Oh, she did. More than anything. “No. I want Mr. Alford to receive the credit for this.” Honor had been stolen from his family, and she had the chance to offer him an undeserved gift. She didn’t think she’d ever done that before. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t practical or logical or—
Her fingers tightened around the box, and she ground her teeth together. Before she could change her mind, she spun and marched into Mr. Alford’s tent.
“I have something for you,” she said. She walked to the side of the cot and stood, stiff and straight.
He groaned and turned his head toward her. “What are you doing? Shut the flap. The sun is giving me a headache.”
Dark circles made half-moons below his eyes. The room smelled of illness and the myrrh Pallavi had insisted they burn in a brass censer, and the air was a heavy blanket wrapped around them. He looked miserable.
“I need to give you this.” She would do the right thing, but there was no way she could make her voice sound anything but harsh. Obedience would have to be enough for now.
He sighed and pried open one eye. “What do you want?”
Nora resisted the urge to hide the box behind her back. She knew it unlikely he’d show appreciation, but after the way he’d opened up to her last night, she’d thought he’d be kinder.
Nora placed the box in his lap and watched as he brought it up to his face. He narrowed his eyes. “What is this? A deformity?” He blinked and wiped at his eyes.
“It’s a gynandromorphic Vindula erota.”
“Gynandromorphic?” His eyes narrowed as he studied it. “You mean . . . ?”
“The butterfly is half male and half female—its body, its brain.”
Mr. Alford’s eyes widened. “I’ve never come across something like this in all my years of study.”
“I understand it’s uncommon. I’d never seen a specimen until my outing with Owen yesterday.”
“Have you studied it?”
“A little.”
A shudder jerked his shoulders, and he shoved the box back into her hands. He clutched his belly and moaned, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. When the episode ended, he said, “Put it on the trunk, and you can tell me about its habits later. Then you can illustrate it for the book. It’ll be a showpiece.”
Before Nora could do as he asked, his breathing slowed and deepened as he fell back to sleep. She pressed a kiss to her fingertips and held them against the side of the box, then set it down and escaped the sickroom.
Sita sat at the table outside the cabin, making broad strokes on a sheet of paper with a green pastel. She bit her lower lip, revealing the deep dimples in her cheeks. Her silky braids were caught up into two rings tied with wide indigo ribbons. She sat back and studied her artwork for a moment before reaching for the pile of fennel seeds mounded beside her paper. Pinching some, she tossed them into her mouth and crunched on them.
The taste of vomit whispered against Nora’s throat, so when she reached Sita, she scooped a teaspoon of the seeds into her palm and pressed her tongue against them. The licorice flavor reminded her of the box of breath fresheners her mother kept in the drawer of her bedside table. Maybe Nora would pack some into an envelope and send them with her next letter home.
She chewed the seeds as she studied Sita’s picture. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before, as were most of Sita’s original pieces when she wasn’t practicing the illustrations Nora assigned her. In this one, green swirls of palm fronds outlined abstract maroon and yellow flowers. The green shot off toward the edges of the paper, twisting into the heads of caterpillars.
Owen, now dry and fully dressed, joined Nora, and they watched as Sita picked up her pastel and made a few final flourishes. She turned a smile on them. “What do you think?”
“It’s incredible,” Owen said. “Amazing that you’ve had no formal training.”
“You’re a rare talent, Sita.” Nora lifted the paper and held it up. The sun shone through the vibrant colors, making it look like a stained-glass window. “Maybe one day people from all over the world will travel here and buy your art.”
Sita’s face fell, and she looked at the table. With nimble fingers, she replaced the pastels in their wooden case and clicked it shut. Then she rested her open mouth against the edge of the table and swept the rest of the fennel seeds into it. Sitting up straight, she rolled the seeds around her mouth and swallowed. “Do Christians believe in bad luck?”
