Becoming Lola
Harriet Steel
Kindle Edition 2011
Copyright © Harriet Steel
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 3
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Other Books by Harriet Steel
Bibliography
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
The main events and characters described in this novel are based on historical fact. The exception to this is Lola’s time in Spain, concerning which no records survive.
In the nineteenth century, hundreds of books and plays were written about her extraordinary career. The few still available are not always reliable due to the numerous apocryphal stories in circulation when they were written and to Lola’s autobiography which contained a fair amount of whitewash.
Very little work was done on her life in the twentieth century until the American author, Bruce Seymour, embarked on his biography, Lola Montez: A Life. Yale University Press, 1996. He has generously allowed me access to his research which has been an invaluable supplement to my own.
My gratitude also goes to my family and friends for their constructive criticism and encouragement. Above all, my heartfelt thanks are due to my husband, Roger, for his patient advice and support. Without it, I know that this book would never have been finished.
Prologue
New York
1851
The dressing room was the grandest that the Broadway Theatre had to offer, lit by an eight-branched, crystal chandelier and expensively furnished. A screen painted with nymphs and shepherds frolicking in an Elysian landscape groaned under a cascade of taffeta and silk dresses. Hats, petticoats, stockings, necklaces, fans and satin dance shoes overflowed from monogrammed trunks. Lavish arrangements of roses and lilies perfumed the air.
At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, Lola left off studying her reflection in the dressing table’s gilt-framed mirror. There was a knock at the door. ‘You’re on in five minutes,’ the manager, Thomas Barry, called out.
She turned back to the mirror and, picking up a squirrel brush, swiftly applied a little more colour to her cheeks. ‘I’m ready now. You may come in.’
A swirl of black lace and crimson taffeta flashed across the mirror as she stood up. The door opened and Barry stepped into the room. He wore evening dress, the black jacket snug across his broad shoulders. A gold and ruby stick pin sparkled against the starched white of his wing-collared shirt. ‘You look mighty fine, Lola.’ He offered her his arm. ‘I hope you’re ready for this.’
‘Why do you doubt it?’
‘Three thousand people out there to see you? Some performers might find that daunting.’
She laughed. ‘Not me.’
Outside in the corridor, the air hummed with activity. A gaggle of chorus girls, dressed in Tyrolean skirts and white peasant blouses, chattered and giggled, then fell silent as Lola and Barry approached, squeezing up against the wall to let them pass. Lola’s nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of the greasepaint that caked their glowing faces.
Further along, a juggler in cream breeches and an emerald jacket set off by a billowing primrose cravat deftly caught his clubs in one hand when he saw her. She nodded to acknowledge his low bow. Her fingertips tapped a rhythm on Barry’s sleeve as they passed another dressing room where a rich baritone voice sang a catchy popular song. A moment later, with whispered words of good luck, Barry left her alone in the wings.
The master of ceremonies was on the stage, reeling off his patter. A stout man dressed in a scarlet cutaway coat, the glare of the footlights bounced off his top hat and polished boots. The blood tingled in Lola’s veins and her heartbeat quickened. In the dimmed gaslight, a sea of opera hats filled the auditorium. It was hard to discern the faces beneath them, but she recognised some of the critics in the front row. She gripped the edge of the stage curtain and wished it were their throats. ‘Damn them all,’ she muttered. ‘Insects not fit to be crushed under my heel.’
Her chin jutted. She didn’t care about their opinions anyway. She could work her magic on any audience she chose to; particularly when, as tonight, it was a ‘black house’ with no women present. She smiled. It was rarely difficult to make men love her.
To uproarious laughter, the M C delivered his final punch line and then paused for the noise to die away before he spoke again. ‘And now the bright star you’ve all been waiting for. As a bonus, after she’s delighted us with a performance of her famous Spider Dance, she has graciously agreed to answer any questions you care to put to her,’ he winked and tweaked his handlebar moustache, ‘provided they won’t set my delicate ears on fire.’
A ripple of anticipation spread through the audience.
‘Gentlemen, pray silence. Without any more ado, I give you the one, the only, Lola Montez!’
Part 1
1823 - 1843
Eliza
Chapter 1
The Ganges
Two days upstream from Calcutta.
A scream split the fetid air of the cabin. Eliza woke and sat up. In the grey dawn light filtering through the porthole, she saw the ayah, her Indian nurse, crouched in one corner, her eyes wide with terror. Sweat beaded her forehead and smudged the scarlet bindi mark between her brows. She screamed again and pointed with a trembling hand to the end of the bed. Eliza just had time to glimpse the scaly, grey-brown shape coiled there before her father burst in, his nightshirt flapping around his bare legs and his service revolver in his hand.
