by L. L. Muir
Of course he would never consider the woman for himself. He had vowed never to marry. But it would help him, somehow, to know she was the wife of another. If she was married to the Scotsman, he could stop thinking of her, let her go.
Let her go! As if he were holding onto her. With both hands. Trying not to forget her, even now.
His chest tightened and he looked skyward for relief, but found only the pale, full moon looking down from a blue sky, too anxious to be about its business to wait for the coming night.
Let her go, he told the moon.
I cannot, it seemed to reply.
“It seems,” he murmured aloud, “neither can I.”
~ ~ ~
Icarus found him just after Vespers. Gaspar did not attend with the friars, but he appreciated the stolid murmur of voices coming from the chapel washing over him like baptismal waters, replacing the sound of the Scotswoman’s lilting tongue with the steady, comforting voice of the devoted.
“My lord! I have interesting news.”
“Tell me.” With his own low tone, he warned the servant to lower his voice.
“The man is not her husband,” Icarus whispered with excitement. “He is her cousin. A warrior hoping to find work as a crossbowman. He told an old Venetian woman he plans to man a ship and leave his pretty cousin in the old woman’s keeping, to find a husband that can take her in hand, but can also make her happy. He was quite forceful about her being happy, in the end. He offered the old woman compensation if she found the right man. And more for keeping the wrong men away from her. The old one will have even more compensation if the pretty one makes trouble. Or rather, when she makes trouble. He expects it, I think.”
Gaspar was grateful the little Greek had so much to report since he was momentarily unable to speak. Something powerful rose inside him at the first news—the man is not her husband. He struggled to understand the rest of the details while he fought for calm. And for air.
“Will the Scotswoman be living with this old woman?” he was finally able to ask.
“No, my lord. The old one has provided her with a cottage. Perhaps I can show you tomorrow—”
“Tonight,” he snapped. He would see her again tonight. And perhaps she would not be as pretty as his memory insisted she’d been. “You will show me tonight.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The parade of possible suitors began the next afternoon.
Isobelle knelt before a wee plot of soil she was softening for a garden at the side of the house. The morning sun had shone upon the patch, but by the nooning hour, the next building blocked the overwarm heat of the day and the temperature was far too pleasant to warrant going inside. She was determined to grow something—anything—that might remind her of the lush gardens of home, even if she only grew a fine thistle or two.
She looked up from her work at the sound of a man whistling as he passed. A minute later, the same man returned up the slope whistling the same tune, but a bit louder. She smiled, realizing he was determined to get her attention, then laughed to herself when he pretended to notice her for the first time. He made a great show of sweeping the hat from his balding head and bowing deeply. Then he grinned and came toward her, apparently confident he’d done all that was necessary to earn a conversation with her. When he opened his mouth to speak, she raised a single imperious brow. Duly warned against such boldness, he fidgeted with his hat and bowed silently. Then he scraped his heels while backing into the lane and going along his way, his attention on the path before him.
It was not five minutes later that Signora Crescento appeared, hands on hips, with her own arrogant brow cocked.
Isobelle rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“No?” The old woman seemed properly shocked.
“No.” At least that word translated well.
A short while later, the next suitor marched purposely toward her and began speaking.
She stared at him for a moment, then bent back to her empty garden and resumed turning the dirt. If the man had spoken with Signora Crescento, he would know Isobelle did not speak Italian. Or perhaps, the old woman had not approved him for courtship and thus gave him no warning.
She stifled a laugh as the man stomped away. She wanted no enemies here, at least until she could understand them. When the old woman never came for her report, Isobelle surmised the man hadn’t been a suitor after all.
The third man she tried to ignore, but failed. He walked up the lane, then up again. It wasn’t until he started up the rise for the third time that she concluded he must be walking in a circle instead of simply walking back and forth on her little street. This one was just as old and bald as the first had been, but to his credit, he was extremely polite. He introduced himself as Signore Pesce. Pesce she knew to mean fish, thanks to her time on ships, so perhaps he’d simply called himself a fisherman. Either way, she nodded politely. When he looked at her expectantly, she could only say, “No, grazie.”
It was a full ten minutes later when Signora Crescento returned with a knowing smile. As soon as that brow rose, Isobelle repeated, “No, grazie.”
The signora huffed and walked away, ranting and gesturing wildly with her hands as she headed back down the lane. Isobelle thought perhaps, if the woman were so easily frustrated, she’d find someone to translate for her. But she was wrong.
Instead of waiting for Ossian to arrive to help communicate with Isobelle, the old woman found a wider variety of men, presumably to discover what Isobelle was looking for. In one hour, she was presented with an extremely tall man who looked fearful of being chosen, a fat one in fine blue velvet whom she assumed was wealthy, and a man who was five shades prettier than Isobelle herself. They no longer paraded down her street but each arrived arm in arm with Signora Crescento. The last man was forced to open his mouth and show his strong white teeth, most of which were in their original positions. He was nearly as outraged as the old woman when Isobelle gave her standard answer. But she ignored his blustering while she stood and stretched, then brushed the dirt from her skirt—Ossian had threatened her life if she were caught wearing breeches again.