“No,” Nora said. “Christians believe God is omnipotent and omniscient. That means God knows everything and has unlimited power.” She laid the paper on the table. “Luck is also untenable. Nature proves there is order.” Except for her gynandromorph. There were always aberrations.
Sita rested her elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand. She gave a lusty, impressive sigh. “Bad things always seem to happen to my family, and my father thinks we are cursed.”
Nora wanted to dismiss Sita’s concerns—they were ridiculous, of course—but she looked so forlorn. So miserable. Nora knelt beside her and cupped Sita’s face in her hands. “God has a plan for you. A plan to prosper and not harm you.”
“Then why is He letting my father do this terrible thing to me?”
“It hasn’t happened yet. And I promise I will somehow free you from it.”
Owen coughed, and Nora looked at him, her eyes widening when he shook his head. Did he not want her to help Sita? A deep line appeared between his brows, and she saw worry in the tight way he pulled his lips together. Maybe he was only worried she wouldn’t be able to keep her promise. He didn’t know her well if he thought she was prone to failure.
He sighed. “I’ll stay and watch over Frederic if you and Sita want to go for a walk.”
Sita looked up at Nora and nodded, her eyes darting to the woods. Maybe she needed a distraction. Nora knew she did.
“That sounds lovely.” She shouldered her rucksack. “Just in case,” she told Sita with a wink. “You never know what you’ll discover when you’re roaming around.”
Those words, spoken a decade earlier, stirred a memory of her father. “Keep your eyes open, Bumble Bea. You never know what you’ll find if you’re looking.”
So often, Nora focused on one narrow thing—an idea, a hope, a specimen, a dream—that she missed everything happening around her.
She took Sita’s hand, and the little girl dimpled. “Let’s go find something.”
They tramped through the grass and tripped over ferns and logs and lichen-covered stones that lined winding streams. Nora kept her eyes on Sita, watching the child laugh and poke around and mimic the bugs and birds she saw. I’ll keep my eyes open. I might find some way to save her from this fate if I’m looking.
Chapter
Seventeen
Two days later, when Mr. Alford was well enough to sit unassisted and bark commands at anyone unlucky enough to enter his line of sight, Nora rapped on the front door of a two-story house made of pale brick. Nearly overtaken by purple clematis, it housed the Greater British Missionary Alliance, and she was eager to meet with Christians who had dedicated themselves to the welfare of the native people. Mr. Alford’s conscience might have been consumed by thoughts of the mating rituals and life cycles of tropical butterflies, but surely the missionaries would be more sympathetic to Sita’s plight.
A servant wearing a full beard and turban opened the door and led Nora to a light-filled office just off the hall. A moment later, a well-fed man sporting a heavy mustache that flowed into lacy gray muttonchops entered the room. His eyes wrinkled in the corners, and a relaxed smile pushed up his round cheeks. Nora felt certain he would help her. He had an air of joviality and kindness.
“Please, have a seat.” He waved Nora into a spindly upholstered chair opposite an imposing desk covered in all manner of paper.
Nora settled herself.
He undid the bottom button of his vest and sat behind the desk, with cracking joints and a satisfied sigh. “I am Mr. Jacob Wellin
g, director of missions for southern India. What can I do for you?”
Nora relaxed her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression and introduced herself. “I’m looking for help for a young friend. Her father has dedicated her to worship at the temple of Yellamma and all that that entails.”
Mr. Welling had lived in India for years. Hopefully he wouldn’t expect Nora to expand on Sita’s fate.
A knowing light entered his watery eyes, and his jowls settled into an expression that reminded Nora of a bloodhound, all drooping skin and sad expression. “Terrible business,” he said. “But there isn’t a lot we can do.”
Nora blinked. “But you’re head of the mission here.”
“And this is a local matter. It isn’t illegal in India to give children into such practice.”
She swallowed against the sourness filling her mouth. It slid down her throat and burned a trail to her stomach. “But you’re here on a calling from God. It’s your duty to help the disenfranchised.”
