“To think nothing of me, his poor mother.” A wavering note of distress had entered Mrs. Pendleton’s voice, as if she were not entertaining in her grand drawing room but alone in a parlor of the middling sort. “Oh, Orsini, I am plagued by nightmares of shipwrecks and robbers! I cannot bear it!”
“Mother…” Ambrose crouched beside her chair and took her hand.
“All of this shall be discussed,” Mr. Tarbottom said, his voice clipped. “Miss Tarbottom, would you care to entertain us with a song? Perhaps your mother might accompany you on the piano?”
“I should be delighted, Father. And what should you like me to sing for you, Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton?” Harriet rose with practiced elegance and curtseyed to Ambrose’s parents. She was so intent on showcasing her talents that she seemed either not to notice or care that her hostess was exhibiting distress.
Mrs. Tarbottom smiled at Orsini. “And our new visitor, what should he choose?”
“Do you mind, Madame?” Orsini addressed Mrs. Pendleton gently, his attention on her alone. “Are you of a mind for music, dear lady?”
Mrs. Pendleton clenched her jaw, then said, with one eye on her husband, “Music is supposed to heal the spirit. And at least it means we shan’t require too much conversation, for heaven knows my opinions are not required here this evening.”
Mrs. Tarbottom and her daughter swept by to the piano. “Music is a balm, indeed, Mrs. Pendleton. Let my daughter and I gladden your hearts with song.”
A petulant remark rose to Ambrose’s mouth, but he decided not to say it. Orsini nodded and decided, “Then let it be Figaro, if you have it. My sister gives a wonderful Deh vieni, non tardar. I should dearly love to hear an American’s interpretation.”
Ambrose was fairly sure he had heard sarcasm in that remark, and he pressed his lips together to prevent himself from laughing. Of course though the girl could sing and of course her mother could play, for both were well-tutored in what it took to secure a husband. Yet there was no passion in each note-perfect syllable, each calculated gesture of hand and eye, and Ambrose was transported back in his mind’s eye to Cosima on stage, bewitching all who saw her.
“Prettily done,” Mrs. Pendleton acceded and smiled at the performers. “What a lovely voice you have, Miss Tarbottom.”
“I do so hope we cheered you, madam.” Harriet gave her audience a pert smile.
“Yes, well done,” Ambrose said with little feeling. Orsini rose to his feet and gave a polite round of applause that was echoed by the Messers Tarbottom and Pendleton, but Pagolo seemed less impressed. He turned his back on the gathering, preferring to look out into the darkened garden.
“Mr. Pendleton.” Tarbottom cleared his throat. “Might we discuss matters this evening, you and I and the younger gentlemen? Then we might all go to our beds with clear head and sure of the way forward.”
“A capital idea, if an unorthodox one,” Ambrose’s father decided. “It is time the ladies retired, I am sure, but if you are amenable, sir, we might conclude our business this evening?”
“Of course,” Orsini agreed. “Let us discuss matters of the heart, now that we have had our music.”
Chapter Ten
Ambrose poured himself a drink. He needed one. Possibly several. “Anyone else?”
“I would be glad of something warming,” Orsini told him curtly, though the other men shook their heads as one. “To ease our negotiations, you understand?”
Ambrose poured out a generous helping of brandy for his friend. As he passed the glass to Orsini, his wretched hand trembled. “Sorry. It does that on and off. The downside of this hero lark.”
“And never was there a prouder father,” Mr. Pendleton announced, smiling broadly.
Ambrose bowed. “Thank you, Father.” In soldiering, at least, his father was proud to call him his own. And now he was a bargaining chip.
“The situation is this, young sir,” Mr. Pendleton told Orsini. “Captain Pendleton has an understanding with Mr. Tarbottom. He has been offered a position in America with an immediate start and the hand of young Miss Tarbottom. The couple are devoted to one another, you understand.”
“And Mr. Pendleton and I intend to go into business together,” Tarbottom added. “He shall be investing in the Tarbottom Mining Company, making us partners as well as family!”
