignore the now-forgettable toad, Arguëlles. Spending siesta hours with Luisa Fernanda, I questioned her about the guards and their functions: “How many are there? What kinds of things do they do? Are they all extremely muscular, or crack shots with pistols and bayonets?” She looked at me strangely, until I turned my questions into a fanciful story about a clash between commoners and a fairy kingdom.
One afternoon I sidled up to Javier, the bodyguard who had accompanied me all of those nights to the theatre.
“What is it like to be a royal guard?” I asked in a small voice. “I mean, it seems confusing to me. Are you in the employ of royalty, or the government? Who are you guarding them from? Forgive me for my stupidity, I’m just curious.”
He frowned and rubbed his big head. “Don’t worry yourself about that, señorita,” was his answer, after a long pause. And after another long pause, “You’re safe enough, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
“Ah, thank you, Javier. Now I feel better.” I tried again. “No, but, I mean—if for example the prime minister were staying here one night and a fire broke out, would you rush first to save him, or to save, say, Princess Carlota of Naples?” I fluttered my eyelashes.
“Uh . . .”
I stopped fluttering, as it was distracting him, and I wanted an answer.
“There’d be more than one of us,” he finally said, “so of course we’d save both. We’re bodyguards. That’s what we do.” His eyebrows came together again, and he looked rather grumpy.
“Yes, I see that.” Another approach: “But in the household, are there some who are specifically delegated to one person or another?”
“Of course.”
Good, I was getting somewhere. “So, are there groups, who are on different sides?” Was that a hint of suspicion on his face? How to be less complicated? “Oh piddle, I’ll just come out and ask it, my question. And remember, I know nothing about politics, I’m just a flighty Irish girl and you’ll forgive me for that, won’t you?”
His smile was shy and very charming. “Of course I will.”
“Is there anyone here who is on the queen regent’s side? I mean, the princesses’ mother, María Cristina? On her side?”
There was a long pause as he looked over my head and into the distance at some unknown thing. His face became impassive. “Not here, not anymore. They’ve all been executed.”
Diablo. I think I had my answer.
The royal family announced they would attend the masquerade. The entire palace was sent into a frenzy of motion, with the family itself as its calm centre. Relatively speaking.
“Son of a bitch, this bodice is too tight! What do you want me to do, keel over dead?” Carlota was berating the royal seamstress who had been sweating and slaving, night after night, over the most flamboyant costume I had ever seen. The royal galleon had decided to go as the Fires of Hell, and I’d been aghast and thrilled at the copious wired layers, the bright yellows, oranges, and reds, and the enormous, Gorgon-like headpiece she had dreamed up and which the seamstress (a worker of miracles) had been steadily turning into reality.
Carlota twisted and preened before the mirror while I was privileged to watch. The young princesses were in their own rooms, being fitted as a mermaid (Isabel) and a fairy (Luisa Fernanda, of course).
“You have to admit my parents married right, with an eye to appearance,” Carlota exclaimed, adjusting her splendid breasts inside the bodice. “We all benefitted—amongst the squat and hairy Neapolitans, particularly. We stand out, we’re majestic.” No shortage of self-assurance, either, I thought. “Now we’re being reduced to leftovers; getting shorter, darker. We have squints—just look at Isabel, fat as butter and scratching as if she’s infested with fleas. But what could you expect, the king was ugly as sin. We’re going down the drain! Oh, hell’s bells, woman, this fucking headdress is cutting into my neck!” she barked at the seamstress, who was down on her knees amongst the many dancing flames. “Let go of me for a minute.” As Carlota flounced towards the mirror, one of the points of the flames caught the poor woman in the eye, but she simply followed the infanta on her knees, apologizing and trying to keep up.
“My son’s no better,” Carlota sighed, staring moodily at her reflection and smoothing an eyebrow with a wetted finger. “Cadiz and Seville I call them, to keep them straight. Cadiz looks better in velvet than I do, it’s a disgrace! He wants to go to the masquerade as a water sprite! I ask you! He’ll look as blowsy as a slut’s nipples.” Seeing something she didn’t like, “Here, fix this,” she cried, flinging the complicated headdress to the floor.
At this moment, the younger infantas entered, screeching in delighted, shrill voices about their costumes. “Look, Tia Lota, isn’t it lovely?” This from Nanda, as she twirled in circles, wearing a gorgeous, expensively silked confection of a gown in forest colours, with gossamer wings. The seamstress, her wounded eye still streaming te
ars, seemed pleased and apprehensive at the same time, looking to the imposing elder infanta for approval.
