Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards

by Kit Brennan

  “Please,” I ask, “let me drink something.”

  “Come over ’ere,” he says, “and I’ll think abou’ it.”

  This disgusts me. “No.”

  I see swift anger mount his cheeks, swell into his brow. He glances over at the door, then back at me. He has just remembered, and so have I. He hasn’t locked it! I race over, grab the handle, twist and yank—and I’m in a corridor. Which way to turn? Then I go down with a mountain of man on top of me, crushing the air from my ribs. He gets to his knees, breathing heavily, gives my forehead a thump on the floor, lifts me under the arms, and returns me to the paneled room. He presses me up against the door, which he has closed and locked behind us.

  “I know an’ you know,” he says against my hair, “that I could do anythin’ I want wi’ you an’ no one will ’ear it. An’ I’d like to do a lot.” I can feel his erection against my back. “My friend, as you call ’im, is makin’ final enquiries. All the bits an’ pieces comin’ together. We’ll soon ’ave ya. There’s nowhere for you to go, or ’ide. You’ll be found out, an’ take yer punishment for all yer crimes. That I promise you. Snooty jade.”

  He releases me and steps away.

  “I’ll wait ’til you’re broken. And you will be, after ’e finishes. Then I’ll look like your ’ero, an’ a Spanish widow loves her ’ero, isn’t that what you said? And I’ll ’ave ya.”

  He picks up the tray with the carafe and the dish, unlocks the door. “Get yer facts in order, missy.”

  And he’s gone. The candelabra remains, one of the tapers broken and cold but two still burning. It’s a good thing—the only good thing—because the last guttering candle from their first visit now expires. I am almost beyond fear. What in God’s name are they after?

  I must recollect everything, have it all at the ready. And land on my feet.

  REMEMBERING SPAIN

  WHEN I CAME TO, it was dark and I could feel a rocking motion all around, as well as a soft, rhythmic jangling. I lay still, trying to remember what had happened and form a conjecture as to where I was. I could feel roughness, the warmth of blankets. When I heard the snap of a whip and a driver’s cry, I realized I was lying across the seat of a stage coach, travelling through the night. I reached over and felt a curtain, which I opened enough to show me that it was almost dawn, the paleness growing and mist billowing in the hollows as the coach sped past. Then I heard a voice.

  “You are awake?” It was the priest, leaning over me.

  I let out a startled bleat that he muffled with the sleeve of his cloak, though I shoved his arm away with an instinctive jerk: memories of the bag over my head and my fear in the Paris street.

  “Reveal nothing untoward,” he whispered, perching back upon the seat opposite. “You must carry out our charade; it is very important.”

  I tried to sit up but my head began to reel, so I lay down again. “Charade? Where are we?”

  “En route to Toulouse. This is a private coach, hired at great expense. We will be changing horses along the way, but I have had enormous difficulty arranging everything so quickly. You’ve caused no end of unnecessary trouble and pain—as I told the señor you would.”

  Oh God, the funeral. It came back in a rush: the crush of bodies, the smell of incense. “I was provoked,” I protested. “Surely everyone could see!”

  “The only things that could be seen were your enraged face and the kicks and screams filling the cathedral as you were carted off,” he said. “The Grimaldis were mortified, on top of their misery and sorrow.”

  As I’d been learning, when in doubt, leap into the fray, don’t just sit there and take it. “I can’t be held accountable. It’s your fault, all of you, with your scheming and plotting! Besides, what would you do if some vile-smelling thug began to choke the life out of you without explanation?”

  “He was trying to shut your insolent, shrieking mouth!” the priest shouted back, with a spray of saliva, jumping up to give the upholstery behind my head a thump. Then he sat again and turned away, muttering under his breath like a bee in a bottle, and genuflecting, over and over, rocking back and forth. Balls! What a turd, I thought, what a gobshite! How could I be stuck with him for all this long journey? I suppose he was wondering the exact same thing.

