Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards

by Kit Brennan

However! My next travel adventure was quite heavenly. That time, my stepfather and now-estranged husband were saving their honours and mine. Looking over the side as Thomas finally descended the gangway and I saw the top of his head for the last time, I’d felt my heart rise and the air grow light around me.

  That’s when I discovered that time out of time can be glorious. I was free again, I could breathe; a whole voyage stretched ahead between me and my return to the Scottish relatives. The winds were hot, and I loosened my stays, shedding at least two layers of undergarments. As we drew in to Madras, I was idly observing those coming aboard when my pulse quickened at the sight of a long-legged young man with wavy blond hair. That evening at dinner, I learned that his name was George Lennox (bounder!). He was both the aide-de-camp of Lord Elphinstone and the nephew of the Duke of Richmond, and I’ve always been a fool for a title. Things had quickly gotten out of hand as far as my shipboard reputation was concerned, but I was in the throes of newly discovered passion and couldn’t have cared a fig.

  George would sometimes come to my cabin, and I would sometimes go to his. The place didn’t matter, it was what began to happen inside that did. I discovered magical sensations vastly superior to those I’d been able to conjure myself during lonely spells. I howled like a banshee the first time I experienced the great sublimation, until George, laughing, put his hand over my mouth and hushed me. George’s body was beautifully smooth and his sandy beard very thick, so that even by noon his cheeks had a reddish shadow. And his member, well! I’d never before known one that had been cut, and soon it seemed to me an eminently superior ritual. He would hold himself unabashedly and fondly, looking down along his body, and when I asked, he told me that his family had always done it. I asked if it had hurt, but he said he had no idea, it was done when he was a baby and he was sure he wasn’t the worse for it, “so come here, cherub.” It never caused him any discomfort, compared with poor, sore Thomas who moaned and writhed in pain even as he sought pleasure. George allowed me to know a man, truly, for the first time; to know what was pleasing to him and to discover what pleased me when I was with him. He told me I was beautiful beyond belief in the most secretive folds and byways, as he made me warble like a nightingale—and sometimes like a raven. Oh, cad, I’d loved you obscenely!

  Blast and damn. How did that blackguard get back into my head? Because, I suppose, at the start of this whole thing—poised for Paris, the earl’s bank draft secreted in the hem of my favourite new striped-tartan gown in case of emergencies—I found myself eager to travel again and easily talked into it. I’d asked very few questions! When I think of that now . . . Was I really so trusting? Or gullible, perhaps? The earl did seem awfully keen for me to travel. Well, I could sense my liaison with him was coming to an end. He had rather neglected his duties at the house, and his wife, he reported, had also complained about the size of the bills that he seemed to be running up, now that he was living in London during the week. Fine, I’d thought, no regrets. He’d cheered me up, set me going again, and that was a wonderful gift in itself. The bitterness of George’s betrayal was behind me, my appetite for men had returned, and life and love beckoned once more. So yes, at that heady juncture, I suppose I decided to congratulate myself on my adventurous spirit and my undeniable talent for leaping off cliffs without a boring backwards glance. Nothing, I thought, could hurt me, because this time, I would betray before being betrayed.

  Perfect for what they had in mind, had I but known it.

  AND ON TO PARIS

  SEÑOR HERNANDEZ HAD GIVEN me the name of an hotel not far from the Paris coaching station. Exhausted from the journey (days and days in coaches, jostling through the countryside), I collapsed and slept the sleep of the just, with my hatboxes still perched on the bed. I barely even registered the angelic little room and its amenities, nor the bouquet of fresh flowers that someone had placed on the side table. Outside the window, Paris rolled along in its nighttime delirium, and I didn’t hear it. In the morning, waking to the sounds of the street, I discovered a message had been pushed under the door. It said, “Dear Miss Gilbert, I will be waiting for you at eight o’clock, in the dining room. Please come prepared to spend the day away from this establishment. Very sincerely, Juan de Grimaldi.”

