Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (40 page)

So when we returned, I broached the subject with Catherine. To my surprise, she told me that a puppy was far too noisy and smelly, that she couldn’t allow Emma to keep it. Consequently, poor Zampa has been banished, kept in the shed on the sly. I disobeyed Catherine later and took Emma to meet him, telling her the puppy was mine. They’ve bonded endearingly as we play together out of sight of the house. Oh damn. Already, I realize, I’ve become a bad guest…

*

Gad, and blast! The woman’s driving me out of my mind!

I’d stepped into the garden for a smoke and a curse. Taking a deep, voluptuous drag, I held it in my lungs to a count of three. At least the dusk had was approaching quietly.

A week had elapsed, during which I found myself reverting to immature, childish tricks (avoidance of my mother), while trying to spend worthy and pleasing time with Emma (in an organized, adult fashion—unfamiliar territory for me, I admit).

Inside the house, Eliza’s voice was rising up the octaves with shrill outrage as she described—once again—what she’d found on her recent and tearful return to Ireland.

“And I tell you, it was sickening!” In her agitation, her Irish lilt had returned in full force. “All of my Limerick cousins, a whole two dozen of them of every age, and the aunt on my mother’s side—dead! Starved to death. The English landlords have turned a blind eye—they can’t wait to get rid of us, so it seems.”

Uncle Herbert’s deep, patient voice tried to cut in here. “It’s the third year in a row that the crops have failed, almost everywhere. But this year is certainly the worst of the three.” His words underscored what I’d seen on my journey; its extent, then, was even worse than I feared.

“But how can starvation be possible for an entire nation!” was the retort. “And the English do nothing, when—!”

He interjected with a weary persistence. “Eliza, there’s widespread distress in many countries, growing by leaps and bounds. Unemployment is rife, there’s overcrowding in every city. Rural workers are deserting the country to try to find work in the factories.”

“But—!”

“Taxation’s risen exorbitantly for those who stay put. Catherine and I can barely keep afloat.” I could hear him scratching the stubble on his whiskery neck: rasp, rasp. “All over Britain and most of Europe there’s frustration, despair—and governments aren’t reacting fast enough to meet the crisis.” (I thought of the railway workers’ hints at retribution—against? The owners, rich businessmen?—the French king himself?)

“But they’re—!”

“Everyone in power or with money is out to save their own skins, and I predict it’s going to get worse, not better.”

My mother’s shrill utterance cut in and won out: “But they’re starving to
death
! Or with the last of their feeble strength my poor, dear Irish are selling their souls to raise the fare to emigrate, to America! They’ll never see their families again!”

Herbert’s gloomy agreement: “Or they’ll all be dead. Which would you prefer?”

A quiet admonishment came from Catherine, at this. “Herbert…”

“When I got to Limerick—” (here she goes again!) “—to see their concave little chests, and smell that foul scent which is everywhere: the rotted potatoes! Black, oozing slime. Oh, it makes you retch! So that’s when I realized I couldn’t possibly stay there. Nobody could help me out at all.”

A groan as Herbert rose from his chair. I hauled another drag deep into my lungs.

Her voice sank into singsong self-pity. “I wrote to her, you know, when my dear husband died. Why didn’t she answer me, I ask you that?” A huff, then, “Selfish, that’s why. Gallivanting all over Europe, calling herself Lola Montez, indeed! Pretending she’s some Spanish dancer! She’ll always be Betty Gilbert to me, my daughter, my only one—born when I was just a tiny mite myself.” A sniffle: “Why does anyone give birth, I ask you, if you can’t count on them later?” Suddenly her voice brightened, so I could tell she was looking down at the apple of all of our eyes. “What do you think of that, precious? What do you think of your naughty Aunt Betty? Don’t you love me more?”

I wondered if Emma was still sitting close beside my mother’s lap, looking up with a smile at the energetic lady who had come to stay (and stay). My mother Eliza was forty-one years old; she’d had me at age fifteen. There was a great deal of life in her yet. Catherine had told me she’d been there, in their front bedroom, for all of six months (oh,
merde
, to think of it!) By this point in her prolonged stay, my mother had taken Emma under her wing with a fierce, clasping neediness.

“You look just the way Betty did when she was your age, my precious, do you know that?” she was telling the girl now. “Almost exactly. Don’t you think so, Catherine? Isn’t that strange?” Listening, I imagined Catherine’s cringe, and the frantic look she’d have darted over at Herbert.
Did
she know, my mother? I didn’t think so—not consciously, at any rate. But she’d always had a good instinct for finding the sore spot and pressing with a sharp finger. She’d claw it out somehow. I knew her ongoing comments about the resemblance were causing Catherine deep distress, though my step-aunt was such a polite woman and was doing her best to hide it from us all.

