“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, if only 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 earna 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.Pesceshe knew to meanfish, thanks to her time on sea, 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. Isobelle 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 asteady 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 allowed her eyes to wander to the passersby. Even an unpleasant-looking, persevering man deserved the chance to introduce himself. But if any of them tried to argue beyondNo, 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 such a game, 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. In time, perhaps the old woman would be reduced to sending along either married men, priests, or she’d have to wait for a new generation to 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 the laugh of a wee bairn. She stood and brushed thedirt 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.