The pair spat and sputtered at her even after she’d entered the cottage and closed the door in their faces. They argued at her nonsensically, each through a different window, until she closed the shutters on them. She dared not light a candle as it might encourage them and so sat in the darkness until the voices, now consoling, moved off and away.
The following day, she was grateful to be left alone with her little patch of turned earth and sunshine until after Sext, the midday prayers. Apparently, all the men who did not labor in the mornings had been presented the day before. The rest joined a steady parade on Calle di Isobelle—the street of Isobelle—after the nooning meal.
A man would wander past, and if she ignored him, he would continue down the lane only to come back again and again until she happened to look up from a garden she hoped would not always be imaginary. She tried not to notice the men until at least the third pass. After all, some gave up after she ignored them twice. She rewarded those who persevered by glancing up, as if to note the position of the sun, then allowing her eyes to wander to the passersby. Even an unpleasant-looking man deserved the chance to introduce himself. But if any man tried to argue beyond No, grazie, Isobelle was happy to give a detailed explanation in Gaelic, which in no way resembled the romantic languages and usually frightened away even the sternest Venetian.
The fact that Signora Crescento never came looking for her opinion led Isobelle to believe the woman had worn herself out the day before and waited for some lucky man to report his success. It became so amusing Isobelle could not bear to go inside, even though she could do no more to prepare the soil for the seeds Ossian promised to bring her.
It had been two days since Ossian found her the cottage. He had yet to find work, and the old woman was sure to run out of prospective husbands for her or else be reduced to sending along either married men, priests, or wait for a new generation t
o grow up. To Isobelle’s way of thinking, Venice might prove to be the perfect home after all.
A disgruntled man of obvious worth stomped away and while Isobelle listened for a curse word she might understand, she heard a child laughing. She stood and brushed the dirt from her apron while she tried to discover the direction of the laughter.
Finally, she looked up at the tall building next door and found a young girl grinning down at her with her forearms resting on the window sill, her chin resting on her entwined fingers. It was the same child she’d seen playing with shells by the sea wall.
Isobelle grinned back and waved for the girl to come down.
The imp needed no more encouragement and disappeared, only to reappear in front of Isobelle as fast as she might have by jumping from the high window.
The child spoke no English, nor French. Isobelle spoke no Italian, but she was determined to communicate.
“Signora Crescento?” Isobelle asked, hoping the child would have some opinion of the woman.
The lass giggled and shook her head. “Troppo grasso,” she said and held her arms in a circle to mimic the old woman’s round belly.
“Fat?” Isobelle made the same gesture, but puffed out her cheeks as well.
“Si.” The lass nodded. “Grasso.”
Isobelle repeated the word. The child nodded again.
Isobelle pointed to herself. “My name is Isobelle.”
“Isabella?”
“No. Isobelle.”
“Ah. Il mio nome è Britta.”
“Britta?”
“Si.”
They shook hands and the lassie giggled.
The thought of another suitor strolling by gave Isobelle an idea, and with Britta’s help, she was able to learn a few choice words that would go far toward helping her communicate with the old woman using more than just head shakes and shrugs.
Britta returned to her perch in the window. Isobelle returned to her little rectangle of dirt. She began to wonder if Signora Crescento had run out of possibilities and feared she’d learned a bit of Italian for no reason at all. It had been that long since the last one. But soon the sound of footfalls returned, and Isobelle made no pretense; she looked up right away, assuming that the sooner the man was on his way, the sooner the old woman would come.
But it was not a single man walking past her cottage. It was half a dozen. And herding them from behind like a well-trained collie, was Signora Crescento.
Isobelle stood and faced her visitors, all men she’d seen before. Each one of them looked far too eager for her peace of mind. They eyed her hair, her clothes, and one looked a bit greedily at the cottage. He stumbled forward with a wee bit of firm encouragement from the old woman, bobbed his head, then lifted his chin as if he were on display in some sort of slave market.
Isobelle swallowed a chortle that would have proven to all and sundry she was not a strictly sober woman.
Signora Crescento said something unintelligible, but considering her tone and the hand on her hip, meant something to the effect of, “What is so wrong with this one?”
Isobelle rubbed her face to hide her grin until she had it under control. She didn’t bother to hide her Scottish brogue, for she was fair to certain she had the words right.
“Troppo breve,” she said. Too short.
The man’s brows shot up, as did Signora Crescento’s. But while the short man appeared insulted, the old woman looked quite pleased. She pushed the first man out of her way, then shoved the next man forward. He frowned over his shoulder, clearly unappreciative of the old woman’s roughness.
“E questo?” the old woman asked.
“Troppo...fiero.” Too fierce. At least she thought that was what it meant. She’d simply glared at the girl to get the right word. For all she knew, it meant angry or frightening.
To Isobelle’s surprise, the man nodded, put his hat on his head, then offered both her and Signora Crescento a slight bow before walking away with his head held high.
Undaunted, the old woman pushed the next one forward. He was timid as a mouse, only glancing at Isobelle and briefly holding her gaze before looking at his feet. He’d been much braver without the audience, poor man.
