Ambrose bowed to his father then made his way to the door. “Very well, Father. I shall be in the library if anyone needs me.”
“I shall see you in my study in two hours,” his father said, rising to his feet as Orsini and Mrs. Pendleton stood. “Good day, ladies.”
Chapter Four
The library had been Ambrose’s favorite place in the house, where he had spent many a happy hour poring over plays and poetry alike. But the two hours he spent there awaiting his father’s pleasure were not unlike waiting for the enemy to attack. He could not settle and he moved from chair to chair, no words making an impression on him from anything he tried to read as all he could see were the faces of the Tarbottoms looming before him.
Ambrose stood at the window, gloomy as he stared out at the shimmering summer’s day, wondering what on earth Orsini—Cosima—was saying to his mother. If even she believed Cosima to be a woman, maybe the plan could just work.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour.
Ambrose went through the house at a march and knocked sharply at the door to his father’s study.
“Enter!” Mr. Pendleton called and Ambrose obeyed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind himself. His father was sitting behind his vast desk, its waxed surface reflecting a shaft of bright summer sunlight that spilled through the window. Atop the desk sat a glass of brandy and Mr. Tarbottom, standing at the window, held another.
At the sight of Ambrose, Tarbottom lifted his tall figure onto the tips of his toes momentarily, his long limbs those of an insect preparing to strike, then lowered down again with the sound of his creaking leather shoes as an accompaniment.
“Now then, this is a business, eh?” Mr. Pendleton asked, knitting his fingers atop his blotter. “What have you to say?”
“I love her.” Ambrose shrugged. “What more is there to say besides that, Father?”
“Mr. Tarbottom and I have negotiated a betrothal between you and young Harriet and a business partnership between we two gentlemen.” Mr. Pendleton said it as though the marriage was likewise a business deal, and perhaps, to him, it was. “Theatrical sorts are given to emotion and she has no doubt drawn you in with her tears. We shall summon her brother and convey her safely into his custody with a little token of our consideration. It is a fancy, no more.”
“Cosima is deserving of more than a little gift, Father.” Ambrose placed his hand over his ribs, under which he was fairly sure his heart resided. “You will break her heart—and mine—by insisting on my marriage to Miss Tarbottom. If you cannot see that the contessina and I are in love—if you force me into wedlock with a woman I barely know—it is with a heavy heart that I do my duty to you.”
“Son, what evidence have I that her parents approve this match?” Mr. Pendleton asked, his tone surprisingly kindly. “Am I to break Miss Tarbottom’s heart and cause the good Mr. Tarbottom professional embarrassment only to find that Miss Cosima’s family will not agree to your wishes? Is Miss Tarbottom not accomplished and pretty and charming, is—”
“Am I not offering you the opportunity to enter the American mining world?” Mr. Tarbottom asked Ambrose shrewdly. “Are you not about to conquer an untapped landscape that is crying out for men like you? Wise, self-made? Men who place head above heart? We have all had fancies in our youth, sir, but we leave them where they belong. In the past.”
“Only, when I saw her all the love I have for her returned to me once more—threefold.” Ambrose clasped his hands behind his back and took a plunge into a lie. “I happened to see her during the season—she has been in London with her brother all this time. When you thought I was at my club, I was in fact—do not think badly of her. We talked so often of our marriage that in our hearts we are as good as engaged.”
“You came back from your tour, full of some theatrical fellow or other, no mention of a girl!” Mr. Pendleton’s expression hard grown harder, like the rock he had hewn his fortune from. “Off to the Army, off to war, and suddenly you’re madly in love? Come now, lad, why have I never heard of a Cosima before today?”
“Oh, surely you have heard of her?” Tarbottom gave an indulgent chuckle. “She glides across the comedic stages of the continent. They say kings have long pursued her. Your son has regal tastes!”
“I chose not to mention Cosima out of deference to her reputation. Ever since I first met her in Italy, she and I have corresponded all this time via her brother’s letters.” That at least, Ambrose decided, wasn’t a lie. “Indeed, all this time she has accepted no proposal, neither from lords nor princes, but as you say, Father—”
Ambrose turned back to the window, concerned that some twitch of his features might betray him. “As you say, the coal mines of America beckon.”
