Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (10 page)

A knock at the door made me leap to my feet, heart thundering. Grimaldi growled, “
¿Quién es?
”

“Padre de la Vega,” a male voice rejoined.

“Ah, good,” Grimaldi said, and opened the door. There stood an enormously tall and thin priest, holding a large silver crucifix in his hands and wearing a long, black robe. His cheeks were covered with a well-trimmed black beard, his hair tonsured. His eyes glittered as he flicked them quickly around the room, coming to rest upon me in my gaudy pink furbelows. They flicked up my length and then down, then very slowly up again, only to dart away and stare past me out the window.

Grimaldi's smile was again a hollow one as he said, “Your travelling companion. You will be safe with him.”

Tucked into the Grimaldi's finest carriage, we trotted along, heading out of Paris, on our way to Reuil-Malmaison to meet with the famed formerregent, Cristina. Inside the vehicle: the Spanish theatre couple, myself, and the dark piratical bodyguard from the shooting gallery, who said not a word but gazed malevolently out of the window the whole time, his hand
yanking at his waxed mustache, his body redolent of sweat and garlic. I was woozy from a new dose of quinine, and for the first time I noticed that this man had a glass eye. It was incredibly distracting: The iris did not follow his facial movements, so at times it would be staring straight at me while the real eye contemplated the passing scene—or perhaps it was the other way around. It made me feel naked and vulnerable, as if that eye knew all my innermost weaknesses and fears. I could barely drag my attention away, though the rest of him lounged and lurked there like a malignity.

Concepción prepared me for the visitation by airing the essential gossip. Although officially Cristina was the royal widow of Ferdinand VII, in practice she had been with a man named Augustín Fernando Muñoz for nine years: She'd “found her destiny” with a guardsman. Early on the two had married in secret, though in the eyes of the world he was just her lover. If she had publicly acknowledged her new marriage while in Spain, Cristina would have had to give up her title as queen regent and that was something she had not wished to do. It had probably cost her the affection and advice of her elder sister, the Infanta Luisa Carlota, who'd been furious at Cristina's remarrying beneath her. However, Muñoz was a good man (so said Concepción). The couple had recently purchased a magnificent country house called the Chateau de Malmaison, where they lived with their own set of children. “Exile sounds rather pleasant,” I remarked. Concepción smacked me with her fan and responded tartly, “No one asked your opinion.”

We arrived. “Keep your wits about you and your impertinent comments to yourself.” Admonitions, surreptitious smacking of me, and straightening of gowns.

Cristina—or María Cristina of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, to give her full, long-winded title—was indeed a beautiful woman, as my earl had claimed. I bowed low and for a long time, as Concepción had schooled me, and the tall, still fair, and still blue-eyed royal personage seemed to approve. We walked the grounds first so Cristina could take the air; she was about seven months pregnant. She gestured me up to stroll beside her, which annoyed Concepción enormously, as I could tell from the indignant splutters erupting behind us. These noises ceased when a large, handsome fellow came sauntering towards us.

“This is our new little spy, my darling. Isn't she precious?” Cristina called to her guardsman, fluttering her lashes.

“Certainly.”

“She's leaving for Madrid
muy pronto.
Do you think the girls will like her?”

“Yes I do.”

“And they will trust her to help them? Keep them safe from Arguëlles?”

“Indeed.”

“That settles it. You always know best.”

If this was his role—to agree with whatever she said and sire a load of children—I thought it couldn't be too onerous. He was wearing the jewels Concepción had told me about: the late king's scarfpin and several of his gigantic rings. I eyed Muñoz slyly, then looked away quickly because I caught him doing the same to me.

“Enough! I am puffed!” Her Majesty announced, looping her arm through mine. “Let us go inside.” As we sashayed across the crushed golden stones, I wondered if I should give her warm greetings from my lust-addled earl. Would it be appropriate?

“Your Majesty,” I hesitated, “I know someone who wishes you only the best, and who asked me—if I was lucky enough to meet you—to be remembered to you.”

“Oh goody,” she trilled. “I love admirers. Who is it?”

“James Howard Harris. In Naples? He is now 3rd Earl of Malmesbury and a member of Parliament.”

“Hmm.” She frowned as she thought.

“It was quite long ago, the year your engagement to the king was announced. There was a certain . . . button? Which he recalls particularly.”

I loved the light that came into her eyes; as she remembered, they seemed to suddenly glow from within like sun through ice. “That funny, short man. With his elaborate buttons. And his trousers!” Her laugh was infectious as she leaned upon me, whispering conspiratorially, “My mother had turned around because I was lingering to talk with him, and all she could see was the mighty bump. She was so scandalized that I got a fit of the giggles, not even halfway around the room full of people to meet, and I had to leave, drink three glasses of water, and lie down. All
I could think about the rest of that afternoon was imagining what had happened to the poor man's bump!”

Malmesbury would have been so happy to know that golden Cristina remembered his adulation and had thought so long and hard about his bump!

Indoors, we sat in a remarkable room filled with flowers, art, and musical instruments. With my head still buzzing from the quinine, I imagined I mightn't have been the soul of discretion in bringing up the earl and his button, but he seemed to have done me a favour—royal Cristina and I had sparked. I was sure I would need all the friends in high places that I could get.

“My dear señora,” Cristina cooed, turning to Concepción, “I remember how well you enjoy spending time with our children. Would you be so kind?” She put her jewelled hand upon her paramour's arm. “
Encanto,
perhaps you could escort her?”

This unexpected plan of action did not suit Doña Rodríguez, I could tell, but she swallowed her chagrin and stepped out with Muñoz.

