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 certainbruttomeantugly.The man was blessed with a beak of a nose which, 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 marryinga 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, then 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 shewinked 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 sweet 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?”
“I’ve already looked, Izzy.”
The air was too heavy in her chest. It would move neither out, nor in. Finally, she forced herself to take a deep breath to help clean out the old air.
“Oh? Ye’ve looked?” She kept her tone light. “No luck, I suppose?”
Ossian pulled his attention from the wall and faced her. “I thought I’d found some luck. A ship headed to England, even. A merchant who deals in long bows made from English Oak. He was right pleased to have me...or so he was this morn. Then he sent a man to find me, to tell me he’d been mistaken, that there was no room.”
Isobelle’s spirits took wing. Ossian wouldn’t be leaving so soon after all. Usually, when he couldn’t look her in the eye, it was because he was trying to find the courage to tell her he was leaving her alone for a while. And sometimes, the whiles were months long. Neither of them would admit it, but each time he left, there was a chance they’d never see each other again, what with one bit of trouble and another. And most of it caused by her hair and the men who felt the need to touch it.
But they couldn’t very well pay a man to protect her—it would take all Ossian’s wages to do so. And if Ossian did the protecting, there would be no wages earned. She was simply far too much trouble for one man to handle. Even plaited, her hair found a way to escape. But if she could see fit to cut her hair, so she could keep it covered always, she might be fine enough on her own.
