Chapter 5 #2
“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 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 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, 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 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?