Master of Paradise (36 page)

But it was slow going. The ship had been
built to weather any storm. The wood was hard as rock. Gabrielle
was barely able to make a dent in it with her blunt knife after
weeks of toil.

Eventually, though, she began to make
progress. She had to use the rag rug to cover the small groove she
was carving in the wood. Claiming boredom with her surroundings,
she had the guard move her eating table and chair against the wall,
but to avoid suspicion, was careful to have him move other
furniture as well.

When they were well into their fourth month
at sea, she’d dug a hole the size of a man’s fist. Still, she
hadn’t reached the other side. It was when she was the most
discouraged that she heard a sudden crack in the wood one night.
She could feel it give way beneath her fingers, hear it splinter
within. After that, there was silence. But over the next few days,
it came again. Once a night. As if he were pounding his way through
the wall one painful blow at a time.

One night, there was a wicked crack and she
saw some wood give way. She sat for a moment, staring in amazement.
Then, realizing what it meant, she pounced on it and began to fling
the fragments aside. She didn’t care that splinters pierced her
flesh. All she cared about was reaching him on the other side.

As she was thrusting her fingers through the
minute hole, she suddenly froze. For where wood had been the moment
before, there was now a hand. The touch of him electrified her as
if she’d swallowed lightning. She could touch only two fingers to
his, but it was enough to bring tears of joy to her eyes.
“Rodrigo,” she whispered, wishing she could scream out his name.
Then his hand convulsed away and she knew the guard had
returned.

It was an awful moment. To no longer feel the
touch of him after all this time! She rubbed the tips of her
fingers along her lips, savoring the feel of him, trying to
memorize his touch.

Over the next few days, they were able to
enlarge the hole piece by piece so they could reach another finger,
and another, through the crack. Soon, she was able to ease her hand
in and grasp his. Still, they didn’t dare speak. It was more
dangerous than ever. If the hole was discovered now, they’d be
wrenched away from each other. So she just clutched his hand
wordlessly, feeling the wonder of his essence for a moment. Then he
made a tap and withdrew his hand.

That night, there really was a storm. She
couldn’t see the lightning, but she could hear the thunder rumbling
through the sky. The boat pitched precariously, tossing furniture
about the room and crashing books and the lantern to the floor. The
guard, recalling her supposed fear of storms, came in to check on
her. But as the storm worsened, all hands were needed on deck. He
told her he’d return when things were calmer, then left her
alone.

She thrust the rug away and stared at the
small hole in the wall. The tempest would give them time not just
to touch, but to really feel each other for the first time in so
long. Momentarily, the hand appeared. She grasped it and a wave of
satisfaction and completeness swept over her. As if she’d just come
home.

As thunder clashed and the ship rolled and
stretched, they held each other. Then, just as a tremendous crash
of thunder shook the vessel, something extraordinary happened. She
heard his voice. “Gabé. Gabé.”

The recklessness of it enraptured her. She
gripped his hand tighter and said, over the thunder, “Rodrigo, my
love. I’m with you.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Oh, Rodrigo!”

“I love you,
carícia
. I had to reach
you.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.
It’s because of me that you’re chained to the floor, instead of
standing on the bridge of your ship. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I chose this way
because I realized you were right. No matter what the outcome, this
is the right way.”

“Oh, Rodrigo, I love you so.”

“Someone is coming. I must go.”

Every night for the next few weeks, as the
storms continued to rage, they managed to have a brief rendezvous.
She would lie on the floor, clutching his hand. Sometimes they
spoke of their feelings, and sometimes they used quietly uttered
words to make the most passionate of love. While he never touched
more than her hand, she could actually feel him making love to her
through the long nights. To distract them both from their distress,
he wove tender fantasies that she’d never have dreamed up herself.
He told her things Shayla had taught him, that he wanted to share
with her. Withheld from him, she felt his power more keenly than
she ever had. It was a union so total, so exquisite, a level of
oneness and intimacy that was rooted in their intense trust of and
longing for each other. They were linked together by soft voices in
the night. And soon she was saying things to him that she would
never say to another living soul.

