Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (9 page)

“Sit down, Rosana.”

I did. He pulled up another chair as Concepción hovered sternly behind him. “Time to tell you exactly what is necessary.”

“A few days ago, I would have rejoiced,” I said, “but now—”

“Be quiet and listen. You are, in your heart, a reckless and bold young woman. I have recognized this from the look in your eye when you hit a target. Even I, far too old for you, can elicit a sensual response—don't bother to refute it. I envy the man you genuinely care for, if what I have experienced is only a small substitute. Either that or I pity him, since your blatant physicality seems to know no checks and balances.”

“Oh! That is a lie! That is rude!” I was shocked; this was not the kind of
tête-à-tête
I had expected. I tried to rise, but Grimaldi placed an iron grip upon my thigh as Concepción gave a little puff of contempt.

“It is time to earn your keep after all of this cosseting,” he went on. “I know you are not remotely a lady—”

“Oh!” I cried, and then “Aaah!” as his grip crushed my leg. I would have a bad bruise there, if I knew anything.

“—not remotely. I know this. Señor Hernandez is remarkably thorough. Thanks to Miss Kelly, he was able to ascertain your financial assets, such as they are. Or perhaps I should say as they were—that they were tied up with a certain member of Parliament. Hernandez dug and pried and knows your entire previous history.” A cold shudder ran through me as I prayed, Not
all
of it, surely? “Your court date was one fact, and it
led us to consider you: Evidence of at least one man—a husband—with whom you have had sexual relations. The MP is another. Well and good. The señor's searches took him straight to, according to the records of the chancery courts, one George Lennox, a third. Much better.”

This was dreadful.

“And then the señor turned up something even
more
interesting. He pursued all names mentioned in any way in your trial papers: A certain Mrs. Catherine Rae, in Durham, and her husband, Mr. Herbert Rae, came to his attention. Hernandez travelled to Durham; he looked up the address. He watched them. Interestingly, the married couple was quite old; they were in their mid-fifties at least. Why is that
interesante?
Because—and this made the señor's mustachio quiver—they had a seven-year-old daughter. Very curious. Not many English people, with no previous offspring, will attempt such a dangerous feat. But perhaps, he thought, perhaps they were lucky, or different. Or the recipients of a baby in another manner. It happens. It happens, especially, within families. What was the connection? He did his research: The woman is the sister of your stepfather, Major Craigie in India. Close and closer. The señor studied the little girl. He contrived to meet her in a park; he returned her ball when it rolled too quickly away from her hoop. He saw a resemblance.”

“
Verosímil
.” Concepción nodded emphatically and began pacing.

This couldn't be happening, I thought. The one thing I had promised . . . And not Aunt Catherine, but myself. For the sake of—

“It was the hair and the dark blue eyes that confirmed it.”

And then it was as if I was falling backwards, back into a terrible time: I was again at the Misses Aldridges', during one of the long, dreary holiday periods. I was fourteen and the only girl remaining in the house. Most of the teachers had also gone; I ate with the cook and the servant. Not that this was a hardship, as I liked them very much, and the young maid was often the admirer of my wickedest pranks. That particular Christmas, she had a cousin arrive from London and had brought him over to eat with us one evening. I wish she hadn't. He was the very sort of handsome brand-new fellow (cheeks still raw from first shaves) that I would look at sideways on Sundays when the group of us young misses were allowed to
walk, crocodile, from the school to the church and back again. Did I know how to speak to the rougher sex? Of course not; I'd had no practice. Did I know what they wanted? No. Did I know what
I
wanted? Not at all. Just a restlessness, a coal burning somewhere inside. I never knew his name, I didn't even want to. It wasn't about a connection that would go on into the future, it was about clothing and flesh and lips and yearning. There were so many layers to what I wore! Eventually we found a way. I helped him with nimble fingers, and the strangeness and shocking immediacy of that burning heat thrust deep inside me was an awakener—I woke up! I smelled India: the searing sun, the flowers, vivid colours, flavours that made you sweat rather than gag. No more oatmeal, no more interminable cups of tepid tea. Give me this! Give me more! I cried out, I laughed, grabbing at the boy's buttocks, and before we knew it, we were off again.