“Troppo grasso,” she said quietly, so as not to hurt the thin man’s feelings any more than was necessary.
He grinned and walked away. A dozen paces later, he laughed quietly.
The next one was a bit too bold. He leered at her, winked at her. She could hear his labored breathing that she feared had nothing to do with the incline of the lane. It was this man she would have in mind when she barred the door every night.
“Troppo...” She had no Italian word for him. There was a limit to what she and Britta could devise with only a bit of mimicking. “No,” she finally said. “Just, no.”
The man continued to leer, unwilling to be dismissed with no reason. Since she’d left Scotland and the protection of her brother and his high station in their clan, she’d come across many of his sort. If she shied away from him, he would pursue her.
She stepped forward abruptly and did not stop until there was but a hand’s breadth between them. The man’s nostrils flared and he took in the details of her hair, her apron, her lips. He grinned to one side of his mouth.
Though it turned her stomach to do so, she leaned toward him. Narrowing her eyes, she repeated, “No. Absolutely no.”
His own eyes narrowed, then he huffed and walked away, pausing long enough to spit in her little yard before moving off. A new enemy? Certainly. But she would not want him on her side, or behind her, in any battle.
Much to Isobelle’s surprise, Signora Crescento spouted a string of Italian that sounded very much like an apology. Isobelle shrugged and stepped over to her stoop before turning back to the rest. She spread her feet wide and folded her arms, waiting.
The fourth man stepped forward before the old woman could push him. Isobelle laughed, then the others joined in. Though the man was no taller than the first three, Isobelle pronounced him, “Troppo alto.” Too tall. She’d had no alternative since her arsenal had run out of Italian words. For a moment, the man frowned, then he burst out laughing. She did the same, relieved he hadn’t been insulted.
The signora stepped next to the fifth man and simply pointed to him.
“Troppo...” Isobelle shrugged.
“Troppo brutto!” Britta shouted from her window.
While the others looked for the interloper, Isobelle studied the man in question. She was fair to certain brutto meant ugly. The man was blessed with a beak of a nose when combined with the dark circles below his eyes gave him the appearance of a scavenger bird.
Signore Brutto simply shrugged and walked away with a wave, his shoulders bunched high like folded wings.
That left the sixth and last man. His face was handsome enough, though a deep shade of red as he waited for Isobelle to announce why he was unfit to court her. But he raised his chin at the last and waited.
Isobelle could not be cruel. She did not know this man, could not judge him as fit or unfit for marriage or anything else. But neither could she encourage him. She would not be marrying a Venetian or anyone. It was she who was unfit for him. And then she realized she knew another Italian word that would suit. She’d heard it and whispered it just that morning, inside her wee cottage.
“Troppo...perfetto.” Too perfect. She shrugged and waited.
Though the man remained as red as before, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. He bobbed, muttered something to himself, then he bobbed again. And in his excitement, he stepped forward, took Isobelle’s hand, and kissed the back of it. Then he carefully returned her hand to her side before backing away.
He waved every ten steps or so until he was out of sight.
Isobelle turned back to Signora Crescento, expecting her to be cross, but the old woman surprised her.
“No Italiano, eh?” she said. “Troppo, breve, fiero, grasso, alto, brutto, e perfetto.” With each word, she touched a finger, th
en held up those seven fingers when she was finished. “Sette parole Italiane. Sette più domani.” Then in English, “Seven words Italian. Seven more tomorrow.”
While Isobelle stood in shock at the crafty woman’s sudden ability to speak English, the old woman looked up at Britta. A frown turned her pleasant features into a deeply furrowed field and she shook her finger at the lass and chastised her with such a battering of Italian, Isobelle would never be able to understand it all if she had a proper teacher and a dozen years to learn the words.
Poor Britta stepped back from the window and still the woman ranted.
Isobelle considered ducking inside her cottage while Signora Crescento’s attention was elsewhere, but before she reached for the handle behind her, the woman’s attention dropped away from the window. A smile tugged at her wrinkly cheek and she winked at Isobelle before turning down the lane toward her own house.
Britta appeared at the window again, and she and Isobelle exchanged worried looks, just before they broke into laughter.
The child held up seven fingers, as the old woman had, and enunciated slowly. “Seven…more…tomorrow.”
Seven more words? Or seven more men?
CHAPTER SIX
If Isobelle was any judge, Ossian was a wee nervous when he returned to the cottage that night. He wasn’t shaking, but his eyes couldn’t seem to land on anything for long. While he waited for supper to cook itself through, the table seemed to interest him for a bit. Then something outside the window. He headed for the door and claimed he wished to take a gander at the garden spot, but he took his fine time returning. Isobelle finally gave up and went outside herself, to see if the man had wandered off in his distracted state. But he stood to the side of the house, his toes on the edge of the prepared plot of dirt, staring at the stone of the cottage wall.
“What do ye see there, Ossian? A hole that needs a patch? Perhaps ye should take a good look around at the place before ye go searching for a fancy berth on a ship, aye?”