Page 16 of The Man with a Treasure

Isabella sounded half-dead, “It was cold where Scarlett and I were together. Let me suffer as she may be suffering.” As soon as she saw me walking around the end of her bed, tears broke free. “Angel, do you think I am of the worst to have lost my child?”

Mrs. Rossi, eyeing me as if speaking silent prayers for God to give me wisdom, backed out of the room.

“May I sit?” I pointed to a chair next to Isabella’s nightstand.

She nodded, wiping tears. “Do you?”

Thinking of what my father had just told me, I softly replied, “I don’t think you lost her, so no.”

Without the strength to lift her head from the pillow, she asked, “What do you think did happen?”

I sat back. “My mother… taught me it not polite to assume… anything. So, I was, eh, h-hoping, yes, hoping you could tell me.”

She stared at me with drained eyes that appeared to only have the barest shadow of life left. “Thank you for speaking to me in English.”

“Why do you p-prefer it?”

Her face reddened, but it wasn’t from a blush. It was more like she was forcing herself to speak what she wanted to keep hidden. “Because…” Her next words were whispered in a terror that would be only the beginning of all I was to learn about her past. “…it was what they forced me to speak.”

Quietly, I commented, “That would make me want Italian even more.”

“Not if the one who betrayed you speaks it.”

I was young and unaware of the betrayal she spoke of but smart enough to drop the subject. Isabella had her reasons, and that was enough for me. Besides, I had a job to do.

Father had told me that any details, even if they seemed small, counted. Locations, accents, scenery, clothing… all could possibly give him clues to where Scarlett might be. Even though Father was searching Australia—where he finally found Isabella—he didn’t believe that was where we might find Scarlett. So, I asked, “Was English the first language the man spoke.”

Curling under her blanket as if wanting to disappear, she shook her head.

“No? Okay, that is good. What other language did he speak?”

Shaking her head again, her eyes closed. “No. English, but not one man.” Her eyes opened, full of regret for a past she had no power to change. “They. Seven.”

Fighting to not appear as shocked as I was, I swallowed and calmly confirmed, “Seven men spoke English to you?”

“Yes.” Her eyes drifted down in shame.

Due to Father’s words, I assumed one of them had forced her into sex. And this Italian woman was possibly experiencing shame over the crime. “It is… i-important that you know… I would never see, eh, la vergogna,”—shame— “in anything you m-may have been, um, forced, to do.”

Her sight snapped back to mine.

It was a few moments before she asked, “How old are you, Angel?”

“I am almost, uh-how do you say, six teenager years?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Thank you.”

Such a sadness hung over her when she asked, “Have you ever had sex before?”

Too shy to speak of such a thing with a woman, I could feel my cheeks flame.

“No,” she answered for me. “When you finally are with a woman, be kind. Be gentle. We love good men. Not,” her jaw clicked as her eyes began to well again. “Not needless cruelty.”

“Was a man cruel to you?”

Now, her expression changed to pity, knowing I was in so far over my head talking with her. “Yes.” Then she added, “All of them were.”