“Now then, Juan,” Cristina said, glancing at her highly buffed fingernails, “explain to me the puzzling reply you sent back this morning. I wish for immediate action, and know the time is ripe. That fine agent we met with last year, he has sent back astonishing reports!”

“Ah, Your Majesty,” Juan demurred. “That is the thing. There will be no further reports from that quarter.”

“Why ever not? I haven't given him leave to desert me.”

“He is dead.”

“
Diablo.
I see . . . And you're sure of this?”

“Terribly sure.”

Without missing a beat, she turned her penetrating gaze upon me. “This one has agreed to everything?”

Juan gave me an admonitory glance, then answered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And she understands the political climate?”

“As much as she needs to, Your Majesty,” Grimaldi answered.

“Not really, Highness,” I interjected, “I am ready to get started though of course somewhat nervous—” I was babbling, then got hold
of myself—“but I know next to nothing about the people involved, nor how a court functions, nor—”

Grimaldi looked at the carpet and frowned, his lips tightening further as Cristina patted my hand and said, “I agree with your concern to know more, little spy. You must anticipate the personalities you will encounter. Men always forget that because it does not interest them. So.” She settled herself, index finger to her lip for a moment to think, then began. “The prime minister, General Baldomero Espartero, is a cunning man as well as an excellent soldier. During the war, he was not involved in politics; he was my finest commander. His tactical moves were full of luck and bravado, which he would quickly follow up with force. Fundamentally though, Espartero is a
progresisto
and I did not realize this in time. I made him head of the government, but in that I was wrong. Spain needs to be liberalized, yes—and I have certainly done my share to promote such a state—but I am a
moderada.
Espartero goes too far too fast.”

“Your Majesty—” Juan interjected.

“Let me finish this, dear Señor Grimaldi,” she said, “I shall try to be brief,” and she turned her pale eyes back to me. “Six years ago my worst troubles began. That is when the sergeants—the military—rose against me, storming my palace at La Granja one night, drunk and dangerous, and threatening to massacre everyone in it if I did not agree to their demands. I remained calm, bowed to their wishes, and restored the constitution of 1812, which is what they wanted. When news of their treacherous but successful bullying reached the capital, the chief
moderado
ministers—who had drafted the new constitution—knew that they must flee for their lives.”

“Some were later captured,” Grimaldi growled, “their heads, ears, and hands cut off and publicly displayed in Madrid.”

I shuddered at the vision conjured—and the ears in the box.

Cristina continued, “Then I made my mistake. There was no other strong military personage to keep the populace in check the way he could, so I appointed Espartero commander in chief. Don Carlos the pretender might have won the war then if he'd made use of the opportunity all this chaos afforded, but he has always dithered; he wants to be
absolute monarch or nothing. Carlos was defeated and sent into exile. But the successes went to Espartero's head. Suddenly there were many conditions he wished to impose upon me! Me!” She fluttered her fan violently, shaking her head at the mere thought. “I made him a count, I made him a duke, but I could never make him a gentleman.”

“Traitor,” came from Grimaldi, gloomily.

“The idea of holding the regency as a puppet of that man and the progressives was abhorrent to me. I preferred to abdicate.”

“And see what a mess he has made, Your Majesty!” Grimaldi couldn't contain himself any longer. He leapt up and started hurling himself about. “He is inexperienced and markedly authoritarian! And the tutor—”

“Yes, that is the final straw.” Cristina sighed and placed a hand upon the baby inside, who must have been kicking. “All of this turmoil is bad for my water.” Grimaldi looked abashed and sat again but appeared to be silently imploding. “I abdicated two years ago,” Cristina said, “and it is true everything has gone wrong. Even Espartero's own government disagrees with the choice of Arguëlles as tutor! What is he trying to put into my girls' heads? It is so distressing.” She fanned herself and then gestured to Grimaldi. “Thankfully, Juan has been instrumental in organizing the resistance campaign from France.” He seized her hand and bowed over it, as she skewered me again with her diamond gaze. “I know that he—and you—will not fail me. I have vowed ferocious commitment to the overthrow of Espartero.”

She extracted her fingers from Juan's grip and began counting off on them. “So, little accomplice, what we need from you. Number one, the tutor, Arguëlles; you know what to do with him, and please do it thoroughly. Number two, aiding my
moderados
in Madrid, as and when they make themselves known to you. Number three, eligible suitors for my sweet Isabel. You must report back about them as soon as possible.”

“Is this wise, Your Majesty?” Grimaldi began, but she stopped him with an imperious finger (the one representing the suitors).

“At this stage there are four candidates.” She began on the other hand. “Two Spanish, one French, and one German. Don Carlos's son is my first choice, though he
is
Bella's first cousin and they say that can cause problems. However, it would settle the unrest and that's what's
important. The other Spanish one is also a first cousin, same style of merchandise, not very interesting. The son of Louis-Philippe the First, who is my uncle, is the French possibility. I don't know about him, and I need to know.” I was feeling increasingly shocked: They're all rogering their relatives, I thought, with each others' blessing! “Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, a cousin of your Queen Victoria's Prince Consort, is the German. They will all be milling about at court, no doubt, and—with Isabel's courses set to start at any time,” she placed all ten fingers upon my arm, “you must be there to smell them out.”

Oh lord. Smelling out newly pubescent royalty and its hangers-on? But on the other hand, why not? Bright side, I reminded myself: get out from under the Grimaldi thumbscrews, get to Spain at last. Seduce this radical tutor, and after that's accomplished and he's in disgrace, I can flit home with my success in
La pata da cabra
as a calling card. Mulling these contradictory things, I was suddenly woozy again.