Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (23 page)

Oh I was caught in a desperate whirlpool of events, good and proper. I could barely react to these alarming words and the intention behind them—being so completely distracted by what was going on inside—when suddenly there was a violent pounding on the door and the bodyguard's deep voice called, “Señorita Gilbert? We must return to the palace. The entire theatre is closed. Señorita?”

Attempting to disentangle myself, I called shakily, “I am just coming!” (Oh, and I was!) “Not now, I must . . . Stop that this second,” I panted, and then could say nothing more, the black cat having placed a velvet paw upon my mouth and muffled my abrupt, ecstatic moan. A little death. Oh my god, this man was good.

“Remember, señorita,” he whispered into my ear as I shuddered and shook in the aftermath of such abrupt and surprising pleasure, “not a word about all this. It will happen on the night of the ball; you must be
ready.” He kissed me again. “Are you listening? Say nothing to anyone, particularly not to the Infanta Carlota of Naples, who I hear has arrived from La Granja.”

I leaned away from him, and then walloped him across the cheek, the one I hadn't walloped the first time. “
Diablo!
” he cursed, and tried to restrain me, but I clambered off his lap, picked up my makeup bag and dark wool cloak, and rushed to the door.

“Cupid,” de León called softly. I turned back to look at him: A red welt was appearing, and two perpendicular fingers were held to his lips. “
Me llamo
Diego. I will be in touch again. Very soon.” And he plunged the fingers into his mouth.

I unlocked the door and fled into the night.

I tossed and turned in my bed until dawn. I was appalled, and thrilled, at the man I'd just met, couldn't get him out of my head. I wanted him badly and was angry at myself for having allowed this to happen. I'm not a stupid, wanton girl with no experience, I chided myself. Have a care, he could be dangerous. No, I'm
sure
he's dangerous, dangerous to my health! No matter, I still craved him, lay awake, wet, for him. Damnation! And this new, extreme plan of kidnapping the princesses? It seemed so radical, so madcap! Must we go so far to keep them safe? How did I know that it was Grimaldi who was directing operations? Was Diego to be trusted? No one was what he seemed to be in this place. Warned to say nothing to Carlota? But how could I ensure that I was in fact following Cristina's orders? If not, and if I was to get into trouble, how much more deadly would be the trouble I'd be in if the object of my mission was a prime minister rather than a royal tutor! And my missing emergency fund—a disaster! What was I to do?

Cautiously, I went to Ventura the next morning for advice. He was harried, sitting at a desk on the stage itself, surrounded by papers and diagrams.

“Ah, Rosana, we must sit down, but not yet.”

“I am desperate for information, Ventura. Diego de León—”

“Good man, good man. He's filled you in on the change of plan?”

“Well, that's exactly what I need to know. He gave me the outline, not fully, just sketchy. It sounds half mad. What does Grimaldi say, when—?”

From the shadows of the theatre, a figure stepped forwards. “We meet again, señora.” It was the Jesuit, Father Miguel de la Vega, his tonsured hair grown in again, wearing his black attire. He looked even thinner, if that was possible. Positively concave.

“You remember my brother?” Ventura asked, as if I could forget. “Miguel, perhaps you can help her.”

The black eyes glittered in that way I remembered. “What is your question, señora?”

Always he had to remind me of my married state. I despised the man. I hid it nobly and said, “Is Diego de León to be trusted? How am I to know that what he tells me comes from Grimaldi, and therefore from Queen María Cristina of Bourbon Two-Sicilies?”

“
Former
Queen Cristina,” he answered, and then, “alas.”

The man was so pompous, so correct in his . . . everything! Had to be just so, had to be phrased in such and such a way! Had to show himself up as perfect in every particle! So
Jesuitical
! I took a deep breath. “Could you tell me, please?”

“General Diego de León,” the priest said slowly. “What do
you
think of him?”

His question took me aback. Unfortunately, I also felt an immediate blush suffusing my cheeks. “I have no thoughts one way or the other.” A vision leapt into my head: the man sucking his fingers with a lecherous grin. “I am . . . trying to follow orders,” I went on, “in a chaos of—. I am trying to return home safely as soon as possible. Surely you understand that, Father.”

“Oh, I understand,” the devout ass intoned. He surveyed me with his mouth like a sucked lemon and folded his attenuated hands. “Yes, de León is a man of the Cristinos. Undoubtedly.”

He continued to look at me but said nothing further. Ventura took my hand, patted it, and said, “There you are then, fears abated. Forgive me for having been so distracted, Rosana. Now, think about a costume,
if you have any suggestions. Money not an object, brand new, for your figure. You must dazzle them.”

This was exciting. My mind raced in all directions. By the time it had returned to earth, only a few seconds later, I'm sure, the Jesuit was gone.

Ventura saw my reaction and chuckled. “Never mind,
cariña.
My brother has always been odd, even when we were boys. He never seemed to live in the same world that we did.”

I couldn't imagine such a spooky close relative. “What made him this way?”

“God only knows—and I say that with piety,” Ventura answered with a shrug. He went on to tell me that their eldest brother was a model son who never rebelled, that he himself was the baby and a dreamer, his mother's pride and joy, and that perhaps Miguel, the middle child, had felt left out, neither parents' favourite. In any case, when Miguel was a young man, he left home. He set out one day; they didn't know where. When he returned a year later, he wouldn't tell them much except that he'd decided to be a priest. Over time, through things he let slip, the family discovered he'd been following Father Merino, the warrior priest. This priest had been on the wrong side, an early Carlist. A Castilian. A ferocious old War of Independence soldier whose heroism was legendary, so he attracted followers like moths to a flame.