The hooded snake reared. With a swift blow to the back of its head from the butt of the revolver, Edward Gilbert knocked it to the floor. It writhed on the bare planks, hissing and flicking its forked tongue. Before it could attack again, he put the gun to its head and fired. The reverberation from the shot and the smell of cordite filled the cabin as he dropped the revolver and went to Eliza. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ he soothed. ‘You’re safe.’
She peeked out, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. ‘What is it, Papa?’
‘A snake: it’s dead now. Do you want to see it?’
She took his hand, scrambled off the bed, and looked down at the snake’s remains. Edward turned to the ayah. ‘No need to be afraid. Fetch some water and cloths to clear up this mess.’
A moment a
fter the ayah had left, a young woman hurried into the cabin. She wore a loose, sea-green silk wrap over her nightgown. A lace-trimmed nightcap partly hid the curling papers in her auburn hair.
‘What on earth’s happening?’ she asked then stopped, seeing the puddle of scales and slime on the floor. Her pretty face blanched and she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘how revolting.’
‘A cobra,’ Edward said. ‘It’s a young one, I think. It must have come on board hidden in one of those crates of mangoes we took on yesterday evening. Thank God Eliza is unharmed.’ He stroked her dark hair. ‘She was a very brave girl.’
Her fright forgotten, Eliza beamed. He picked her up and put her back into bed where she snuggled against him, one hand gripping the collar of his nightshirt.
‘Want a story, Papa,’ she demanded.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘She seems none the worse for her ordeal. Don’t overexcite her, Edward. She won’t settle again.’
‘I’ll stay with her until ayah comes back. You go to bed if you want, Elizabeth.’
Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Do you suppose there are any more snakes?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt very much that there will be, but I’ll check the room just in case.’
‘Very well, I think I’ll go then. This dreadful heat exhausts me. I hope it will be cooler when we reach Dinapore.’
‘I doubt it, I’m afraid.’
She scowled. ‘I wish we could have stayed in Calcutta. It would have been a far better posting. I still don’t know why you accepted this one.’
Edward sighed. ‘Please, my love, let’s not argue about it again. You know perfectly well I had no choice. I have to follow the regiment. Now go and get some sleep.’
She sniffed and bent gingerly over Eliza to pat her shoulder. ‘Goodnight, child.’
‘Goodnight, Mama.’
The next morning, Elizabeth Gilbert rested in her cabin. After the ayah’s fright, Edward allowed her time to herself and took charge of Eliza. She chattered away gaily as they went up on deck after breakfast and found a quiet spot shaded by a small awning.
They had left behind the flat, fertile lands of the delta and lush trees crowded up to the banks of the river. As the day went on and the sun grew hotter, Eliza and Edward sat and watched the scenery pass by. Sometimes he read aloud to her. The small library he had brought with him included a few children’s stories as well as the works of Alexander Pope, ten volumes of New British Theatre and a popular French grammar. Eliza understood very little of what she heard, but she loved having her father to herself. When she was bored of books, they played a guessing game and later, he brought out his box of watercolours and pencils and helped her to make drawings of the landscape. Eliza beamed when he praised her efforts, until eventually she tired of that game also.
‘Papa?’ she asked as, late in the afternoon, he tidied everything away.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘What are t – t - tigers?’
‘Do you remember the old tabby cat that caught mice on the ship from England?’
‘Horatio?’
‘Yes. A tiger is another kind of cat: much, much bigger with orange and black stripes.’
‘I don’t like tigers. Ayah says they eat you.’
She pointed at a white cross on the riverbank. Edward remembered hearing that such crosses marked the places where tigers had killed unwary travellers. The native crews refused to go on shore anywhere near them.
He looked down at Eliza’s anxious face and frowned. ‘Ayah shouldn’t frighten you with her stories. You must take no notice.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘I’ll always keep you safe, I promise.’
Happy again, she settled in the crook of his arm. ‘I’m not afraid.’
Edward laughed and rumpled her hair. ‘Good girl.’
A flock of egrets, disturbed by their approach, rose from the water and wheeled away. Landing further off like a scattering of confetti, they began to feed again.
Eliza clapped her hands. ‘Pretty.’
Her father smiled. ‘Like you, Eliza.’
He picked up his flute. ‘Shall we have some music?’ She nodded and snuggled against him.
The tune he played was an old Irish ballad he had often heard in the taverns in County Cork, on the tour of duty when he had first met Elizabeth. When the last notes had drifted away on the river’s smooth, brown swell, he laid the flute in his lap. What a pair we were, he thought: me with no money to my name except my army pay and she the by-blow of a Protestant grandee. Still, we have something good to show for it. He smiled down at Eliza and saw that her eyelids drooped. He put an arm around her shoulders and let her doze.