Of course, it was a terrible mistake. Of course the gods of irony were up there, waiting. It was all too repeatable. My mother, fourteen when she'd had me, had passed on her insultingly easy fecundity. At first I didn't know what was happening. I began to eat like a horse—all the girls remarked upon it—but then shortly thereafter I also began to throw it back up. I cried a lot, and I'd been a girl who would never cry, never show fear or dependency, ever. The elder Miss Aldridge was a canny woman and it did not take her long to understand what had happened. One day the maid was in fits of tears, and then disappeared, dismissed. To my horror, Miss Aldridge called me in to her office to inform me that she'd written to Sir Jasper Nicolls.

At the Nicholls's, confined to the upper floor, I was terrified as I grew larger. Eventually, of course, I figured it out, thanks to the servants who tried to be kind. I felt so ashamed to realize I was like my mother, that I was repeating her history—but with no military husband's good name to protect me or the child I was carrying. And as usual, I had no idea what to expect would happen afterwards. I only believed it would not be nice. The baby was born, once the normal course of such an event had picked me up and swept me into it, in about one hour, and this shamed me as well. I was fifteen by then. The baby, a little girl, was given to a wet-nurse who lived elsewhere, and I waited, breasts leaking, alert to the patriarch's towering rage two floors below.

The mails, of course, travel at the same rate as passengers, so it was not until several months after I had given birth that my stepfather's reply arrived. There was a package for Sir Jasper, with apologies and instructions. Craigie sent me a separate letter, and it made me weep. He explained that he loved me very much, that he had decided upon a course of action that he hoped would satisfy all concerned, and that he had decided not to tell my mother of my predicament and its consequences. He hoped I would approve. And I did. I did not wish her to know anything about me, not if it would put me in her debt. Oh, he knew me well, and I have often wondered why. Not only the little girl I had been for the few years I lived with them, but also the changing creature I was at that time. He put himself into my position, and into my mind as he had known it and as he imagined it. He is a sterling man.

Aunt Catherine arrived; she was to take my baby. Uncle Herbert came with her, and together they did their best to stand up to Sir Jasper. It was eventually arranged: The baby was handed over and they departed. Before they did so, Catherine found me and hugged me hard. She told me the little girl would be adored and cared for as their own forever-more. She urged me to have no worries for the infant's welfare, that she would be first and foremost in their hearts, always. Uncle Herbert, ever silent, nodded and pulled his whiskers, looking anywhere except at me. Aunt Catherine asked permission to call my baby Emma. What could I say? I hadn't seen the baby since the day she was born. I'd barely seen her then, and I didn't see her on the day my step-relatives took her. Catherine kissed me and whispered, “Never tell a soul, dear. This way is best.”

I was returned to the school. For months, while my breasts continued to leak and I hid the evidence as well as could be, my spirits were in the dankest, coldest cellar. I believed that the baby was better off without me. I didn't even know how to miss her. I sat in the pews of the church in Bath and for the first time, really listened to the words. Virtually all of them were designed to punish and contain God's handiwork, particularly the women. I believe some young souls encounter despair at an early age and spend the rest of their lives trying to escape it. And in my experience, that despair is as often caused by religion as by human wrongdoing. Those words, in that church, filled me with fear,
then loathing—and finally, rebellion. I suppose, if I have one particular attribute of which I am most proud, it would be this spirit: which moves me to action, which goads me into facing it out, whatever
it
might be. God knows I have many black marks to my name, but this restless, questing soul of mine has saved my life. I am not saying I was sorry for myself—far from it. I was angry, that was what it was, and I wanted answers. I wanted choices. And I'd begun to understand that if I wanted those things I would have to learn how to take them.

“Señor Hernandez did not
do
anything to her?” I cried. “Tell me he didn't do anything!”

“She is safe in the home of her surrogate parents,” Grimaldi said. “But. We know everything now, everything we need in order to ensure that you cooperate fully on your mission to Spain.”