“I swear,” Ventura said, “
that
war was what made the men ruling us now so bloodthirsty. They can't get enough, just have to keep starting it over and over again. They need blood to feel alive. Blood of men, of women and children . . .” He shook his head and continued. “Volunteers joined this Father Merino as he made his way north. Almost ten years ago, Rosana, in '33. Hotheads were everywhere, men on the move. Miguel would have been twenty-five, restless, looking for a cause. Father Merino's example was austere: He didn't smoke or drink. His followers believed he never slept. Miguel liked that.”

I'll bet he did, I thought, remembering the man wrapped like a bat at the foot of my bed, wishing bad dreams upon me.

“I don't exactly know what changed, but after his march north with Merino, Miguel broke away again and came south, joined a seminary, and began his studies. So you see, although he may have considered
joining the Carlists in the very early part of the war, he came to his senses and found his vocation.
And
his cause. Make no mistake, he is every inch a Cristino; he fights for the monarchy, for moderate liberalism. He fights the good fight.”

Ventura was nodding to himself. He seemed more than usually troubled.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“This damned masquerade.” Running his hand across his eyes, he began rubbing them. “But it's also . . . he's been bothering my wife, who is so very tired these days with the new baby. He wants her to be more modest. He's such an ascetic, unused to women. Anyway, he's staying at the seminary now; it's where he's most at home. Things should be better.”

I felt for her, this beloved wife. One man so tender; this other, though of the same blood, so rigid. Blood can be a frightening bond; one can look into the face of brothers or sisters and recognize the same features repeating themselves with small variations, yet inside that outer mask of similarity beats an entirely different soul. It is very strange.

“I nearly forgot,” Ventura went on. “I've changed my base. I'm over at the Teatro de Oriente, where the ball will be held. So when you come looking for me, you won't have to be reminded. I know you're still sad about leaving the play.”

“That's true,” I admitted, looking around at the familiar backdrops and props, but shivering a bit as I glanced up into the flies. “I have a worrying problem,” I faltered, venturing at last into my pressing private concern. “I don't know how to tell you, but I must. I had an emergency fund of my own, tucked away—quite a large one—and it was stolen, here at the theatre. It's all gone. I have nothing now, and I must know I can leave, that I'm not completely dependent—”

His look was almost ferocious. “I'll give you whatever you require, on behalf of Grimaldi. But you cannot leave, Rosana, you have a crucial role to play in this next venture. We expect your full attention.”

“And you have it! But really, Ventura, you mustn't keep me in the dark. I've been going mad with worry.”

“Trust de León. We're in good hands, we'll succeed beyond our wildest dreams. Believe me.”

And I could get nothing further from him.

The date of the ball was set for the last Saturday in January. At the Oriente, Ventura whirled like a dervish, directing operations. The enormous room he'd chosen for the event was designed for painting curtains and sets, but in the pre-Lenten season the space was not required for its usual function. He could do what he wished with it.

Men carrying rugs, hundreds of candelabra, thousands of candles, dozens of huge gilded mirrors and other decorative luxuries were being set in place. Musicians wandered around, investigating the acoustics; they were members of the full orchestra which had been hired for the evening. Ventura was organizing all of the tables, chairs, silverware, glassware, and linens required, as well as hiring the best chefs in Madrid to create delectable concoctions for the hungry crowd of exuberant, disguised guests. He was also negotiating as good a price as possible for the necessary costs of policing by the national guard (as few as possible) while attempting to keep the barrage of free tickets the military officials were demanding (as they usually did) to a minimum. These events, it appeared, were feared by the authorities because they were considered a licence for disobedience and possible anarchy. The ticket price was another hurdle: Too steep a charge would keep people away, but at the same time it was important to discourage the riffraff, especially if very important and wealthy people such as the royal family (particularly) and the politicians (a necessary evil in the royals' wake) were to be persuaded to come. “A masked ball without the confusion, shoving, and shriek of a crowd is worthless to us,” Ventura said. “The mayhem is its heart and soul.”

I love fancy-dress turbulence. I'd experienced some of it in India, on the arm of Thomas, but now I was free of jealous, grabby husbands, free to be my own spirited self! Great fun! And I'd decided on a costume. The ball had a theme, which Ventura advertised in the city's papers: the Four Elements. He believed this gave great leeway for costumes of all styles and centuries.

“I want to be the Cloud with the Silver Lining,” I told him triumphantly.

He cocked an eyebrow, smiled. “Then let's get to work. By the way,” and he took me rather sternly by the arm, “you must do something for us in the next few days.”

“What is that?”

“Diego mentioned it to you: security at the palace. Find out how many, where they're placed, anything you can. Don't dally. But be discreet.”

A skilled dressmaker had been hired to provide the costumes for all of us connected with the organization. And as the dress took shape over the next few weeks, I must say I was almost more pleased with it than with any other garment I've ever worn. It was all my own design: a huge froth of soft grey and white on the billowing, layered skirts, undercut with a cunning, shiny silver taffeta which peeked through occasionally when I moved, or when I danced—which I was intending to do, oh yes! There was silver undercutting the bodice, which was tight (of course) and very low (extremely becoming). My breasts sat as high as crisp apples on a tree. Or angels on a cloud—what you will. You couldn't miss them even if you wanted to, which I couldn't imagine anyone wishing to do—other than Father Miguel de la Vega, of course, should we be unlucky enough to have to endure his attendance at such an ungodly event.