  Up above, the driver was busy slowing the horses, and soon he was hurrying to the coach door. His anxious face peered inside. “Monsieur, I heard a cry. Is the lady well? We are far from a town, I’m not certain—”

  The Jesuit reached across and took my hand. I jerked it away but he glared, gave it a thwack, and clamped it between his two clammy ones. “She is feeling pains, yes, but will be fine,” he replied with sudden composure. “It is not yet time. The journey can continue. Mais, merci beaucoup.”

  The coachman tipped his hat, glanced curiously at me, then disappeared.

  “Do not think I am enjoying this,” de la Vega added, still clutching my struggling hands, squeezing them with a kind of nervous compulsion. “Lie down. Behave naturally, in case he returns.”

  In a moment, harnesses jingled and we continued on our way, both of us immediately drawing apart as far as humanly possible within the coach’s confines. We stewed in silence for a time.

  “It was instantly necessary to remove you from Paris,” the priest said at last, his lean face scrinched with distaste. “Such a remarkably impulsive scene! It was also unfortunate that a number of gendarmes were passing at the time. The authorities were not easy to pacify.” Certainly, I thought, a struggling woman with her head in a bag is not a usual sight in the middle of the afternoon, even in Paris. It was then that I noticed de la Vega was not wearing his cassock; instead, he was dressed in a dark but expensive-looking suit, a woolen cloak clasped at the neck for warmth. I glanced down at my body, supine across the seat. There was a large lump in the middle of it. Reaching under the blankets, I felt a heavy wad of material strapped to my belly and fastened behind my back.

  “Señora Rodríguez’s idea,” the padre explained, “at her husband’s request. It was a padded suit for a comic character. Modified quickly to suit our needs.”

  “It’s supposed to be a pregnancy belly?” I squeaked, surprised.

  He looked away, and in the dawn light I was astonished to see his cheeks flushing scarlet, all the way to his hairline and upwards to his now fully shaven dome. “For a woman. For—that time of life.” He seemed hard-pressed to keep his equanimity under the added stress of describing the arrangements. “I am your husband. You have taken ill and must get to Toulouse as soon as possible, in order to deliver your baby under the care of a specialist doctor residing there. That is how we were able to secure this coach and our immediate passage. That is how we explained your restless unconsciousness.”

  “I’ve been drugged?” I cried, trying to sit up. The big belly made this a troublesome deed—that and my pounding head. Father Miguel pushed me prone again.

  “You will not have to stay in this condition for long,” he whispered.

  “I hope not!”

  “Further preparations are being readied for our next stage. We shall be required to keep up this parody—”

  “Of a pregnancy?”

  “Of our marriage.” The words seemed to stick to his lips, so he wiped them fiercely and glared at the rising sun, winking through the passing trees.

  “But,” I exclaimed, suddenly appalled, “it must be a three-day trip to Toulouse!”

  “We’ve been on the road many hours already. We travel at night as well, all night. The time will be halved. Keep your voice down.”

  “I’ve barely said anything!” Oh, I was sick of his priggish nonsense already.

  “This may be the best way to leave Paris quickly, I admitted to the Grimaldis. But not pleasant for a priest—for a man of my nature.”

  I flopped over onto my side, away from him, and closed my eyes, trying to ease the pounding inside. My mind was racing: Where were my little muff pistols? Was my new wardrobe following? With all the grief in the fami
ly, would someone ensure the pistols were packed in my bags? Would the Grimaldis still keep their end of the bargain? I was wearing my favourite tartan and striped gown. Luckily for me, I’d worn it to the funeral, so my emergency fund was still upon me. Thank God for small mercies, I told myself firmly. Now locate the pistols, gather your resources, be ready for further surprises.

  “I will tell you this once, Señora Gilbert, and not again.” I bucked in my seat, startled: He was leaning over me, insistent voice buzzing in my ear. “You think you are an actress? Now is your chance to prove it. Are you listening?”

  Suddenly glum, I mused that this was not the way I had hoped to be entering Spain for my big adventure—wearing a fat suit and pretending to swoon from my womanly condition or whatever other folly they’d cooked up.