  Heavens! I was in Paris (Paris!), it was already nine in the morning, and he’d been there an hour! I was thrown into a frenzy, attempting to pull out and straighten my finest day dress, which had become fatally wrinkled in transit. And the matching hat? Where was it? Which box? Oh, why hadn’t I spent the evening arranging my new possessions? I’d certainly obsessed over them during those hectic days in London, imagining what the “superior” would think of the gorgeous, sleek creature who met his admiring eyes. Oh, I was a ninny!

  A mere fifteen minutes later, dressed in my favourite half-striped, half-tartan day dress and with my cheeks pinched severely for colour, I was scanning the dining room for an impatient-looking man seated alone. The only single male was at the window and never looked up. My eye caught a flamboyant couple beside him—the woman was leaning towards her companion, and as I watched, she pointed me out with a purple-gloved finger. The man nodded, wiped his lips, and rose. My heart leapt into my throat as I smiled and went towards them. This was not what I had expected: Certainly this imposing woman would see that my hair, under the superficial sheen of a quick brushing, was still tangled and heavy with sleep. Damn and damn again. Had I pinched my cheeks sufficiently? I hoped I looked the part, whatever the “part” was supposed to be.

  The man stopped a pace or two from me, bowed his head, and clicked his heels. Then he gestured for me to go past, ushering me towards the woman with his hand at my back. “Mi querida,” he murmured to her softly, continuing in English, “I believe this is young Miss Gilbert. Let us make her supremely welcome.” His voice was deep and mellifluous and made me feel a little less apprehensive. The woman did not get up but held out her gloved hand, fingers drooping. Surely she didn’t mean for me to kiss it? I gave her purple fingers a little shake. She pulled them back.

  “Sit, my dear, here,” he said. “We have been eager to meet you, haven’t we, darling?”

  The woman said nothing. I sat and he followed, pinning me warmly in place between them. “I trust you had a pleasant night?”

  “Oh yes, thank you, sir. I mean, Señor Grimaldi?”

  “That is I. Allow me to introduce my wife, the famous Doña Concepción Rodríguez.”

  Famous? Oh dear, why hadn’t Hernandez told me? Now I’d look an imbecile as well as untidy.

  “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, madam—I mean—”

  “You have not heard of me?” She looked me up and down with disdain, her accent thick and evocative. Unlike Señor Hernandez, the sound of this woman’s Spanish-flavoured English was exotically sensual, and I determined then and there to study it with fervour.

  Physically, Juan de Grimaldi was powerful and intimidating; Corsican by blood, he’d been a lieutenant in the French National Guard under Napoleon, and following the emperor’s defeat, when King Louis XVIII decided to send a massive army of one hundred thousand men across the Pyrenees to help restore Ferdinand VII to his Spanish throne, Grimaldi had volunteered, then stayed in Spain. When I met him, he was about forty-five years of age. He’d been running Madrid’s two principal theatres, the Cruz and the Príncipe, for over a decade. His wife, Concepción, had been a young company actress at the Cruz. Married to Grimaldi, she’d held the title of prima dama for a dozen years or more. At the end of the recent war, after Grimaldi fled back to France from Spain, she’d had to support herself and their numerous children, then pack them all up in order to join him in Paris.

  Hernandez had told me all this. At the time of our meeting, Señora Rodríguez was about forty and beginning to look it; I had the impression that she was terribly tired and terribly jealous. To go to breakfast (and to meet her husband’s new female associate, if that’s what I was, which I still found hard to believe), she had donned a
crimson overskirt with orange taffeta underskirt, a crimson jacket with revealing details, and a cunning purple and orange hat with cascading black mantilla. There were gold jewels on every finger and at her ears. The ensemble took my breath away. I felt outmoded in the extreme in my new (and perfectly splendid) tartan dress, with my peridot earbobs.

  They had already eaten—magnificently, if all of the empty plates and cups served as witnesses. “Please, Miss Gilbert, order whatever you wish,” Grimaldi said, placing a sinewy hand upon mine.

  “We will be pleased to watch,” his wife added, and smiled.

  I knew then that I wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, and said, “If you please, I am ready to accompany you now. I have no appetite, having dined quite late, I assure you.”