“Nimble. Nubile. Very pretty, flor.” Carlota’s Medusa eye swiveled to the almost-queen, who tried to pirouette and nearly fell down. “Good Christ, girl, what the hell are you supposed to be? You look as if you’ve been pickled in brine! What is she, besides hopeless? Besides obscene? Not you, Bella, the costume. Do it again!” This to the now-cowering, hand clasping seamstress.
This really wasn’t fair. Isabel’s costume was intricate, made of the finest materials, many real seed pearls hand sewn onto it, representing long hours of eye-popping labour. The skirt was the tail of the mermaid, narrowly open at the feet for her to be able to walk—but this was the problem. Pulled tightly onto Isabel’s growing corpulence, the tail made her look as if she were stuffed into a glistening barrel, and because it was tight, she couldn’t walk normally but had to take tiny steps—which she was unaccustomed to do, couldn’t get the knack of, and hence kept tipping over.
“Come on, Bella, I’ll help you out of it,” said Luisa Fernanda to her now pouting sister. They went off again.
Carlota’s bad mood seemed to have been heightened by the mermaid affair. “Shit on a stick,” she began to mutter. “Cadiz, Cadiz, my scrawny son. Too enamoured of fripperies, little splat of acidic vomit . . .” I wondered if she even remembered that I was there. Her eyes were fixed upon her own in the mirror. “Isabel and Cadiz. Hate each other mutually. And we have to think of the future.” Casting my mind back to Cristina’s discussion of suitors (there had been four serious contenders, one French, one English-German, two Spanish), I recalled that one was the son of Don Carlos, a first cousin. And the other, another first cousin—good Lord, Carlota’s son, the epicene youth, Cadiz! And Cristina herself was dead King Ferdinand’s (her husband’s, and Isabel’s father’s) own niece, I’d heard somewhere. So if Isabel married her aunt’s first son . . . dios mio. Carlota was right, the royal line was in deep shit.
“¡ Jesu!” the majestic Carlota cried out suddenly, clutching her stomach and doubling over. I rushed to her side, but she waved me off. “No, no, ignore it, it goes away in a moment.” Her beautiful face had gone green and now broke into a sweat. The seamstress, distraught, was trying to fan her. “Leave it, damn it,” Carlota panted, then, “Go away now, all of you. Rosana, bring me water?”
We hastened to obey. Once she’d drunk down the full pitcher, Carlota began to look a bit better. “Unlace me, will you, querida? Get this fucking thing off me.”
I went around behind and began gently loosening the stays. From there I could admire her immensely thick blonde hair, coiled up off her neck, strands of the honey-coloured stuff coming loose, her back muscles strong and toned. She was resplendent, even with the faint tinge of sweat from her mysterious pain still lingering. Perhaps because of it. She was so alive, so volatile.
Eyes closed and breathing deeply, she said softly, “I think we must send you back, Rosana, after the ball. Back to your own. Not good for the girls to have too many toys or pets, or people on whom they depend. Must grow up sparely, to be safe. You understand, don’t you?”
She turned her head to look at me, a flash from those wild blue eyes, and I nodded. “So that’s that.” I continued unlacing, and after a moment she added, “But we’ll enjoy you til then.”
Luisa Fernanda rushed back into the room, still in her fairy costume. She was stamping her feet and then started jumping up and down in one place.
“What’s that, pequeña flor?” Carlota inquired.
“The tarantella, Tia Lota, look. Mamá used to do it.”
“Not like that, surely.”
“I’ve changed it, watch!” The little fairy girl began to run around the room, back and forth, then gave a small gasp as if she’d seen something frightening. She ran towards the spot and stamped upon it furiously many times. Then it was as if something had run up her leg and into her dress, and she started shaking her skirts and shrieking.
“Shh, shh!” Carlota cried. “You’ll take my head off. Oh, the shrillness of little girls!”
But I was fascinated. Luisa Fernanda began leaping into the air, twirling, shaking her skirts with abandon. And then she did something even more interesting. She crouched, legs bent, hands touching the floor, and began to hop, to skitter, to crawl—and then I understood her game. She was miming, at first a girl who’d stamped on a spider’s nest, and then she was the spider itself, galloping about on all fours. I was laughing and clapping, and Carlota was too, as Luisa Fernanda’s spins reached a crescendo and she collapsed upon the floor, very pleased with herself.
“That’s my version,” she panted. “I’m the tarantula. Did you understand, Tia Lota? Wasn’t it funny?”