Orsini frowned and looked from one industrialist to the other. “Then let him invest and do whatever he might wish, but why must a marriage be part of the deal? Why can Mr. Pendleton not throw his money at whatever venture he so wishes without throwing his son at it too?”
“Choosing and trusting a partner in business is a leap of faith,” was Tarbottom’s hasty response. “Why, what if one half is ambitious and greedy? Better that they be family, that bond of honor is stronger than any handshake.”
“And what of love?” asked the Italian.
“Harriet adores Captain Pendleton,” Tarbottom replied. “She would lay down her life for him. It truly was love from the very first.”
“But—Father, how can you?” Ambrose held onto his glass even though his hand was trembling again. “I am not devoted to Miss Tarbottom. I barely know her. I cannot speak for her feelings, of course, because I am not her, and besides—she has not told me whether she cares for me or not.”
“Then tell me, sir, what profession do you intend?” his father asked. “You have left the Army behind and can linger no more. Waterloo is two years past and these months since you came home, you have frittered away your time! Your brother is a man of business with half a dozen children to call his own already. You can hardly marry a theatrical lady and live off her!”
“I…could be her manager.” Ambrose emphasized this with a nod. He wasn’t going to mention his plays again, for his father would only laugh. “Could I not, Orsini?”
“You could not, sir,” Tarbottom cut in, “for the lady herself told us that this very gentleman filled that capacity. Besides, the theatrical world is not one for a man of military interests. Mister Orsini, sir, I have had the good fortune to see your charming sister on stage and I saw too the gentlemen who wished an audience with her afterward.”
And I’ll wager you were among them, Ambrose thought bitterly.
“Go on,” Orsini told him, his tone cool.
“What if Captain Pendleton here is simply as enchanted by her as those gentlemen were? There is much that is appealing about a lady on the stage and young men fall in love easily with Titania and her like.” He shook his head. “I would not want your sister to pledge herself only to find that it is her characters with whom the young man has become besotted.”
“I am insulted, sir.” Ambrose put his glass aside and hid his shaking hand in his pocket. “As I said, Cosima and I spent much time together in each other’s company during the last season—I very well acquainted with the real woman, I’ll thank you to know. And whatever you might think of my fancy for her, did you not hear her declare her love for me? You will break her heart if we are separated!”
“There may be more than one heart at stake,” Orsini said, and the room seemed to stand still. Ambrose’s eyes widened as his friend went on, pushing their play to the next act. “She may be with child.”
Mr. Pendleton nodded. Then he said, “Mr. Orsini, Mr. Tarbottom, would you give me a minute with my son, please?”
Though Ambrose had never lain with a woman, something in Orsini’s delivery felt so very real that part of Ambrose almost believed he was about to become a father. A tiny Orsini-Pendleton co-production—imagine that!
Tarbottom and Orsini seemed to sense the change in the air too, for both departed with nothing but a polite goodnight, leaving the father and son alone. Now Mr. Pendleton rose from his seat and crossed to the window, knitting his fingers behind his back. For a long moment he was silent, then he turned back to look at Ambrose.
“I never thought you would shame this family,” he said quietly. “Your poor mother, what will she say? Could you not control yourself, lad? And those t
wo poor lasses, what in the blazes do you think we will do now?”
“I have shamed nobody.” Ambrose jabbed his finger at his father. “That’s your doing—not mine. I only want one woman, my Cosima. You’re the one who’s dragged Miss Tarbottom into this—I never wanted to marry her. You did not even ask me!”
“I have indulged you from the day of your birth, sir, and no longer, do you hear me? Maybe if you had been made to pick up a shovel and dig for your living like I was, we wouldn’t be here now!” Mr. Pendleton shouted, more angry than Ambrose could ever remember seeing him. “The sorry Italian lady will be sent safely back to the care of her mother and brother and an allowance made for your child. You will marry Miss Tarbottom and accompany her to America as a man of respectable business and you will say nothing of this unpleasant matter to your poor mother, do you understand me? Not one word!”
