Collecting Isobelle

by L. L. Muir

  She shook her head quickly. “But ye promised!”

  “I promised to see ye settled.”

  “And happy.”

  “Weel, since I’ve already tried and failed at that, I’ll let yer husband worry about the happiness bit. Signora Crescento will see that only the kindest of men are allowed to court ye. Men who will be patient with ye while ye learn the language.”

  Ignoring the pain of her breaking heart and bruised wrist, Isobelle put her hands on her hips and gave her cousin a murderous look.

  “I’ll not marry without love, Ossian. And the only way a man can believe he loves me is if ye sew me lips together. Ye’ve said so all our lives. Deny it if ye can.”

  Her cousin closed his eyes and shook his head in denial, but it was more likely he was denying he could hear anything at all.

  “We were all witness to the love between Ivar and Morna. Ye canna expect me to marry a man that canna love me completely and to be reminded every day that my life is lacking.”

  “Signora Crescento will find a kind man—”

  “I’ll drive a kind man to do unkind things. Ye’ve said that as well.”

  Ossian snorted, but though he couldn’t deny her arguments, he didn’t appear to be relenting.

  “And ye canna leave me in the old woman’s hands, Ossian. She doesna speak English or Scots!”

  “I am sorry, lass. This house costs a fair piece, aye? I’m off to find work on a merchant ship. The Turks are a menace these days, and I hear tell a man with a keen sword arm can make a fine livin’; but a man with a crossbow can make four times that. Since I can wield both, I reckon I’m worth me weight in gold, eventually. I’d be given a share of the captain’s quarters as well. Does that not sound like Paradise?”

  “Nay, Ossian,” she said, bowing her head. “The only thing that sounds like Paradise is Scotland.”

  “Isobelle, mauvournin’. For ye, there is no Scotland. All of Clan Ross, save yer brother and Cousin Ewan, believe yer still inside that tomb. If others learn ye escaped, it will be yer head in a noose and the three of us hangin’ beside ye. Would ye wish that?”

  Isobelle shook her head and walked away. With no better ideas for swaying her cousin, she headed toward the end of the street and the wall and sea beyond. She’d have to allow her sadness to ebb away before she’d set a slipper inside the sunny little house. If not, it would be no better than the tomb she’d once escaped.

  A husband? A Venetian for a husband? An unloving husband of any sort was a curse to be avoided. But a husband whom she could not understand? Ridiculous.

  She smiled at a little girl who looked up from her collection of shells and rocks to see who had brought a shadow to her wall. The rocks were rough but warm beneath Isobelle’s hands and she bid their peace and silence to ease her mind. And there, in the warmth of the southern sun, an idea began to sprout.

  If a man wanted to marry her, he would just have to learn her language. And if she proved to be a poor teacher? Could she be blamed?

  Aye, she could do worse things than live out her life alone.

  ~ ~ ~

  The little Greek, Icarus, pushed himself away from the shadows of the little cottage and headed down the path, certain he’d not been noticed. If his master, God’s Dragon, were any other man, Icarus would suspect he was smitten with the beauty. But if the rumor was to be believed, the same sword that created the frightening scar across Gaspar Dragotti’s face had done much more frightening things to other parts of his body. So it was doubtful his master had any personal interest in the woman, but had been ordered to investigate her and her companion—a man who was not her husband after all.

  Icarus smiled as he picked his way down the road, knowing his master would be well pleased with the details he’d learned. And Icarus was pleased God’s Dragon had chosen to spend the night in the city, for it meant no rowing out to the man’s private island to fix his supper, or rowing back, as Icarus did each night.

  He rolled his shoulders in anticipation of a painless evening.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gaspar sat on a simple wood bench at the rear of the gardens absently watching the Augustinian friars collecting food in their aprons. Dressed in black and sitting silently in the summer shade like the shadow of a true dragon, he made them nervous, he knew. But he preferred to sleep on hallowed ground, when not at home, and as Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice, he could go wherever he willed. And he willed to sit in a peaceful garden—where Satan had no reach—while he waited for Icarus to bring him news.

  He had no interest in the woman. It was only the inflection in her speech he wished to understand. As a student of many languages, he was frustrated when he misunderstood someone speaking one of those languages. And English, as his native tongue, never troubled him. But Gaelic was a problem. He’d hoped to never hear it again, in truth. But he was determined to know why the woman had used that inflection when calling the man husband.

  It was the only reason he’d sent Icarus to find them. He wanted his curiosity settled. It was as simple and as sinless as that.

  The friars, finished with their gathering, scurried away, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the echo in his head of their shuffling feet. Or was it the echo of the woman’s feet as she meandered up the aisle of the church?

  Was she a venefica? A witch? Had he finally happened upon one in truth?

  If she were executed, she could tempt me no more.

  Gaspar shook the voice from his head because it was wrong. Not only was he not tempted, it would be a sin, surely, to punish a woman for her beauty. Of course men tried to do just that on many occasions. Husbands, jealous and suspicious, would run to the church and accuse their wives of witchcraft, to rid themselves of their own weaknesses. And it would surprise him not at all to learn that most investigators, excluding himself, would believe the men in most occasions.

  Gaspar had naught in common with those men. He had a gift. He could read the guilt on the faces of most men as if they’d opened their mouths and confessed. He always knew when a man was lying, even if the man had convinced himself otherwise.

  A gate squeaked open and he turned toward the sound, hoping to see Icarus. It was only a friar, returning for a knife he’d left lying among the plants. He gave Gaspar a smile and a slight bow, then returned from whence he’d come.

  Gaspar took a deep breath and settled into his thoughts.

  Yes. He could tell if a man was lying, and the knowledge turned his stomach. He could tell when a man was lying, and this time, it was himself. The truth was Gaspar Dragotti was tempted by the Scotswoman. The vision of her hair, her face, her lips—they all haunted him each time he closed his eyes. And though he ignored the stirrings of his body in response to that vision, he could not wipe it from his memory.

  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 wa
rrior 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 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 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 puff
ed 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?”