Mr. Welling sat back in his chair and rested his folded hands over his belly. “You are a softhearted woman, Miss Shipley. It’s a credit to your sex and—”
She held up her hand, palm toward him. “Please don’t patronize me. I’m neither softhearted nor like most women. I merely see a need and want this child helped.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not in any position to help. I am here to support the needs of the local missionaries.”
“I thought you were here to reach the Indians with the news of Christ. To reduce yourself so that He might shine through you.”
Mr. Welling smiled, small, even teeth peeking from behind his mustache. “Have you ever considered entering ministry, my dear?” When she sighed and rubbed at her temple, he coughed. “No, of course not. But, you see, if we interfere in this, then the Hindus will grow angry, and we wouldn’t be welcome any longer. Kodaikanal is a place of respite for our ill and weary workers. In order to continue meeting the needs of our Christian brothers and sisters in India, we must not start a revolt among the locals.”
“This girl is a Christian, converted at one of your mission schools. Do you set the captive free only to leave them in the very cages they thought they’d escaped?” Nora’s heart pounded against her rib cage. She didn’t know what she’d do if Mr. Welling was unwilling to help.
He sighed. “That is unfortunate.”
“Quite the understatement, Mr. Welling.”
A soft cough sounded from the doorway, and Mr. Welling’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling as though he were praising God for the interruption. “Mr. Davies! I’m so glad you’ve come.” He stood and offered Nora a placid smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Shipley, that I can’t be of more service. I’ll keep your little friend in my prayers and hope God preserves her.”
Nora stood. “I’m certain God will find your sacrifice pleasing.” She ignored the wounded expression in his eyes and turned away.
Swathi Davies and her husband stood in the doorway, Swathi’s pinched face cradling a soft smile. Charan frowned at Nora and gave a slight shake of his head.
“I will see Miss Shipley out.” Swathi patted Charan’s hand and reached for Nora’s.
Approaching her, Nora nodded to Charan, and behind his brittle façade, she saw fear. For his wife or position, she didn’t know, but she sent him a smile. He had lost his child, and although his wife still stood beside him in body, her soul and mind were broken and not altogether present.
Swathi curled her fine-boned hand around Nora’s arm and led her from the house. They stopped on the marble step outside the door, and Swathi’s grip turned desperate. Hard.
“Please don’t think ill of me for eavesdropping, but I overheard your conversation with Mr. Welling, and I might be able to help.” Her eyes darkened, and she glanced behind them. She released Nora’s arm and slid the door closed. “Come.”
Nora followed Swathi down the step and up the pebbled lane to the gate. Hope, in the guise of a swarm of butterflies, fluttered in her belly. She reached for the iron balustrade to steady herself. “Please, tell me.”
Swathi’s tongue darted out and wet her lips. “If anyone finds out I told you this, it could ruin my husband’s career. Mr. Welling, as kind as he is, doesn’t brook noncompliance among his missionaries. My husband is in a precarious position, as he’s not fully British. The Eurasians are looked down on by both father and mother.” When Nora shook her head in confusion, Swathi continued, “The British don’t fully embrace their children, but neither do the Indians. They are both but neither. My parents—” Tears welled, and she sniffed, pulling them back. “My parents weren’t happy I married Charan, even though my family has been Christian for a hundred years. Even though they sent me to the English school. And Charan’s father went back to England after he secured him this position. We have no one and nothing. So please, you must not tell anyone I spoke with you about this.” Her chin trembled, and she blinked.
“I give you my word.”
Swathi leaned in, and her whispered words brushed Nora’s ear. “There is a woman outside Madurai. She runs a home for children who have been rescued from your friend’s fate. Some worked for a few years, but many escape before they’re given over.”
Nora pulled back and pressed her hand against her heart. God had made a way.
The front door creaked open, and Nora squeezed Swathi’s arm. “I’ll come to you when the information is needed. Thank you.”
