Whip
Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution
by Kit Brennan, is the much anticipated next installment of the Whip Smart
series (if you didn’t get a chance to read the previous novels, don’t worry Revolution
is easily a stand-alone story.) Readers are once again thrust into the
thrilling adventures of Lola Montez, the gorgeous and audacious dancer making
her way through Europe.
With
a reputation as the most cosmopolitan woman of her time, (the very first modern
woman I believe) Lola travels to Bavaria and seduces King Ludwig I—or, as
Lola comes to know him, Luis. Her curious free-spirit and sexual confidence
make her irresistible, a true rarity in a time of patriarchy and social
repression. But in the midst of her brow-raising love affair, Lola finds
herself the target of a witch hunt and a nefarious unfolding plot while the
surrounding city descends into social upheaval.
As
you may have gathered, Lola Montez was a real person: a modern woman living in
Victorian times. She was an Irish girl, born Betty Gilbert, who left her
quiet, average life at a young age in order to become an exotic dancer. History
has her traveling throughout Europe (again, unheard of for women back then) and
during her travels, actually influenced heads of state and shaped major
political policy.
Please
enjoy an excerpt from Revolution
below!
HOW IT BEGINS: June
1846
Die Reisende (The
Traveller)
Galloping astride, its resonant power exploding within you, the headlong
rush of a great horse in motion frees the head completely of human sorrows and
concerns—like almost nothing else on earth. Responding eagerly to my heel, with
each stride Magnifique confirmed with ever greater urgency his penchant for running,
for extending his limbs: neck thrust forward, ears turned back, black mane and
tail streaming. My whole body thrummed to the pounding rhythm, my brain
unclenching and opening to its insistent requirements. There was room only for
this: action, engagement, the elation of physical release—harder, faster! On a
flying horse, you stay in the moment or court disaster. And I had had too much
of that. This was my darling Henri Dujarier’s horse—my horse—and I was thankful to have him back, to be liberated at
last from the bitter tragedy of Paris. My craving for speed, for flight, was
heightened too by the recent and gruesome confrontation in Montmartre Cemetery.
Jumpy as a cat, I trusted no one. Heading north now through France—astonished
to still be alive.
A mad determination had
come into my head the instant I’d turned Magnifique and cantered away forever
from Henri’s grave (my dearest love). I’d clung to the morsel of hope thus
roused, though following through on it entailed several hard weeks of travel. No
matter how willing he seemed, it was critical that I not overtax my steed.
Spring days warmed with
the passing of each, the landscape changing as we moved through it. I put up
for the nights at coaching inns, hiding my youth and figure in a bulky riding
cape. Occasional necessary encounters with inhabitants of towns and the Picardy
countryside revealed a new fact: while I’d mourned and battled in Paris, the
world hadn’t stayed still. With my own eyes I could see abject privation was
everywhere. George Sand was right: working men and women had taken a beating.
My artistic friends in Paris and others of the intelligentsia blamed
Louis-Philippe, the Citizen King, and his faulty regime; the bleak, starved
people in front of me, in the markets and hostelries, blamed more than that.
As I ate the scanty
portions that the kitchens set down, I overheard workers speaking animatedly
about the new railway line which was also heading north. It seemed that building
track for the modern, fire-breathing mode of transportation was hazardous— level
grades to be cut through bedrock, tunnels constructed straight through enormous
hills—and the explosive devices used were difficult to control. Before workers
got clear, a limb could be lost, or, at best, one’s hearing. Rumours
proliferated of “les incendiaires”
along with outraged protests: “The bastards spend a fortune on their love of les feu d’artifice? So let’s give them
fireworks!”
Who were ‘the
bastards’, I wondered uneasily.
Slowing Magnifique to a
canter one afternoon, I was surprised to see a huge crowd in a field outside
the town of Amiens, gathered around one of the mythological air ships—a
Balloon! I’d read about these curiosities years ago as a boarding school girl
in Bath, but had never seen one. They’d gone out of favour in England, deemed
mere amusement or risky showmanship, not worthy of further scientific backing.