  “When we arrive in Toulouse tomorrow afternoon, you must step out of the coach, then say that you are faint.” I knew it (I sneered to myself). “I shall be at your side the whole time, as your caring husband. Be careful to speak only in Spanish. We are from Madrid; I am in business. Then, you must act as if the pains of contraction have suddenly begun . . .” Here he hesitated, and I glanced over. Yes, the gaunt paleness was being exchanged for another bright crimson flush. “I hope you know what that state of being looks like.”

  “I’m sure I can fake it.” Turd.

  “Another, smaller coach, already hired, will be standing by,” he went on. “We will step into that to be driven towards the hospital. Once away from the coaching inn and its overseers, the second carriage will take us to another destination, and our journey will continue under new conditions.”

  “Better ones?”

  “Now be silent and let us contemplate the coming ordeal.”

  He leaned back, placed his head against the upholstery, and closed his eyes. I tried to relax, but my mind began racing again, flicking through all of the decisions and accidents that had led me to that point: accepting a lesson from Señor Hernandez, the “thwok” of a mystery bullet at the shooting gallery, two ears in a box, the river rat churning the Seine into a foul murder scene, my impetuous challenge to Dumas. All somehow funneling towards this cockeyed result—running away with a Jesuit priest! How my mother would have punished me: Uppity miss, spoiled little brat, you’re not worthy of the good father’s time nor concern. I began to feel a new, real fear for myself and my fate: dragged off, sedated, bundled into a belly and dispatched towards the border. Would anyone ever know what had become of me, should I not return? Was there anyone who would care? Really, no one in the world that I could think of. How terrible, how sad—I began to panic and thrash about, which provoked an exasperated “be still!” from my severe companion.

  I took a deep breath and tried to make my mind drift. It did, but not towards happy times. A note I’d received from my mother one Christmas, when I was at boarding school, and the tiny pieces I’d torn it into: “Be good,” it said, “say your prayers, and obey them.” I could probably count on the fingers of both hands the number of times she’d either held me or stroked my hair. I don’t think she’d intended to neglect me, it just never occurred to her that I craved her kindness. Her love, I suppose I mean to say. It was not in her nature, that’s all. My mother, being a gay and pretty creature, flit from one amusement to the next in a butterfly fashion and was forgiven for it. My stepfather might have longed for children of his own; I have no idea. We’d never discussed it: forbidden by her, as was anything remotely connected with family history, aspirations for life, or any topic that might lead to emotion. Not that anyone could hate her for it, I told myself scornfully. The soul of gaiety, with a lovely high clear singing voice, she can accompany herself on the piano and place her admiring fingers just so on the arm of any gentleman at a party . . .

  Then a terrible thought struck me. Wasn’t that just what I had done, myself? Flit, flit? Several times? And what about baby Emma? Yes, she’d gone to the most loving of homes; she’s adored by my step-aunt and uncle. When returning from India, escaping from Thomas, I had planned to stay with Aunt Catherine until I’d gotten on my feet: There I would have been able to see the little girl with my own eyes, to watch her grow, make sure she was loved and shown love. A fictitious relative, they might have said. Her step-cousin, perhaps? I could have been a surreptitious guardian checking in on her well-being, even if only for a short time. But what did I do instead? Fell in lust with George Lennox, ran away from Aunt Catherine at the pier, and rogered myself silly with him at the Star and Garter Inn! I abandoned my baby as surely as my mother had me!

  Oh, thinking this, I rolled around and moaned some more, hashing out all the complicated recriminations I could think of for myself, until Father de la Vega thrust his lean head forwards and hissed, “Don’t overdo it, you idiotic woman! Anyone would think you’re having the child right now!”

  After that, I did calm down. What good were thoughts like that? There I was, halfway to Toulouse, with a priest in charade as my husband. There was nothing for it but to go on, to go ahead with the plan, harebrained though it seemed. I was in too deep to back out. The drug they’d given me must have still had some effect as well, for after my internal tirade I was exhausted, sleeping most of that morning and afternoon, awaking ravenous, and descending (carefully and pregnantly, good actress that I am) to eat at an inn near Limoges, where we changed horses.