“Wonderful, flor. You’re a devil. Look, you’ve ripped your dress.”
It was true, she had shredded the lovely thing. The poor seamstress.
“That’s not the way I remember the dance, sweetheart. But the delirium, you captured that well.” Carlota added, to me, “A dance from our country.”
“I know it a little,” I said.
“Crazy peasants—get an idea in their heads, you can’t shake it. Now they’re proud of it.” The unlacing finished, I helped her step out of the Fires of Hell. She stood, breasts firm and stomach flat, staring at herself again. Her eyes seemed sadder, and she dismissed me.
I was at the Oriente, passing a second message on for Ventura to post with my impressions of the suitor situation: “Put this straight into the hands of María Cristina, post-haste!” I also informed him that I’d be needing my old rooms again, or somewhere else to live, since Carlota had told me that I must be ready to leave the palace right after the ball—was that when I could assume that I’d be able to leave, to go back home, with my reward? Wherever home was, I thought with a sudden pang.
In the middle of these unanswered questions, in he came, swaggering in his uniform, boots polished to a high gloss, mustache twirled and cocky, thin cigar trailing an ephemeral wisp. Diego de León.
“Señorita Gilbert,” he said with a bow, “I am most pleased to see you again.”
“Thank you, General,” I responded, and left it at that.
He’d come to deliver a number of items for the ball; Ventura and he went away together while I wandered around, examining everything new that had arrived since my last visit. I was beginning to see what the room was to suggest: a Venetian scene, complete with an impending canal, which was being constructed across the far right corner.
Before I knew it, Ventura had suggested that General de León escort me to my old rooms to see if they were still available. De León gave a chivalrous bow and ushered me ahead of him. We left the theatre and turned to the right. True, I am hopeless at navigation, but as we walked along even I began to realize that this was not the usual route I would take to reach the Oriente, from anywhere that I knew. Most of the buildings we were passing I had never seen before. “Not much further,” de León said, “I promise you.” Two or three blocks later, we turned in to a large building with a fine garden at its front and began to walk up the steps to the front door.
“Just a moment,” I told him. “This isn’t it.”
“This is better.”
“You’ve already found rooms for me? That’s impossible.”
“Come and see.”
Did I guess? I was nervous and all aflutter at the same time. He looked sumptuous in the daylight, packed into that uniform, which he filled in all the right places, a broad sword swinging against one hip, a pistol on the other one. We proceeded up a wide, curving stairway and came to a door, which he opened with a key tucked in his trousers. I went in, he closed the door behind us demurely—and then swept me up in his arms, ran with me across the large, sparely furnished outer room and into a bedroom with a huge bed. He threw me across it and flung himself down after me: ¡Hola! Our mouths came together like the Red Sea crushing the Eygptians, a voracious ocean in between that carried us away and drowned
us, all afternoon.
In that first rush of exhilaration, we had no time to remove more than a hint of clothing—just the bits and pieces that were in the way. I was panting and laughing as he pushed up my skirts and wrestled with the waistband of his breeches, and he was laughing too. The madness of passion is a hilarious state, even while you’re in the throes of it; at least, the sort of passion that leads to intense pleasure lends itself to that deliriousness. Wild kisses, hands everywhere, everything fast and deep and gorgeously full of sensation, that first time. Almost too fast. We rolled away from each other, out of breath, feeling completely undone and yet still not satisfied. We lay on our backs, then Diego leaned up on one elbow to gaze at me and to gently circle his finger around my breast; we said sweet things, whatever came into our heads, to show our joy. After a short time, we were ready for more, and this time was slower; removing clothing, observing each other’s bodies avidly, reaching out to touch and familiarize ourselves with the unknown terrain. He preferred to keep his boots on, I learned, which caused great hilarity when he and his trousers become entangled by them—but we swiftly managed.
Oh God, Diego de León could make a stone cry out! He had obviously acquired skills through a great deal of practice, but oh my, how he enjoyed himself. He was not one of those men who are absorbed with their own pleasure; no, it had to be mutual. His small, compact body was nimble and flexible and could contort like a cat’s. I’ve mentioned his fingers, but what that man could do with a tongue! And with the correct positioning of a number of pillows, well! Once I’d recovered from my shock and delight (and from my third little death), I got down to the business of discovering what Diego’s favourite dalliances were. And that’s when I realized why he’d complimented me, as Cupid, for my athleticism. For that is where Diego’s heart lay—or perhaps I mean other parts than his heart: Action was his meat and drink.