But trust the French to keep alive a sense of awe and wonder, even in a time of
discontent. Imagine, soaring through the skies, leaving your troubles behind! I
reined Magnifique and we paused at the roadside. The inflated silk Balloon,
maybe fifty feet high, was covered in symbols of the firmament. Sun, moon,
stars and clouds in glorious shades of turquoise, pink and cream, with the
basket below it secured to the ground by many restraining ropes. The crowd of
raucous peasants jostled to gain proximity to the enormous inflated vessel; the
airman aboard was a mere speck, agitatedly gesturing at them to stay away. Magnifique was becoming frightened by the loud
sounds being periodically emitted by whatever was heating the thing, and though
I longed to have taken a closer look, I didn’t dare. Crowds were unpredictable;
everything could change suddenly.
We galloped onwards, and luckily, too: about two or
three minutes further down the road, I heard loud bangs and flares going off
into the sky along with the Balloon, which rose swiftly. Had some foolhardy
promoter added feu d’artifice to the
excitement, setting off rockets nearby in the field? Screaming and shouting,
the dispersing crowd rushed in all directions. How appallingly dangerous, I
thought, wondering anew at humanity’s apparent desire to immolate itself for
the mere thrill. Above, the Balloon soared majestically away. Though I turned
back to look several times, to watch the spectacular thing disappearing into
the clouds, I found the whole event unsettling. In the multitude’s agitation
was a ferment that I didn’t understand: like a clenched fist about to be
brutally employed for an unknown reason.
My heart remained in my
throat for the whole long journey. Magnifique, sensing it, was ready to spook
at every turn. In the towns and on the country roads, I was stared at with
undisguised wariness and, often, a flintier speculation: a woman, alone, on a
mighty fine horse? So I rode with my pistols on display, the flick knife in my
waistband always ready to hand.
Genuinely relieved to
at last arrive in Caen—Calais—I booked a ticket for the next ship’s crossing of
La Manche. Leave the provincial
French, their stimulations and their woes, I thought; I need a rest from this
sense of rising chaos.
The following morning I
rode to the docks, and was leading Magnifique towards the enclosure where the
horses were kept prior to boarding the ship. Just as I handed the reins to an
attendant, there was a colossal boom off to our left which caused the ground to
shake. A squall of objects, large and small, flew into the air, followed by
dust and wind. Magnifique startled mightily, knocking the young man off his
feet and dragging him back in the direction of the avenue. I managed to run
after them and, in a few minutes, to calm my horse. Thank God. But fifty yards
away, where the sound had originated, smoke was still clearing and I could hear
the whistles of gendarmes, approaching at a run. An explosion, surely! But why?
Men and women were snatching goods up from off the ground, where crates and
boxes had smashed open, revealing food stuffs. A woman jabbed me with her elbow,
crying, “Vite! Take as much as you
can!” Even some of the ship hands seemed to be hastily helping themselves. As I
turned to lead Magnifique back to the ship, a gnarled, muscular man raced
towards us and grabbed the reins, tugging my horse away at great speed and
attempting to place his foot in the stirrup, ready to swing up. “Let him go, bastardo,” I shouted, lunging after him
and slashing at the hand on the reins with my knife, instantly drawing blood.
He darted off, drops of scarlet spattering the cobbles and the shoulders of
strangers as he forced his way through them, snarling, “Tassez-vous, cochons!” Mon
Dieu, I thought, calming Magnifique with a caress to his muzzle, get me out
of this volatile country!
Throughout the channel
crossing, while the steamship Water Witch
battled a rough sea and passengers lurched to the railings to spew, I finally
let my jangled mind return to its goal: to the thought of her. Shivering in my cloak, wind and spray streaming through my
hair, I questioned what she would think of me. The only gift I’d ever managed
to give the object of my impatient journey was a cherished pair of peridot
earbobs that had gone with me to Spain. When I’d sent the earrings, I’d made
myself a promise: that I would return some day to hug her and hold her and
become part of her life. Four years had passed and I’d not managed to do
so—until now. She was eleven years old.
***
Kit Brennan is a nationally
produced, award-winning playwright, and teaches writing and storytelling at
Concordia University in Montreal, Quebec. The Victorian era and its
personalities have always been of major interest to Brennan. Her
play Tiger’s Heart explores the life of Dr. James Barry, who was
actually a woman living a double life disguised as a man in order to practice
medicine, which was not an option open to women at the time. Kit divides her
time between the vibrant city of Montreal and the quiet lake wilderness of
Ontario alongside her husband, Andrew, and a variety of animal
friends. Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a
Revolution is her third novel.
To continue reading Whip Smart:
Lola Montez Starts a Revolution by Kit Brennan,
purchase your own copy here:
Kobo: http://bit.ly/19x18En
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