She began to feel that she would live for
these midnight rendezvous the rest of her life. But one morning,
just before dawn, as she’d just left his wondrous touch, she heard
the distant cry of the officer on watch.

“England!” he called, heralding the beginning
of the end.

London, England

21 AUGUST 1833

Gabrielle was in her cell at Newgate Prison,
being prepped by a matron for her first court appearance. The woman
was brushing her hair and fastening it into a severe bun, as if
preparing her neck for hanging. She’d already been given a frock to
wear, sent over by her father, of all people. A forbidding black
monstrosity with white cuffs and collar, similar to the attire of a
Pilgrim. No doubt Douglas’s idea of the sort of modest apparel that
would impress a courtroom full of conservative men. Why he’d
bothered, she couldn’t even guess. She detested the staid outfit,
which reminded her of the maid’s uniform she’d once been forced to
wear. But she couldn’t refuse it, as she had no clothing of her
own.

She was speaking with Sir Thomas Fowell
Buxton, the leader of the campaign in Parliament for the abolition
of slavery in British colonies, and thus the official face of the
antislavery movement. Sir Thomas was an unimpressive figure, with
wavy hair that swirled down a bit over his forehead and
round-rimmed glasses perched upon his large nose. His mouth was
small but full-lipped and curved like a woman’s. He was fashionably
attired in black frock coat and lacy white cravat, making her feel
frumpy and dowdy in her borrowed clothes.

“Mr. Soro is being held under maximum
security,” Sir Thomas told her as she irritably wrenched her hair
away from the matron’s none-too-gentle hands. “They’ve isolated him
completely under the auspices of the Dangerous Criminal Act.”

“What does that mean?” Gabrielle asked.

“It’s an act that restricts the access of
barristers to dangerous criminals. Simply put, it gives them the
right to seal him off completely under the certainty that he’s too
dangerous even to be visited by his legal advisors. Whatever
questions his barristers have are put to him in writing by way of
the guard and carefully scrutinized by the prosecution. They’re
taking no chances that his accusations will leak out.”

“Then you must do it,” she insisted. “You’re
in a position to get us the publicity we need.”

“I dearly wish I could. The vote on the
Emancipation Bill is only one week away. Right now, it looks very
close. It could turn on a single vote. Now, granted, England has
been riding a tide of change since last year’s landmark Reform
Bill, but I’m sorry to say the antislavery statute is not foremost
in the country’s mind. Mr. Soro’s story might well make the
difference for the antislavery forces. But our hands are tied.
We’ve been thoroughly outmaneuvered in this matter.”

“Outmaneuvered in what way?”

“The opposition has done everything it can to
control the trial so the evidence Mr. Soro has won’t come out.
They’ve managed to have their cohort Matson named as presiding
judge.”

“Judge Matson!” She remembered the ratlike
man she’d often seen conferring with her father.

“Surely I don’t have to tell you, he’s a
strong supporter of the proslavery faction. Thick as thieves with
your father and the block of votes he controls, which has been
preventing my bill from passing. We hadn’t counted on his benching
this case, and we quite frankly could not have received more
devastating news. He’s put a ban on any publicity surrounding this
trial. Anyone defying this ban will be held in contempt of court.
He’ll see to it that no word is allowed to be spoken that the
proslavery people don’t want uttered. So you see, much as I might
like to, I can’t possibly go to the press. They’d make a mockery of
me at a time when I can ill afford it.”

Gabrielle sighed wearily as the matron left.
“What are you telling me, Sir Thomas? Just how dire
is
our
situation?”

“I don’t like to use words like
impossible—”

“But it is.”

“It’s obvious they’re after a speedy trial
before the vote comes up next week, and any whisper of scandal can
damage their cause.”

“If they’re sealing Rodrigo off so
effectively, why is it they’ve allowed me to see you?”

“They didn’t invoke the Dangerous Criminal
Act on you. I daresay it’s because of the influence of your father.
As much as he wants to see Rodrigo hang, he also genuinely seems
eager to help you. He’s overruled his son in allowing me to see
you, I understand.”

