Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (38 page)

The rolling, swaying motion of a coach travelling at speed became my only sensation. From Toulouse, I purchased a seat on another for Paris. That was nearly the end of Diego's money. I ate as little as I could to conserve the rest, but eventually that too ran out. Several men in the coach to Toulouse had signaled with glad eyes and I'd glared back, repelled them ferociously. But now? It was a simple matter to smile at one of my travelling companions to Paris—a smile that reached the teeth
and nothing else. The man was travelling to England on business, and before we parted, I made him promise to take a letter for me and mail it, fastest post, once he reached English soil. I would not go along with him, even if he was offering to pay. I had one final piece of business to fulfill in Paris.

My cryptic but crucial note was addressed to the 3rd Earl of Malmesbury, care of his parliamentary office: “Returning England. Desperate need of friend. Write immediately to Doña Lola Montez, Spanish consulate office in Southampton. ERG.”

A
ND SO
I
GOT
out of Spain with the clothes on my back and my peridot earbobs.

I hailed a hansom cab and directed the driver to the Grimaldi residence. Juan was at home, and so was Concepción, both in mourning attire. The manservant admitted me to their drawing room; from my precipitous flight across Spain I'd become quite thin, and it was some moments before they recognized me. Once they had, I told them everything that had happened, particularly dwelling upon the perils inherent in trusting a Jesuit: “
He
killed your agent, Tristany; he told me so himself!
And
sent the ears! Your most trusted agent is a double agent—and a serial killer! And not only that, Prime Minister Espartero executed the generals without a trial! Diego de León and Manuel de la Concha!” The whole time, Juan frowned and looked dubious, while Concepción vibrated with anger. I cried at last, “Do you not believe me?”

“We do,” Juan murmured. “We believe you have made a mess of things, Miss Gilbert. You must have said too much, as you always do.”

I was furious and indignant, but gathered myself and said what I had come to say. First, that they must swear to leave my daughter alone, forever. Second, that they must release me from their service then and there, with no further association of any kind. If they refused, I said, I would be forced to go to my consulate.

“Breathe one word of all this and you're dead,” Juan said.

There was no emotion in either his face or his voice. Completely terrifying.

“I need funds to get home,” I told him, my heart in my throat. “Just enough to take me to London.”

“You are on your own,” he replied. “We will have nothing further to do with your bungling ineptitude.”

“Nor with whatever danger you think you have unleashed upon yourself,” said Concepción. She rang a little bell, and the manservant opened the door. “Show this person out.”

I hesitated, then thought of Diego, of equal conditions—life
is
gambling,
Bandita.

“There is one final thing you should know that I know,” I said, ignoring the waiting manservant and braving both Grimaldis. “I have ascertained the source of your wealth. Muñoz had stock tips from the Spanish finance ministers, and he told a few friends.” Their eyes met and Concepción's widened, so I pressed on: “That's corruption. And so is what I saw your good wife doing with that same former guardsman, now royal stud at María Cristina's mansion on the rue de Courcelles. But perhaps that, too, is simply part of your grateful thanks? Release me, and my daughter.”

Before I quite knew what had happened, I was facing the front door from the outside. My final glimpse: Grimaldi's formidable eyebrows raised to his hairline, his nostrils flaring and large hand lifted as if to be used in some violent way, Concepción launching into a shrill defensive action with lavish gushings of tears, then silence.

So this was how they repaid their spies! Reptiles, the pair of them.

I needed money. That afternoon I found a likely someone and talked myself into a new frock, ditching Juliana's hot woolen one. My new companion bought me a one-way ticket in return for overnight favours. The coach and four left at eight o'clock in the morning. The entire way to the northern coast, I kept my eyes closed, rehearsing what I was about to do. In England, my first stop would be the Southampton consulate, hopefully to hear something from Malmesbury. I'd take the title of widow—after all, who else had such right to the claim?

On April 14, in driving rain, I boarded the ship for the first channel crossing of the day.

Oh, remembering this, and all that came before . . . I'm so cold, and so very, very hungry. All of the candles have burned out now; it's been dark in here forever. Will they leave me in this room to die, the mysterious European and his Cockney thug? Is that the real plan? Am I am too tired to care?

Finish what I started. Not too much further, and then?

I no longer know.

