Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (40 page)

He raised a hand to stop me. “I think, my dear Lola, that you are on your own.”

And then—it was as if a chill wind had blown down the back of my dancing gown. The beast was there. I could feel it. I knew with certainty. It was coming, smelling me out, oh
dios mio
! No time to lose, no time
for niceties—I reached into my makeup table's drawer, drew out the faux book with the pistols. Fingers shaking slightly, I broke each weapon and poured in the black powder, spilling some, then tamped it down. I placed the cap directly onto the first one so that it was fully loaded and dangerous. The cap for the other I pushed into my bodice, to the usual place. The earl was shaking his head at me—or was it just a drunken, muzzy attempt to focus?

“As a last favour,” I whispered hoarsely, “create a diversion. I beg you.”

I opened the door, peeked out; the coast seemed clear. Malmesbury was asking, “A diversion for
whom,
my dear?” as I fled in my dancing costume and bare feet down the corridor.

Outside, the stage doorman called after me, “Mind your way now, miss, remember what I told you!” And I was off down the alley, running like a deer. And then! I don't quite remember how, I
was
apprehended. Had they been in the crowd? Or backstage? I had no idea. They brought me here. To this room. The Cockney and the small man.

What's that?

They're coming, I hear them.

T
HE DAPPER ONE STANDS
before me, candelabra in one hand, a jug and a cup in the other. He is alone.

“Where is your thug?” I ask. I'm blinking and shielding my eyes from the suddenness of light, at last. “Where are my pistols? How did you take them from me?”

He places the tapers on the floor. “You're full of questions, even after all this time. To answer one of them: He won't be returning. His intentions were not honourable.”

The man pulls a small loaf of bread from a pocket and holds it out. I snatch it, then try to restrain my haste. Take small bites. I need water.

“I only now discovered that my colleague did not leave you the meal we had prepared, nor the wine,” he says. “For that, you have my apologies. I have sent for more, and hope this may tide you over until it arrives.” He puts the jug down in front of me.

Water, thank God. I fill the cup. Never has anything tasted so splendid.

He moves around the room as he says, “I have finally finished my investigations into your alleged movements, Lola Montez. Talk to me. Tell me the truth of your involvement in international affairs—and understand, in advance, that I have been very thorough.”

What to do? On the one hand, the first pricklings of relief: the Cockney thug, banished. Perhaps I'll make it out of this alive. On the other, trepidation. I sense he is uncharmable, this man. I do not know how to deal with men like this one. But I will not let myself show fear. I am Lola Montez, danseuse, friend of royalty and widow of a rebel hero. I am carrying the name that Diego and I created together. I will move into the future, never stay in the past.

“British authorities recently became aware, and then concerned,” the small man continues, “about the Spanish dancing sensation—all that advance publicity—who suddenly appeared in our capital. When someone appears out of nowhere, it's going to raise eyebrows, correct?” I take another quick nip at the bread. “So I ask myself, on behalf of our government: Who is she? Where has she come from? Who has sent you, and what are you supposed to find out? Are you a papist spy?”

I remain silent, then sip from the cup. A papist spy? How ridiculous.

He looks very thoughtful, before saying things which astonish me. “I shall begin, then. In Southampton, the Spanish consul was happy to assist. Farther back, your trail was more difficult. Finally I unearthed a pilgrimage; the presence of an unknown, beautiful, young and
sometimes
mute nun was noted amongst the pilgrims, and at the border. Farther back still? Diego de León had never been married. You are not his widow. No papers, no records anywhere. Lola Montez, apparently, did not exist until seven weeks ago. When you set foot on English soil, madam.”

Damnation! I lick my lips. They are suddenly so dry.

“You're an entertainer, this much is obvious.” He just goes on and on! “But a charlatan, perhaps. A chameleon, certainly. You understand our dilemma?”

I must escape this room or expire! I have reviewed it all, for hours and hours. I believe I have it ordered well—what to say and what to avoid. Bluff it out, Lola! So I begin to speak, using my best Spanish-inflected English, and I tell him the truth, or a semblance of it, about many things and many people—Grimaldi, Cristina, Diego—with numerous references to the homicidal dangerousness of the Jesuit priest, presently
loose in London, but nothing about my previous incarnation as Eliza Gilbert. Of course not.

When I finish, he surveys me with unreadable eyes. “If what you've just told me is true, why are you here? In England?” We stare at each other. Blast and damn! “You arrived with nothing, according to the Spanish consul—no baggage, no possessions—claiming your widowhood, then throwing yourself upon the mercy of the earl of Malmesbury. He's a government man. You know that, don't you?” When I nod in some confusion, he adds, “And so was Pedro Coria. He worked for us, for the British government. He sent dispatches back on a regular basis . . . Miss Gilbert.”

What! How did—?

“Once he realized what was happening, Coria was actually trying to look out for you, both in France and in Spain—a giddy girl who had gotten herself involved in affairs far beyond her grasp.”

Wait, Pedro Coria? The glass-eyed pirate was an
English
spy? My head is reeling, and not just from hunger.