“And what would you have me say? Gallivant off and live a theatrical life?” His father frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are no longer a soldier, sir, and Mr. Tarbottom offers you and I a considerable opportunity.”
“I must say, young sir, I take your rejection of my daughter with no small amount of insult.” Tarbottom sighed. “There is only one thing to do, Mr. Pendleton. The brother must be summoned!”
Ambrose turned away from the window to face the two men.
“Quite so!” Mr. Pendleton nodded. “And if the mother is bound for London, she too must come to Derbyshire and retrieve her daughter!”
“I cannot ask for a fairer hearing than this. Thank you both. I shall summon Orsini at once.” Ambrose bowed. Surely Orsini had brought at least one outfit suitable for a gentleman? “And please be assured, Mr. Tarbottom, that no insult was meant to either yourself or your family—when I made my promise to the contessina, I had no inkling that my father had been matchmaking on my behalf.”
How this would play out Ambrose could hardly guess, but surely even Orsini could not be two people at one time? And how was he to secure a private conversation with his friend when all eyes were surely on them? One thing was certain, he could achieve nothing while stuck in this stifling room with these men of business.
“Let the gentleman know that he cannot delay a moment,” Mr. Tarbottom instructed. “For the happiness of two young maidens—”
The American paused and gave a low laugh, then corrected himself.
“The happiness of one maiden and one”—he raised his eyebrows and glanced toward Mr. Pendleton—“theatrical depends on this matter being swiftly resolved.”
The ungentlemanly cur.
“I shall write to Orsini at once. Good day, sir. Good day, Father.” Ambrose bowed again and left the two industrial patriarchs to their business.
Chapter Five
With enough ink on his fingers to make it seem as if he really had toiled away at a letter to summon his friend, Ambrose returned downstairs to find everyone in the drawing room once more. An uncanny sense of calm filled the room, the sort that came before the weather changed.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Ambrose drew a chair up to the group and sat down. Sandwiched between her mother and her rival on the sofa, Harriet was doing a marvelous job of pretending that Orsini was invisible. Instead she was sharing a story of some dance or other with some duke or other, her laughter tinkling and Mr. and Mrs. Tarbottom looking on in obvious adoration. Only when her story drew to an end did Ambrose find his greeting properly returned, and Harriet was the keenest of all, demurely batting her eyelashes.
Orsini, however, appeared to have recovered his own good humor and was watching Pagolo with a gentle smile as the parrot sat happily on the back of Mrs. Pendleton’s chair. Orsini nodded toward him and asked, “I believe Pagolo adores you already, signora! Would you like him to sing you a little song of thanks?”
“She would not,” Mr. Pendleton replied on his wife’s behalf, though he had the good grace to ask, “Would you, Mrs. Pendleton?”
“I—well, I don’t know.”
“Mama should like him to, Father.” Ambrose would stand up for his mother, even if he could do no more to stand up
for himself. Besides, if Pagolo started to sing to her, there was the chance that he might choose the same song from his repertoire as he had for the dowager viscountess. And as much as he did not wish to rile his father too much, the thought of the parrot singing a salty song in the drawing room was dashed funny. “She was saying only the other day that she should like to have a bird in the drawing room. Weren’t you, Mama?”
Mrs. Pendleton looked across at the bird, dampened longing in her eyes. “He’s certainly a handsome creature, is he not? Such a lovely shade of blue. I tried to get curtains in that color for the ballroom, but I couldn’t find such a hue for love nor money.”
“I might help in that,” Orsini told her, earning a noisy huff from Mrs. Tarbottom and a cool look from Harriet for his troubles. “For I know a lady in Italy who used Pagolo as inspiration for her textiles. She certainly does have his blue in her collection.”
She rose from her seat and glided across the room. On reaching Mrs. Pendleton, Orsini sank to kneel on the rug at her feet and held out his gloved finger as though conducting a miniature orchestra. Then he said, “Pagolo, pronto.”
“Ciao!” Pagolo nodded and turned a pirouette on Mrs. Pendleton’s outstretched hand. “Ciao!”