W
HEN
I
STEPPED ASHORE
, something in me couldn't believe that I was back in England, nor the relief that I felt: another country between me and the black dog nemesis with the hopefully septic thigh—may he rot in hell. All I could think of was safety, how to acquire it, how to salvage some part of a life. Be busy, keep moving, put away sorrow until it could be digested and somehow overcome. Or at least subdued.

It was mid-afternoon as I hastened to the Spanish consul's office, fingers crossed that the man himself would be there and ready to listen to a woman in distress. He was. I spent several minutes finding out whatever I could about him; before long, he had revealed that he was a Cristino supporter and had been throughout the war. So I knew how to pitch it. I used my most elegant Spanish.

“Señor, I throw myself upon your mercy. I am the widow of General Diego de León, recently executed in Madrid. Do you know about this tragic event?”

His face blanched and he nodded, told me the news had come through that week.

“I am destitute and have fled our country,” I said, holding back tears. I told him that before my marriage I had been a principal dancer from Seville, often playing in the capital. In order to support myself in my tragic widowhood, I would therefore once again take up my stage name, Lola Montez, and resume my work. “Will you help me?”

“Señora, I will.”

I was uncertain here, and murmured, “Has a letter arrived for me, by chance? I am expecting to hear from a very kind English gentleman, a member of their parliament, who knew my husband. The 3rd Earl of Malmesbury?”

There
was
a letter. I ripped it open with trepidation: “Travelling from country seat, arrive 9 am April 15, to greet Señora Montez.
Saludos cordiales.
Malmesbury.”

Thank Christ. My sweet chubby earl to the rescue.

James Howard Harris was in fine form when he met me the following morning. He bustled in, gave me a quick wink from the side of his face not facing the consul, and pumped the man's hand up and down in an enthusiastic greeting. Then he bowed over my outstretched, gloved one and kissed it delicately. “I shall be delighted to offer protection and aid with all matters necessitated by your arrival, dear señora,” he said in halting but exquisite Spanish. “My wife has extended an invitation for you to recover from your journey at Heron Court, my country seat in Hampshire. If you are ready to depart?”

I nodded and rose, thanked the consul for his understanding and solicitude—and for the swanky meal and hotel room I'd enjoyed, presumably compliments of Spain—and then left with the busy, important member of Parliament. As soon as we were jouncing along in a cab, Howard peeled off my glove and clasped my hand.“
¿Cómo te va?
” He kissed me fervently with a lot of tongue and begged to hear everything. After holding myself together for so long, I admit that I fell apart a bit with the dear earl's arms around me. I even told him about my love affair with Diego, I couldn't help myself, and that my lover was dead. He was very understanding, and the story cooled his ardor enough for him to be able to be more comforting than raptorial.

At Heron Court I met his aristocratic wife, who looked remarkably like a greyhound. They were a strange couple: he so round and jolly; she very long and lean. She was civil enough, and I was grateful
to her for the invitation. At first I was sure she had no idea that the Spanish widow upon whom the earl had taken pity was in fact one of his former dalliances in the city. For several days, I simply slept, alone. I was so exhausted. For a few more days after that, I tried to be a better guest and give something back for the hospitality I was enjoying. Howard arranged a benefit concert for me at Heron Court, where I performed a dance to a number of Spanish ballads and sold several Spanish veils and fans to his rich opera-loving friends, wives, and daughters. (The fans were actually the earl's, collected many years earlier on his travels—from whom, I wondered with an inward smile.) I was the grieving widow all that week—the earl kept himself in check with some difficulty, but was also enjoying his own rising excitation—and then I accompanied him by train to London. By that time his wife was anxious to see the back of me—women always know when something is off—and she made it clear that Howard must return swiftly, with an unsullied bankbook. He informed me that she was keeping a close eye, now, on his expenditures.

So, after two secretive nights of nocturnal reacquaintance in his small Parliamentary apartment—which I found quite difficult, at first, and then a kind of sorrowful consolation—and having listened carefully to the rest of my fearful adventures, Howard began to muse with me on a plan.

“Her Majesty's Theatre is London's most prestigious stage, and I know the impresario, Benjamin Lumley, rather well,” he said. “How
is
your dancing coming along now, Eliza—or shall I say, Doña Lola?”