This was a surprise. “If I have some measure
of freedom, perhaps you can arrange for a correspondent to—”

“There’s absolutely no possibility a
journalist would be allowed in here. Even if he could, what member
of the press would risk contempt of court to help you?”

“Then I shall try to get the story out in
court.”

“They shan’t allow you. If you attempt to say
anything pertinent on the stand, they’ll simply cut you off.” He
paused a moment, seeing the hope drain from her face. “I wish to
God I had better news.”

“So do I, Sir Thomas.”

So it appeared she’d been wrong after all.
She’d implored Rodrigo to trust her. And he had. He’d blindly
walked into a trap to prove his faith in her judgment. And it
turned out her judgment was faulty. She must have been mad even to
think of putting faith in this society that had done nothing but
oppress them both.

“So we’ve lost before we’ve begun,” she
murmured.

“I’m afraid so. I fear your journey here was
a fool’s errand. They’re intent on hanging Mr. Soro and I just
don’t see any way to prevent it.”

The guards came then and told Sir Thomas to
leave. Then they manacled her and led her down the long prison
corridor. Outside, she could hear the news hawkers calling out
details of the trial. The notorious Rodrigo Soro was being tried
for piracy, and his lover, being tried as his accomplice, was the
actress Gabrielle Ashton-Cross, reported bastard daughter of the
duke of Westbury, who’d already scandalized London by playing the
pirate on the stage. It was irresistible.

When she was pushed out of the prison door
and into the summer day, she was astonished to see thousands of
people jamming the square, some picnicking on fare they’d brought
from home, some buying fruit and roasted peanuts from hawkers
peddling their wares. At the sight of her, the crowd began to jeer.
They closed in around her in a sea of gawking faces, so her escort
was forced to hold them back with the threat of clubs. “There’s
that pirate doxy,” someone called.

It was like her mother’s hanging all over
again. With Hastings dragging her to the scene, elbowing his way
through the crowd, saying, “Gangway, there, it’s the Frenchy
whore’s daughter.” And they’d parted for them, the awful mob, so
the daughter could better see her mother hang. Tears welled in her
eyes as she remembered it now. The honor of seeing her mother’s
once-lovely face twisted and gouged.

Gabrielle had had nightmares of hanging like
her mother. Now those nightmares were coming true.

As they crossed the street to the courthouse,
she glanced up at the Magpie and Pint tavern, where Hastings was
likely watching the scene. It was from here that fashionable men
witnessed public executions while tipping a pint. No doubt he’d sit
just so and watch her hang, with Rodrigo—her beloved Rodrigo—at her
side.

She’d betrayed her lover by asking him to
believe in her. He’d put himself in bondage to prove he trusted her
completely. This, then, was her punishment for her demands. To know
she was sending him to his death.

It was slow going through the hostile mob.
But finally they made their way up the steps of a large classical
building that was the criminal courthouse. As they entered the
sealed-off chamber of the main courtroom, the first sight she
beheld was Rodrigo in chains. He’d been shaved and bathed, but the
months of confinement had paled his golden skin. His hair looked
darker than she remembered without the sun to bleach it. But he was
so handsome, the sight of him was like a kick to her stomach. In
his eyes, she saw his trust of her. But it was so hopeless. Had no
one told him? She recalled Sir Thomas’s words and felt a chill
freeze her soul.
Your journey here was a fool’s errand. They’re
intent on hanging Mr. Soro and I just don’t see any way to prevent
it.

The trial proceeded with true British
efficiency. Character witnesses were called forth to attest to the
inevitability of the defendants joining forces in piracy. Humphrey
Hollingstead, Gabrielle’s former stage manager, testified to her
impulsive rebellion. “She was too rash to ever be a really great
actress. She’d go off on tangents, changing lines if she felt like
it, walking out in the middle of a performance. I used to say she
was more a pirate than the one she was portraying on the stage.
Little did I know how apt that prediction would turn out to be—that
she’d ally herself with that scoundrel and make a laughingstock of
us all.”