Swathi bit her trembling lower lip. “Will you . . . will you come for lunch tomorrow? I know I don’t know you well, but I’ve no one here, and my husband is so busy.”
Nora looked at the house and saw Mr. Welling standing on the step, shading his eyes with a hand and staring after her. She smiled brightly and waved at him, then looked at Swathi. “I’d love to come.”
Then she slid through the gate and turned toward camp, the gentle stirrings of restored faith spurring her forward.
Lunch with Swathi proved interesting. Educated and articulate, she had Bitsy’s quick wit and Rose’s sweet spirit. Mr. Davies came home to dine with them, and their conversation continued with his thoughtful responses.
Their cook—a man who had worked for them in Madurai—prepared the best meal Nora had eaten in India thus far, though she wouldn’t tell Pallavi. Dosai stuffed with mutton, fish cooked in a well-spiced broth, sambar, the ever-present rice, plus an array of dishes Nora had no name for and knew she’d never be able to describe.
When they finished eating, Mr. Davies took Nora’s hand. “Thank you for visiting with us.” She saw more in his eyes than his words expressed. The look he gave his wife was tender. “We’ve been lonely since leaving our home.”
Swathi had been lonely, he meant. He’d been kept busy. She stayed in a house, empty save for her cook and a man who cleaned and worked in the garden. No child to fill her days. Her movements exhibited a sluggishness that spoke of deep grief, her eyes wandered when their talk slowed, her skin wore a gray cast, and she only picked at her food.
When Mr. Davies left, Nora glanced at Swathi, who clasped and unclasped the fork sitting beside her plate. Nora had rejoiced when she first saw the utensil, knowing she’d be able to eat her fill, but now the item seemed to have absorbed all of Swathi’s sadness, and Nora wanted nothing more than to ease it.
Over the course of a single lunch, she’d developed a deep regard for Swathi. Maybe because she missed her friends and the easy conversation that sparked between them, or maybe because the tension she’d carried in her back since meeting Mr. Alford and failing, repeatedly, to impress him had dissolved the moment she stepped into Swathi’s cozy bungalow. Either way, they’d fallen into an instant and deep friendship.
“I lost my father,” Nora said.
Swathi’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible pain.”
“It never really goes away. But it does become bearable. Eventually.”
“My family has been lucky. Until Lukose, none of the children died young. We are a robust people,
and I became complacent, trusting that he would be safe. Because of that, and because God loves us. Isn’t that silly? It’s terrible theology, Charan would say. I haven’t told him how angry I am that God didn’t protect my son. Does that shock you?”
“No. I understand it.”
She looked at Nora for a moment, then nodded. “It’s hard to talk about such things with others. They don’t understand. Even my family . . . my mother believes marrying Charan caused a weakness in our child. The British often don’t fare well in India. They contract every disease, die so quickly. Most of them send their children away to England before they turn six, knowing they’ll be more likely to survive. Do you think my son’s British blood made him susceptible to typhoid? Did it make him too weak to survive it?”
Nora shook her head. “Fully British people survive typhoid. And fully Indian people die of it. I think it was just a terrible thing that happened, and none of it had anything to do with your husband’s heritage.”
Swathi shuddered and sank against her seat. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Sometimes my faith becomes so twisted up in fear and emotions, I forget we live in a natural world.”
A small laugh escaped Nora’s throat. “Sometimes my thoughts become so consumed by the natural world, I forget about faith. I should remember it more often.”
She thought of Sita and her situation, realizing she might have to rely more on God than her own understanding. An uncomfortable position for someone who had spent years cultivating a sharp mind and explanations backed by science.
Three days later, Nora stood at the table in the rickety cabin and peered at the stack of books brought from England. Her fingers ran down the spines.
“Illustrations of New Species of Exotic Butterflies, Lepidoptera: Indigenous and Exotic, The Cabinet of Oriental Entomology . . . there. That’ll work.”
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