  “Very well. We may speak in French, by the way? My wife will be more at ease, if so.”

  “Oui, bien sûr.”

  He flipped his hand in the air and a waiter appeared as if by magic. All heads in the restaurant turned, and all mouths hung open as we promenaded past, Concepción’s perfume wafting across their nostrils as her voice wafted past their ears: “We must stop at the chocolaterie, Juan, on the way.”

  Although I had told them I was not hungry, that was a lie. I was ravenous, my stomach growling angrily, and of course Concepción knew it. In their fiacre, as we bowled along the city streets, I ate a number of divine chocolates, which only made me feel worse. Grimaldi began to question me while his wife listened, her head to one side, eyes raking the view out the window. “You are, I understand, a married woman?”

  “To my regret, yes.”

  “And part of your reason for undertaking this journey is to sidestep a court appearance?”

  “Obviously Señor Hernandez has given you all the details, monsieur.”

  He patted my hand reassuringly, and then took his wife’s. “Extremely unfortunate, isn’t it, darling? Think of being saddled with an uncongenial husband.”

  “Too detestable,” she agreed, with a toss of her head.

  He turned his eyes back to mine. “Then, Miss Gilbert, you know the terms of our agreement. Yet there is much you do not know.”

  “Yes, including what I am to do for you in return. It has cost me many sleepless nights, I assure you.” This was very true.

  “All within your capability. Now that we’ve seen you, we know this for certain.” His eyes caressed me briefly. “You are as stunning as Hernandez reported.” I was thrilled by this, but he went on. “It will require nerve and quick reflexes. A certain amount of bravery.”

  This sounded a bit worrisome, though I tried not to let it show.

  “And that is why I am taking you to the shooting gallery for a lesson. Discover what your natural aim is, and your tolerance.” The fiacre, at this point, turned off the main street and up a circular drive, approaching an opulent stone house surrounded by manicured gardens with meticulously trimmed hedge ornaments. We drew up to the front door and the driver leapt down.

  “Behave yourself, Juan,” Concepción murmured, holding her hand out of the cab door. She descended with grace and a flourish of underskirts, as well as a complete lack of acknowledgment of the driver who had assisted her. Over a shoulder as she was moving away, she called, “I shall expect you for drinks at the usual time. Do not be late.”

  “Mi querida.”

  The horses were again whipped up, and we headed back into the heart of the city. As soon as she was no longer with us, I felt immediately more at ease, and interestingly, so did Grimaldi. He let his head rest against the upholstered cushion, while his fingers played in the breeze out the window.

  “Let me set the record straight. We are not aristocrats, Miss Gilbert. May I call you Eliza?”

  “I prefer Rosana.”

  “Rosana, then. We are not aristocrats, though my wife occasionally likes to behave as if she is.” He smiled indulgently and smacked his lips. “However, we count among our closest friends several members of royal families, both French and Spanish, as well as brothers of the cloth, some of whom are extremely close to God. We fight on their behalf, as we hope you will consent to do.”

  I murmured something that sounded encouraging.

  “Though the civil war has nominally ended,” he continued, “there is still great uneasiness. It could flare up again at any moment. The Spanish northerners are wildly patriotic about Don Carlos, the pretender for the throne. The northerners are fearsome bandidos, with mountainous terrain in which they can hide a thousand men at a moment’s notice. We are on the side of the queens, naturally—the regent Cristina, and her young daughter and future queen, Isabel.”

  “I see.”

  “Cristina is in exile—in fact, she is here in Paris, due to unfortunate circumstances beyond her control. She will explain this herself when you meet her.”

  The legendary Cristina, I realized. The earl will be thrilled! Wait til he hears, I thought, he’ll be tickled pink in more than one place!

  “We understood, from Señor Hernandez, that you wish to learn traditional dances.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, perking up even more.

  “You wish to enter the world of the dance, as your profession?”

  “More than anything. Or maybe an actress, I haven’t decided.”

  “I will be able to help you with both. I have enormous influence upon le monde du théâtre in Madrid. They listen to me still. And, I suspect, always.”