  That second night’s travel seemed interminable. We did not light the lamps inside, preferring not to see one another. I had to school myself not to flinch every time I imagined the pious stranger sitting across from me. I lay down again just to be able to turn my back, but my spine tingled whenever I heard him shift or sigh. Breaking our fast at seven-thirty in the morning, I was informed that we should be arriving by mid-afternoon. Finally, as predicted, Toulouse appeared; my limbs by then twitching with restlessness and the tension of suppressing it for all those horrid hours.

  We arrived with a clatter at our final coaching inn. There was great bustling and excitement from the porters and horseboys, who had been apprised of “the Spanish lady’s” delicate condition. I did my melodramatic best, allowing myself to cry actual tears and utter the odd real piercing scream, which galvanized the poor porters like nobody’s business. Soon enough I was grasping the padre’s arm (reinventing the devastating pinch-twist combination I used to use on my fellow boarding school inmates, just to pay him back a bit) and clambering, clutching my big belly, into the waiting second carriage. The new horses were whipped up, the inn personnel bowed and scraped and called their best wishes to my beleaguered husband, and off we flew across the cobblestones.

  After ten minutes or so, Father Miguel pounded at the carriage ceiling with his stick and shouted up, “How far is it?”

  The new driver called down, “Maybe twenty minutes travel, monsieur.”

  We duly came to a detached house with a neat garden, and the driver helped my priestly husband get me in the front door, which a young woman, with every show of love and concern, had opened at our arrival. I was gently deposited in a chair in the front room, the driver bowed and retreated (with a healthy tip), and the door was closed upon him.

  I was famished, bruised, and thoroughly cranky, so I was in no mood as the next part of the plan was revealed: This woman, Matilde, would accompany Father Miguel and I into Spain as our wet nurse. “What?” I cried. “We don’t remotely need a wet nurse; I am not having a baby!” I thought they’d lost their collective minds. The Jesuit reminded me: getting into and out of Spain was a complicated business in the war’s aftermath. Identities were checked, passports were required. Personal histories were often followed up.

  “Understand me,” he said sternly, “We are husband and wife, named Antonio and Patrizia Olivares.” I was interested to see that, in front of Matilde, he was not blushing over this pronouncement. Instead, he was enjoying his power and authority—a trait I was beginning to recognize as particularly Jesuitical. “You have just had a baby, a little girl—”

  “Her name is Matilde als
o,” the woman added, at which point I thought she must be completely deranged as well as highly unoriginal.

  “—and Matilde is coming with us to feed the infant,” the priest concluded.

  At that moment, a loud wailing came from another room. She hurried off and returned with a newborn. I thought, My God, now we’re kidnaping children! Then the woman explained with a shrug, “She is mine. One week ago on Friday.”

  This is it, I thought. Forget being an actress; I’m with an escaped circus, some sort of wandering bedlam. I’m in the middle of a nightmare. “Help me out of this wretched belly, will you, Matilde?” I sighed.

  Antonio and Patrizia Olivares were, at least, a well-to-do couple. I was delighted and relieved when my royally commissioned wardrobe caught up with us the following morning as we prepared to depart. Sure enough, its transportation required a mule with a small wagon and driver, so they were added to our menagerie. We human travelers had our own carriage, in which we travelled facing forwards and Matilde, carrying her namesake, sat facing us. I had also been immensely relieved to discover that my miniature pistols, along with powder and caps, were packed in their faux book in a portmanteau. I transferred the book to my reticule, just in case. Although this made it bulge, I decided I’d prefer to be taken for a bookworm than be taken by surprise.

  In the light of morning as we bowled south towards the border, my stomach now full and head no longer aching, with birds singing and the fields around waving with wheat, I found it hard to believe in the necessity of our scheming. “Are there really such people as bandoleros?” I asked the padre, who sat sunk in misery or some other bleak emotion. “I mean, now that the war is over, it seems silly to—”

  “In the north, war is never over,” Matilde answered. “I doubt it ever will be. And the bandoleros are alive and well.”

  Father Miguel narrowed his eyes and shot me a glance at this.