Twilight approached and the sun changed from gold to orange. It seemed to swell and shimmer, sweeping great waves of apricot and lavender light across the sky. Edward shook Eliza gently and she stirred. They watched together as the colours deepened and then faded to indigo. Clouds of mosquitoes danced on the dark surface of the river. ‘We’ll go below now and find you some supper,’ Edward said. ‘Then it’s time for bed.’
He picked her up and carried her down the wooden stairs to the cabins. Behind them, the encroaching night ate up the banks of the river and the jungle that lurked beyond.
*
The boats idled up the river, covering only a few miles each day. Sometimes the main channel was three miles wide and it was impossible to see across it. On other days, the boats had to ease through narrow tributaries where the banks were so close that the tree roots standing proud of them scraped the hulls.
In spite of the heat, Eliza was entranced. She watched for half-submerged logs that might turn out to be crocodiles cooling themselves in the brackish shallows. She saw howling monkeys leap through the tree canopy and iridescent birds dart along the banks. Once, a spotted deer drinking from the river raised its dripping muzzle to eye the boats as they chugged by.
The landscape changed again, this time opening out to vast plains where crops of wheat, rice and sugar cane flourished in the rich alluvial soil. Huts made of mud and palm fronds dotted the fields. She saw women in jewel-coloured saris working among the crops or swaying along dusty tracks, huge bowls or baskets full of produce balanced on their heads.
After many days, they came to Patna. ‘It’s a very ancient city,’ Edward said.
Eliza looked curiously at the crumbling buildings and the mass of hovels, some of them made of nothing but grimy cloth propped up with a few stout branches to make a roof. She didn’t know what ancient meant but the crowds along the banks fascinated her. When the boat came level with a half-ruined temple, she stood between her father and mother with her chin pressed against the boat’s rail and watched the crowds jostling to throw garlands of marigolds onto the water. A little higher up on the riverbank, a large group of men with shaven heads and dressed in saffron robes chanted words she could not understand. Beyond them, plumes of black smoke snaked into the sky from a multitude of fires.
A gaggle of small boys dived into the churning water and swam towards the boats. The leader reached the rail where the Gilberts stood and hauled his body up, shaking like a wet dog. A flurry of droplets flew from his gleaming, black hair; eyes wide, he studied Edward.
Edward laughed. ‘It seems I’m a novelty.’ He fished in his pocket, then put his hand through the rail and dropped a small coin into the boy’s outstretched hand. The boy grinned and put the coin between his white teeth. With one hand, he clung to the boat’s rail and with the other he scooped up a handful of water and poured it over Edward’s palm. As his blue eyes met the boy’s brown ones, Edward felt some kind of blessing had been bestowed on him.
Elizabeth gave a snort of anger. ‘You are too soft hearted,’ she hissed. ‘They won’t leave us alone now, and that water is filthy. The whole river is no better than a latrine.’
The rest of the band of swimmers caught up with the boy, clamouring for more money, but as they grinned and pleaded, the boat veered away once more into mid-stream. Soo
n their heads were mere specks in the water. The convoy steamed on to the place where they would tie up for the night.
*
Eliza spent the next day with her father but on the following morning, he did not come out of his cabin. Elizabeth remained inside with him and Eliza was left to trail about the boat with her ayah.
It was a scorching day, made worse by the fact that the boats had to creep through narrow channels obstructed by floating logs and fallen trees. Often, they had to stop to allow the crew to get out and clear the way. The ayah had begged a dish of sticky, brightly coloured sweets from the cooks and with these and the stories she recounted in her imperfect English, she tried to amuse Eliza, but it was no use. Sweets and stories were no substitute for Edward’s company.
‘Want Papa,’ she said for the hundredth time that morning. The ayah spread out her thin, brown fingers in a hopeless gesture. ‘The memsahib say no come.’
Eliza scowled then jumped up. Before the ayah could catch hold of her, she ran to the stairs leading to the cabins and hurtled down them. In her parents’ cabin, her father lay on the bed. Her mother sat beside him, a handkerchief in one hand and a glass of water in the other. The stale smell of sickness made Eliza gag.
Elizabeth turned on the ayah. ‘Take the child away at once,’ she spat.
Mumbling apologies, the ayah reached for Eliza but was too slow to catch her. She flung herself on the bed and buried her head in the covers. She felt her father stroke her hair, but his hand was not steady and cool as it usually was. ‘Do as you are told, Eliza,’ he said hoarsely ‘I’ll be well enough to play with you again soon, but you must go with ayah now.’
Eliza grasped a handful of sheet and clung on to it. She had never seen her father like this; his features were sunken and there was a bluish tinge to his lips. It frightened her. Elizabeth shook her roughly by the shoulder. ‘Stop being so disobedient, child,’ she snapped.
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