“He adores you already. You go well together.” Orsini beamed then tutted, “But he has knocked your cap, how careless he is!”
Orsini stood and gently corrected the cap that was so askew, sliding the pins securely into place. Ambrose couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s kindness, for he knew that the parrot has been nowhere near his mother’s badly behaved headpiece.
“Aren’t you a love, Cosima, dear!” Mrs. Pendleton patted her cap. She peered at Pagolo, who began to chatter at her. “Hello, Mr. Parrot! What’s this he’s saying, dear? Is it your Italian?”
“He says you are very pretty,” Orsini told her warmly. “And that you smell like roses!”
“Fancy!” Mrs. Pendleton blushed at the compliment and shaped her lips into a kiss. “And you’re a very pretty parrot!” She glanced at her husband. “How I should love to have a parrot of my own, Mr. Pendleton.”
“I believe Pagolo should love to have a Signora Pendleton of his own too!” Orsini laughed, his merriment utterly outdoing Mr. Pendleton’s look of stern disapproval even as Harriet’s smile grew more frozen and shark-like. The parrot chattered on in Italian, its head bobbing this way and that, beady eyes fixed on Ambrose’s mother. “Heavens, he has taken a shine to your mamma, Captain Pendleton!”
“A parrot of excellent taste!” Ambrose smiled. “Do you not agree, Father?”
His mother whistled and chirped at Pagolo, as if she was learning to speak the language of the birds.
“On that point I cannot disagree,” he was forced to admit.
“Now, again. Pronto!”
This time, Pagolo began to sing, treating the assembled gathering to something that sounded rather like an avian version of the Queen of the Night’s aria, his head bobbing merrily as he trilled. Mrs. Pendleton was entirely conquered. She gently hummed along, utterly charmed by the parrot.
“What a handsome little man he is!” She beamed. “Look at him, just look—he’s like a little fellow who’s got lots of business to attend to, look!” She bobbed her head with Pagolo. “Have you got lots to do, Mr. Parrot? Have you? You’ll sing me a song and you’ll eat some of this lovely cake—can parrots eat cake? Well, if you can’t stomach the cake, we’ll send for something parrot-y from the kitchens for you, won’t we, dear heart.”
Ambrose chuckled. His mother evidently had a penchant for small, busy men.
“I must warn you, madame, that my Pagolo is seeking a happy home in which he might retire from public life.” Orsini stroked his finger down the bird’s wing. “He may decide to make it here with you!”
“Might he?” Mrs. Pendleton grinned. “Signor Pagolo, eh, would you like to live here in Derbyshire with me, in Pendleton Hall?”
“Mamma!” Pagolo cooed, turning in another pirouette. “Ciao!”
“Oh, he thinks I’m his mother—bless his little heart, what a dear!”
Ambrose watched the feathery actor with amusement. “Mother, shall we leave you to become further acquainted with your new son?” Who sings raucous ballads at Vauxhall Gardens. “Cosima, my dear—a turn outside in the gardens, perhaps? It is a beautiful day now the clouds have shifted.”
Harriet looked urgently toward her mother as Mr. Pendleton turned his attention to his wife again, very briefly shaking his head.
Defiance shone in Mrs. Pendleton once more. “A little stroll? Whyever not.”
“Signora Pendleton, would you care to hold Pagolo if I am permitted to walk?” Orsini asked. “We will stay before the windows. You need not fear.”
“I’d be delighted to, my dear.” Mrs. Pendleton beamed as Pagolo hopped merrily from one foot to the other and rewarded her with a polite nod. “I can trust you both to behave decorously, but for propriety’s sake, yes—stay where we can see you.”
Ambrose smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”
“Stay before the window,” Mr. Pendleton reminded them as Orsini curtsied and took Ambrose’s arm. “If it is the continental way, so be it.”
Then, with her hand gently holding Ambrose’s arm, Orsini allowed the soldier to escort him from the room and out into the gentle summer breeze. For a moment they paused and, as one, drew in deep, relieved breaths. Then they began to walk, demure and proper and utterly respectable.
Chapter Six
As soon as they were out of earshot of their respective parties and the Americans, Orsini asked, “Am I doing justice to your creation, Pen? I must say, she is rather good fun to play!”