“And we all know how much Mama likes the idea of this marriage, don’t we?” Ambrose shook his head. “She’s unhappy, you’re angry, and I’m stuck in the middle wishing I’d—”
Ambrose raised both hands before his eyes and crushed them into fists. A red film distorted his vision. “I wish I’d been run through with French bayonets! I’d much rather I’d bled out on the field of battle at Waterloo than live to see the day when my own father sold me off! Is this what you want—to see me unhappy because you resent the bloody luxury you insisted on bringing me up in? I never asked to be born in a palace! And that’s how you punish me—a loveless marriage with a woman I barely know, flung off across the seas to a land I’ve never been to.”
“No, sir, it is because I have seen too many rich sons fall to drink and ruin thanks to an indulgent father. My own father drank himself into the grave and gave me no direction and I swore that day I’d always steer my own boys right. This is the end to it. I shall tell your mother the happy news tomorrow and make the announcement at the ball.” Mr. Pendleton gave a curt nod. “Good evening, Ambrose.”
Ambrose’s rage had blown itself out as suddenly as it had whipped itself up. Exhausted, he held back the sob in his throat for long enough to say, “Goodnight, Father.”
Obedient, dejected and lost.
“I do love you, son,” he heard his father say as he turned for the door. “And when you’re as old as I am, you’ll realize that I steered you right, as my own father never did.”
Ambrose did not reply, and threw the remainder of his brandy down his throat in one go.
Chapter Eleven
Muttering imprecations against his father and the Fates and every cruel device that had brought him to this unspeakable juncture, Ambrose headed off to bed. Some captain he was. Though, of course, in the Army he had taken orders often enough, orders which had sometimes seemed suicidal to accept. And he hadn’t been knocked off his horse by a cannon ball, had he?
Maybe Philadelphia had theaters. Maybe Orsini could be convinced to perform there. That was something to look forward to, at least. Though how he could go through the wedding and promise to love a woman he wasn’t even sure he liked was a problem Ambrose didn’t want to address before bed.
He threw open the door of his room and halted. There, sitting on the bed, was Orsini. At the sight of Ambrose he leaped to his feet and asked, “Pen, what happened?”
Ambrose blinked in surprise before closing the door firmly behind him. He urgently needed someone to speak to. Doing his best to sound chipper, Ambrose said, “I don’t suppose you’re averse to long ocean voyages, eh?”
“You’re coming home with us?” He clapped his hands together. “Though we shall stay here on your shores until things are a little more settled in my homeland, I think. All is upheaval at the moment, alas.”
“No, I mean—to America.” Ambrose’s smile faltered as his eyes filled with tears. “The devil take it—I’m far from a hero! My father will have his way. Poor Cosima will be paid off, and I…I am to marry Harriet Tarbottom whether I wish to or not!”
“No!” Orsini crossed the room in a few bounds and took his friend’s hand in his own. “I will not allow it, Pen. Did you tell him of your play? Of Harty and the Regent? What did he say?”
Ambrose shook his head and tears began to track down his cheeks. “I said nothing about my plays. He would only have laughed at me. Coal and industry, cogs and wheels, that’s all he can see in my future. He believes he is doing this for my own good, Orsini! I cannot convince him otherwise.”
“I would bring the Regent here myself but he is loathe to drag himself out of bed, they tell me, unless to torment your friend Wellington.” Orsini lifted his free hand and brushed away one of Ambrose’s tears with the soft pad of his thumb. “You are the best man I know, Capitano, and if I have to marry you myself to keep you from America, I shall.”
“If only we could hop off now to see the reverend. A license, and we marry tomorrow before breakfast.” Ambrose smiled at the thought of it.
“Married to an Italian actress who has turned down kings and emperors.” Orsini laughed gently, his hand still resting on Ambrose’s cheek. “A marriage of convenience, to save you from a marriage of convenience. But at least I do not have a silent mother and a smile that never moves.”
Ambrose closed his hand over Orsini’s where it rested on his cheek. “Do you know—it’s ridiculous of me, but when you told my father that Cosima might be big with my child, I…wished it were true.”
“There are so many children in need of a loving home, we could—” Orsini flushed and shook his head. “I had almost forgotten we were not betrothed. I was picturing us surrounded by a half-dozen orphans, all spoiled rotten and well-versed in theater!”