Then I heard, “Just think of me as a grandmother, dear, so then I can pamper you as a grandmother would. Won’t that be fun?”

That’s right, mother: jab, and
twist
.

At this point, the cigarette burned my fingers and I was forced to extinguish it. Oh, why in God’s name did my mother have to be there before me, petting Emma and gaining her love? Triple
merde
! To calm my jealousy—is that what it was?—I took several deep, unadulterated breaths, observing fireflies bobbing and twinkling silently amongst the flowers. Watching them, I was again amazed to be a free woman, not a woman behind bars. The bloody deed was still with me in all its shuddery terror, and in the space of a breath, could have turned out so very differently. That I was a sadder woman than I had once been was also with me, like a subterranean river flowing slowly in the dark: often unnoticed but always there. Alexandre Dumas had proclaimed, “Lola Montez will bring the evil eye to any man unfortunate enough to link his destiny with hers.” My darling Henri Dujarier’s body lay under the ground in Montmartre Cemetery, and my heart remained with him. I had sworn that I was through with love, for I’d recognized the ugly truth of Alex’s harsh words. I did not dare to love again.

Off to my left came a sudden noise of crackling twigs underfoot.

“Who is that?” I cried, placing my hand above the money belt encircling my waist and easing forth the small pistol that also resided there. The hair at the back of my head was prickling sharply: a Jesuit, dark as a raven? An avenging angel? “Who’s there?” I demanded.

A small, skinny man emerged from the roses, cursing at the thorns.
¡Jesús!
Here? Are they after me again? Could they have—? Under cover of my shawl, I managed a swift, long-practised final loading of the pistol. Clanging about in my brain, unanswered mysteries flew up like a murder of crows: who was in the carriage in the cemetery that day?—
and who in God’s name cut out the heart?

The man advanced with swift steps. His bared teeth were blackened, with some missing, and his gait was rough, as if his feet or legs hurt him to walk.

“What do you want? Who sent you?” My voice was low and firm.

The questions stopped him in his tracks. He paused, eying me up and down. “Are you Betty?” he asked.

“No, I am not.”

“You must be Betty. You look just like her, but younger.”

Good God, what could this be about? One of our rag-tag relatives from Ireland, come to find my mother? But he didn’t sound Irish…

“Pass it over then, miss, and I’ll leave you alone, I won’t hurt you.”

“Pass what over?” I cried, astonished. “And no, I won’t
let
you hurt me, so be warned.”

“You’ve a money belt on you,” he said, “and I want it. I need it.”

How in God’s name did he know about the belt? The money Alex Dumas had given me from the sale of Henri’s paintings was all I had to live on. The only time I took off the belt was when I bathed. Watching from a treetop, peering through the window…?

“I’m warning you again,” I told him. They say that a second time is easier than the first—so he’d better be careful.

“Don’t make me hurt you, miss,” he snarled nervously. He was now close enough for me to smell his foul breath.

“Third warning.” Taking a few hasty steps back, I planted my feet for balance. Did I want information, or just to be rid of him? I had no time. Sensing him beginning to lunge, I whipped the pistol out from under the shawl, took a chance, pointed at my target and pulled the trigger. He let out a fearful howl and toppled to the ground.

“Be quiet,” I hissed, reloading speedily so that he could see me do it, “and tell me how you know about me. Fast, or I’ll shoot you again!”

“Jesus, you’ve taken me foot off!” he sobbed.

“Shut up. Let me see.” Holding the cocked pistol warily, I watched while he pulled off his wretched boot. There was quite a bit of blood coming from just above the toes; I guessed that the bullet might have gone through and out.

“Who told you about me?” I demanded.

He kept moaning and weeping. He couldn’t be one of them, then. “The lady. Mrs. Craigie, I think she said she was. Said she’d split the take, if I’d do it for her.”

What the—? Shite and triple gob-shite! Could this be believed?

“You’re rich,” he panted, “she said you must be, with your fame and all. She’s read about you in the papers, you’re always in the news, and you needed a bit of a scare to smarten you up—that’s what
she
said, mind, not me! Jesus, I’m going to die!”

“No you’re not. If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it. Get up and go—go down the street, that way.” And I pointed. “There’s a stable there; they’ll have bandages, liniment. Tell them you did it to yourself, it was an accident—don’t mention me to anyone. Don’t you dare. In the morning get yourself to a doctor. Now get out of here—fast, or I
will
do it again.” I was angry, but relieved. I believed the fool.

He leapt up and, limping, crashed back into the rosebushes. Firing the reloaded pistol at the ground generated a final exit at double speed. I shook my head in disbelief, shocked at how true the adage about second times seemed to be. Crikey.

Right. Time to find out what the bloody hell is going on. Turning on my heel, I marched back towards the house.