“You are perfect as Cosima—more perfect than I could even write her.” Ambrose chuckled as he recalled his mother and Pagolo. “And how marvelous that your parrot has taken a shine to Mama. May I hope he will sing us a jaunty yet piquant sea shanty over tea, or a tragic execution ballad at dinner?”
Orsini laughed, but his face grew more serious when he asked, “How went the meeting with your father and Mr. Tarbottom? Are you safely released from your not-quite-engagement?”
Ambrose shook his head. He cast a glance back at the house and lowered his voice, though no one could possibly have overheard him. “My father wishes to seek your family’s permission—having heard that Cosima’s brother—I mean, you—that is, Orsini, is in London, and he wishes to see him. As well as your mother. Now, she is real enough, of course, but surely you cannot split yourself down the middle and appear in this place as two people at once! What on earth shall we do?”
“My mother is safe in Scotland with a frightfully dull earl of some sort,” Orsini assured him. Then he narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “Hartington asked for my hand in marriage not two hours after he had dined with Orsini. Even he did not see we are one and the same. Of course, theatricals often ask for one’s hand. They do not intend for one to say yes. If we need Orsini, then Orsini we shall have!”
“You brought a suit of his clothes, of course?” Ambrose tweaked his neckcloth. “Oh, and I told a little lie—I am sorry, but it was to assure my father we had met recently. So”—Ambrose took a deep breath—“you and I enjoyed covert meetings of a particularly intimate nature during the London season. I do apologize for compromising you—I so hope that Cosima’s reputation shan’t be sullied by all these intrigues.”
“My heart beats only for you.” Orsini chuckled. “And not saucy old Harty nor any of those other stage door callers who swoon for Cosima’s fair favors!”
Ambrose turned slightly to smile at Orsini. “Mine also, sweet Cosima. No young miss sent to tea at Pendleton Hall could ever take your place.”
“I received your note when I awoke in London,” he told him. “And ignored it.”
“As I had suspected!” Part of Ambrose wanted to laugh, but the boy who still dwelled inside him feared his father’s roar and bristled at the fact that Orsini had brushed his concerns aside. “But why come
all this way and risk scandal?”
“Because I have never been a hero.” He smiled. “And I thought it was your turn to be saved.”
Ambrose let Orsini’s simple words wash through him. “I am humbled beyond measure, truly I am. That you should go to such lengths for a friend—but we must be careful and not overplay our hand. Ah, if only Cosima were real!”
Orsini frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Yet he said nothing and instead glided serenely between the flowers, ethereal and untouchable. Cosima was an illusion, Ambrose reminded himself, born out of his love affair with Italy, forged in the heady heat of a continental Grand Tour when anything seemed possible. Back in the days when he thought he might be a playwright, before battles and brides and business came calling to steal his happiness.
“I do apologize, dear lady.” Ambrose ran his hand through his hair. “You are real.”
“I feel very real.” Orsini glanced back at him, his eyes a little less lively. “And we have not thought out the ending of our performance. How will you go about not marrying Cosima once Miss Tarbottom is vanquished? I confess, I had quite wrapped myself up in the role. I fancied myself a bride-to-be!”
If Ambrose had believed that his love for Orsini was returned, then he would have suggested they make the attempt at matrimony anyway. But this was all an act, and it was fortunate that Ambrose seemed so good at his role, despite not being a theatrical himself. How easy to pretend he was in love with Cosima, when he loved the man beneath the gown.
“Erm…” Ambrose stroked his chin. How would he have resolved this in a play? Of course, it would depend much on whether it was comedy or tragedy. “One of us could die?”
As soon as Ambrose said it, he heard how ridiculous his idea was, and he laughed. “Maybe not.”
The look on Orsini’s face was one of pure horror and he shook his head keenly. “Orsini is one pretty actor in an ocean of pretty actors. Cosima is celebrated, adored, a muse, Pen. She cannot die!”
“No one dies. So we’ll not have a tragedy—a sad tale’s not best for us.” Ambrose stroked his chin again. “A comedy, then—but they always end in a wedding. Perhaps we shall find Orsini a bride.”
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 7