Ambrose touched Orsini’s soft hair. “Do let’s think of it. What a happy daydream that would be.”
“Come and sit.” Orsini reached his free hand into his coat and produced a silver hip flask. “And share a drink with Orsini. Or Cosima, if you would rather.”
“Either. I’m fond of you both.” Ambrose nodded toward the bed. “It’s not quite up to the standards of your bed in London, but I’m sure you’ll agree the bed curtains are more than elaborate enough.”
“I know a thing or two about fathers.” Orsini drew Ambrose to the bed by his hand and together they settled against the pillows. “My father was not pleased that I wished to pursue a career on stage. Less so still when I first showed him Cosima. I have never seen him so angry, nor so disgusted, Pen. I thought my heart would break.”
“How sorry I am for you, my dear friend.” Ambrose slipped his arm around Orsini’s shoulders and let him get comfortable against him. “And did—before he passed away, were you two reconciled?”
“My mother did what she could but at first, he would not listen. Not only was I a boy dressing as a girl, I was a theatrical using the Orsini name. But our family has never been orthodox. We have painters and adventurers and even a priest in our number, and you have met them all!” He rested his head on Ambrose’s shoulder and settled their linked hands on his chest. “On the day before I was to leave to begin my first engagement in Venice, he called me to him. We had not spoken in a month or more, and I ran to answer his summons. I thank heaven that I did, for he told me that he had fallen ill and thought his time short.”
Orsini gripped Ambrose’s hand tighter. “We reconciled that day and passed the evening in laughter, the room filled with Orsini children and grandchildren. Around that ancient bed we ate a dinner of kings, Papa sitting up against his pillows and leading us in our merriment. As the sun went down that night, Francesco gave the rites. I have never been so proud of that brother of mine, then Papa asked me to entertain him before he slept.”
Ambrose felt his friend take a deep breath, hearing the tears in his voice when he spoke again. “There, before every one of my people, I performed Cosima’s song from Fleet Fortune and my father cheered louder than any other in that room. As dawn came he passed into the next world, and he went in peace and with love.”
Ambrose rubbed away a tear with the heel of his hand. “I�
�m glad. That in the end, he accepted you as you are.”
“And he would be the first to tell you, Pen, he loathed light comedy. If it could make the Conte d’Orsini laugh, then it must be a fine piece indeed.” Orsini raised his head to gaze at Ambrose. “And that is why I will not allow you to abandon the theater, nor me along with it!”
“I wish I did not have to, but what am I to do?” Ambrose sighed in defeat. “I can never talk to my father man to man. I try but when I speak to him I’m either an obedient boy or an obstreperous lad. But never a man. Because he never treats me like one unless I’m in uniform. And that’s been consigned to a trunk.”
“You are still Captain Ambrose Pendleton, a man who is so brave that he does not even fear the tremble in his own hand.” Orsini brought their linked hands to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to Ambrose’s skin. “And there is nothing that Orsini, Cosima and Pen cannot achieve. Those Tarbottoms have met their match.”
“I love you, Amadeo Orsini.”
Orsini blinked as though he didn’t quite understand, his brow furrowing at the words. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then opened it once more and said, “In that way that soldiers do? That way that is the way men love other men without it being… I love you too, Pen, but in the other way to that way.”
Only moments before he had been dabbing at his tears, but now a huge smile spread across Ambrose Pendleton’s face.
“Oh, thank God!” He wrapped his arms around Orsini and held him close. His lips against Orsini’s ear, he whispered, “I love you, as if…gosh, all this talk of wives, when all I want is a husband!”
“Me?” Orsini’s voice filled with confusion, but Ambrose felt his arm around his waist. “Not Cosima? Me? The male me?”
“Cosima is a very sweet young lady, but it’s the man beneath the gown who makes my heart thud all the faster.” Ambrose stroked Orsini’s back, a careful, exploratory touch. “Yes, the male you. And I had no idea that you might—all those beauties in the theater, why for a moment should I imagine that you would have any interest in a man built like a clothes press?”
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 10