This was not an outcome I had remotely anticipated. Little Emma, seven years of age, a pawn of these determined, tempestuous Europeans? It was too terrible. Travelling through Durham to Portsmouth with Thomas, and from thence to India, I had held Emma for all of ten minutes; she'd been three and wriggled as much as I had when I had been held at that age. Her hair was dark as a crow's wing, her eyes a deep sea blue. It had frightened me how much she looked like me, but no one else had seemed to notice, certainly not Thomas. I dreamt about her for many nights after that visit, trying to imagine what life would be like if she were mine. I couldn't do it. I didn't really want to, certainly not in that time and place, and not with that man. But I have made a promise, to myself and to her, that if I can ever help her in her later life, I will. Although I have only seen my birth child twice, only held her once, I truly love her. Where she is, that is my centre and always will be.

Knee to knee with Juan de Grimaldi, a savagery ran through me: You cannot, you will not, use her this way! Nobody will! I swear it!

“I was always prepared to do what you ask, Señor Grimaldi. You did not need to blackmail me.”

He pursed his lips. “We have found, in the past, that it is a necessary greasing of the wheels, when the wheels get cold and begin to balk, as they always do at some point in the journey.”

After this threat, Grimaldi became even more edgy and abrupt. The task I was to perform concerned the princesses' tutor. I was to get close to the princesses, to have them see and admire me. That was why I was to appear in
La pata de cabra.
The infantas would come to the theatre; I was to get myself invited to the palace. Once there, I was to meet the tutor who never let the little girls out of his sight. I needed to make him do so.

“But—?” My mind still was protecting Emma, and the instructions confused me.

“Can you
still
not see what service you are to render to the crown?” scolded Concepción.

“I am trying.” Their eyes were burning holes in my head.

“Seduce the man!” she screeched, as Grimaldi put his hand upon her arm.

“We know that you have a talent for it,” he added, “so don't waste our time with cries of outrage. There are other agents in Madrid; you will meet them and be given instructions for the next plan of action after you have accomplished the first. In your case, the less you know the better.”

I didn't like the sound of that at all. “But what good will seducing this tutor do for your cause?”

“He will be discredited, of course, and then dismissed,” Grimaldi answered. “Prime Minister Espartero has put an extremist politician in place as tutor in order to display the righteousness and purity of his government, to show how well they are looking after the interests of the soon-to-be queen. This will prove the tutor is not pure.”

“Suppose I do what you ask.” They had cornered me and betrayed my trust. I was right to demand answers. “What will happen to me, afterwards? Will I be blamed?”

“She is worried about her reputation, Juan?” Concepción sneered, and then to me, “You should have thought about that after your first transgression. Not now, after your—what is it, Juan? Her fifth? Her eighteenth?”

“
Querida, por favor
. . .” Juan took his wife's hand and led her to the door. She allowed herself to be ushered out, with one last baleful look at me to smarten me up.

Grimaldi turned and smiled. It was an empty smile that never reached his eyes. “Now then, Rosana. You see why we need a woman of your talents? Of your beauty? Of your undoubted amorousness?”

At that moment, I finally recognized his charismatic energy for what it really was: the exercise of power. He had me and he knew it.

My voice was small as I whispered, “I'm afraid for my ears.”

“I'm afraid for them too. Let me see.” He reached out, pulled a strand of fallen hair away from the side of my face. His hand smelled strongly of tobacco. I had been alone with him many times outside of that room, his arms about my waist and my laughter pealing around the empty heights of the shooting gallery. But our silly harmless intimacies had always had a playfulness about them. That was all gone. He leaned towards me and whispered, directly into my left ear, “You will not be allowed to go back, Rosana. Forwards is the only direction you can take. Your ears are not Tristany's. They are well attached to your head, and your head to your shoulders. I know you are the one to help us return our beloved country to its rightful ruler. If not, I have a smaller box. A decorative box that will just hold two other, tiny ears, and a lock of her dark black hair. Do you understand me?”