  I couldn’t believe this! Upon meeting me, the powerful Señor Juan de Grimaldi knew that I was exactly what he’d been looking for! I stole a glance at his profile. He had closed his eyes and a little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. He certainly thought highly of himself—as did his wife. Perhaps this was a Spanish trait? Far more interesting than our British reticence and false politeness, our wretched habit of apologizing for everything and nothing. Something to emulate; I vowed to begin immediately.

  “What will you have me do, monsieur?”

  “Call me Juan, please, Rosana. First-name basis for adventurous undertakings.”

  His hand was on mine. How had that happened?

  “In Madrid, you will be given an acting role in the revival of my play, La pata de cabra. I trust you have heard of it?”

  “Not yet, but I long to.” Take that, Fanny Kelly!

  “As a member of the company, you will be in a better position to carry out the tasks, not onerous, but crucial to the Spanish cause, that will be assigned to you.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, wetly, with apparent sincerity. “Dancing will follow, fear not, dear accomplice. I would never allow you to come to real harm.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Why must he speak about nasty things like harm when I was about to take the stage by storm in my first professional acting role!

  At this point, we came to an abrupt halt. We disembarked, Grimaldi flung instructions at the driver, and we entered a monolithic, gloomy building that turned out to be the shooting gallery.

  “First we must turn you into a crack shot, Mademoiselle Rosana. Follow me.”

  Now, although quite giddy with nerves and hunger, I was also realizing that I had unexpectedly entered a swashbuckling adventure and that I was going to be allowed, even encouraged, for the first time in my life to behave with the energy, fervour, and spark that has always animated me. Although women are trained from infancy to believe themselves the weaker sex, I have always had difficulty accepting this dogma. And now here I was in Paris, and here was this distinguished, powerful man, looking to me to help solve an international crisis. How had this happened? I felt like pinching myself with sudden joy, sure that I could rise to the occasion! If I needed good aim and a steady hand in order to do so, so be it, and gladly!

  Grimaldi took me up a huge but shabby marble staircase and into a long room with targets on the far wall. We were quite alone. He placed a leather-bound book on a table and then opened it up: Inside the book lay two tiny, perfect pistols, each just over six inches long, with all the accoutrements. “I h
ave spared no expense on these: finest of their kind. They call them muff guns in English because they can be hidden inside of a ladies’ muff.” He handed me one of the beautiful things. “Relatively small,” he continued, “.41 caliber, weighs about two pounds.” It was light, but felt so potent in the hand! “Listen carefully. It is a cap and ball pistol, or percussion. Here’s how you load it.” Taking the other pistol from the faux book, he showed me. A measured charge of black powder was poured down the upright barrel, then a wad was used to tamp it down, then a ball of lead forced down onto the wad. “Now it’s loaded, but won’t fire,” he told me. “So to fire, you cock the hammer and place this small percussion cap on the nipple. Without the cap, no bang. With the cap—” He turned swiftly, fired, and hit the target in the exact centre. I jumped up and down and clapped my hands, I was so impressed.

  And then I tried. It is embarrassing to remember how truly wretched I was. However, we all must learn, and on that day I began my true apprenticeship. After some mishandled loadings and a couple of hapless, wild firings, he got behind me and placed his arms on either side of my own, holding the pistol along with me, helping steady my aim. Not surprisingly, I suppose, this led to a number of little intimacies that I knew without his telling me that Concepción must not hear about, and which were, in fact, simply part of the introductory process. Pinching and tickling—why do they love to pinch, as if testing the flesh for edibility? A few wet-lipped smacks—they mean nothing by it, it’s just a test of their power, as natural to them as breathing. Men will be men, and for the most part, I have always been happy that they are, particularly when they have something tremendous to impart to me.

  As the shooting gallery began to fill with other gentilshommes, coming from their clubs for a jot of diversion, I found myself again the recipient of admiring male attention. I was quite a novelty—the first woman, they claimed, to have dared enter their gallery. When the ribaldry and jostling began to accelerate, Grimaldi called a halt to our practice for the day. I was hot and exhausted and he, grumpy.