The small man looks extremely stern now. “The earl of Malmesbury is a romantic fool and has been severely reprimanded. He may lose his parliamentary position over this. He should never have put the idea of a visit to Spain into your silly head. You are fortunate to be alive.”

I have to sit down, and do so.

“In conclusion, Miss Gilbert—”

I want to interject and protest at his use of this name, but he holds up a prissy hand and won't allow it.

“In conclusion, it is as I suspected. You have cost us a great deal of time and money, but you are free to go.”

I stand up again, ready to berate him and his sneaky government, hotly.

“You are free to go because you're a nobody, Miss Gilbert. You have simply gotten in the way.”

At this moment, there is a knock at the door and a woman enters, carrying a tray. She sets it down on the floor, gives a little curtsy, and exits.

The dapper little shit turns back to me with a brief nod. “Good day to you. I have concluded that this is a case of insignificance, of fancying yourself to be important. Now go away and try not to cause any more mischief in the future, or you may not be so lucky,” and he follows the woman, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Oh! I'm so angry I could spit! You bastard! I'm not, I'm
not
a nobody! I am Lola! I will make something of myself, you wait and see! You can't stand to see anyone this full of verve! You want to smash me, crush me, stop me from taking what joy and pleasure and power I can in this world. Well, I won't let you!

I burst out onto the street, and find myself, to my amazement, still in the theatre district. There's Her Majesty's Theatre, right over there! Sod it all and bugger boots! From the light in the sky, I guess it to be early evening—but of what day? First things first. I rush to the stage door and convince Bell, the doorman, to let me in. He is trying to tell me something, yelling words after me, but I don't stop to hear them. There are only a few stagehands about as I barge past and into my dressing room. But wait, the room has been emptied of my belongings!

This is part of a plot, it must be. They are taking away my identity, bit by bit!

The stage manager thrusts his uppity head inside the door. “Bell told me you were here. You've been dismissed; your contract has been cancelled. Get out.”

I rise precipitately, looking about for my pistol—and would use it too!—except that it is missing. In that second, I realize that both of my darling muff pistols must still be in the hands of the small man and his thug, and that my poor cold feet are still bare! There's a riding crop on the floor, however, so I snatch that up, then nearly fall down again from lightheadedness, having rushed from my prison room so precipitately, and bypassing the meal that had been delivered. Oh, life is too cruel!

Now the stage manager rushes in and—this cannot be believed!—grabs me bodily by the back of my dancing costume and by one flailing hand, and propels me out of the dressing room, down the corridor, and past the stage where the singers are beginning to warm up their voices. All the while, with the other hand, I am trying to land him a good wallop with the riding crop, but he's agile, as if accustomed to dealing with all manner of wild cats. Or drunken actors. Which of course, he is. His assistant is following nervously with a bundle of my possessions in his arms: cloak, hat, dressing robe, and so on. As we approach the stage door, I manage to twist about and land the stage manager a good one, a neat flick and a sting with the tip of the crop, and a vivid slash of blood spurts forth from his cheek! Huzzah!

Before I know it, I am out on the street, my things are thrown out after me, and Bell has closed the door firmly. I even hear the key turn in the lock.

Bastards, all of them! I can't believe it. I must start again, do it all over again. I have no allies, obviously. I have been used! Abominably!

And then I stop still. I cease my stamping and snarling. Something feels wrong; a heaviness, suddenly, a concentration of malevolence. From the corner of my eye, I see it—a shadow detaches itself from the wall. A long, attenuated shadow with the breath of a snake. Holy Mary, Mother of God, it's the priest, stepping out from behind a stack of crates in an evening suit, as if he has been waiting there all along, waiting for me to return! I take off like a ball from a cannon: fly!

The best thing, I tell myself frantically, is to twist and turn through these narrow streets, try to lose him, then head for the Strand. But of course I can't rely on my sense of place. I'm the idiot who can't find her way out of a matchbox! Is there a police station nearby? What do I know of this section of London except the theatre building itself? Why oh why don't I keep my eyes open and actually register what I see? Alternately castigating and encouraging myself, I run like the wind. Then I step on something horribly sharp, a broken bottle.
¡Mierda!
Now limping and panting, I
hear booted feet. And gasping breath, gaining on me. Oh
Jésu
! Why am I always running? Through my head, nightmare images: the black-robed wolf falling down from the sky. A slender throat slit from side to side. A smothered baby. Fleeing on horseback, crouched over Lindo's ears. I look over my shoulder, and, oh God, how I wish I hadn't! Father Miguel de la Vega is swooping after me like a death dragon, lurching unevenly from side to side but still coming fast, mouth open and breathing fire, demon eyes blazing. We charge down the narrow dirty cobbled street, high brick buildings on either side hemming the world into one long rectangular cage, where I'll die like a rat, without a soul to mourn me. Still flying pell-mell, I check again, see him draw forth a knife which he flicks open! I let out an eldritch screech, put on a burst of speed, and—