“They’re in copula.” She bit her lower lip, then grinned.
“So?”
She flipped open her rucksack and dug through it for a kill jar. “Common Jezebels do not fly like that. They’re slow, methodical, steady. Even while mating.” She turned back and scooped the butterflies into the jar.
Owen pressed close, and she held up the jar so he could see them, still connected, as they breathed in the poison. She faced him again, his hand still on her shoulder, and their eyes met through the glass.
“Owen, this is an undiscovered species. I’m certain of it.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek in a brief kiss. “I think you’ll be receiving that scholarship after all.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Nora knelt inside her tent and dug through the chest at the foot of her cot. She plunged her hands between neatly folded skirts and shirtwaists, undergarments and stockings. A silk scarf twisted itself around her fingers, and she swept it away before pushing her arm deeper. When she touched the bottom of the trunk, she sat back and buried her head in her hands.
Where is it? She dropped her hands to her lap and looked around her tent. She knew she’d left the butterfly—the original one she’d discovered mud-puddling—mounted and nestled in a box behind a stack of books on her makeshift desk.
Nora got to her feet and crossed to the desk. She shifted the books—for the fifth time—and peered beneath the stool. It was gone. She’d scoured the entire tent, and it was gone. Her hand crept to the cicada brooch pinned at her collar. The cool metal reassured her. She tapped her fingers against the desktop before whirling. The other two butterflies, mounted in their own box, sat on the upturned basket beside her cot.
She grabbed the box, closed the lid, and shoved it deep into her rucksack.
“Nora?” Frederic called. “I need to speak with you.”
She dropped the bag to the floor and slid it beneath her cot. For good measure, she bent and pushed it in even farther. Then she slipped from the tent and raised her hands to shield her eyes from the glare of the midmorning sun.
“You’re going to a dinner party tonight,” Frederic said.
“Pardon me?”
“Jacob Welling is hosting a dinner for many of the local missionaries and Europeans. You’ll be joining them. Owen will accompany you.”
Nora grinned. “What, Frederic, you don’t want to go?”
He arched a brow. “Thank you. No.”
“I’m neither a missionary nor European. Why am I to attend?” She hated the idea of a dinner party. She’d never been partial to them—finding the superficial conversation stilted—but now, after the disastrous party at home, she was even less inclined to go.
“The Greater British Missionary Alliance is a powerful presence in Kodaikanal. As representatives for the Crown, it is expected we forge connections.”
“Why can’t you go? Surely you would find it more comfortable and familiar, being British.”
“I have work to do.”
Nora cast a longing gaze behind her and could just see her microscope through the slit between the flap and the tent. She’d planned to spend the evening studying and illustrating her new butterflies. Frederic may not think her own work valid or important, but Nora would rather spend a hundred hours peering into her microscope than attend a dinner party with strangers.
Frederic crossed his arms, and his lips pinched. “You’re in no position to argue with me.”
He had her trapped, and he knew it. He’d use her to see to all the things he needed to get done but didn’t want to do. If both she and Frederic would rather work than attend a soiree, Frederic would get to stay at camp. And if she argued, she’d find herself on the first ship bound for England.
Then again, if Mr. Welling was hosting the event, there was a possibility Swathi and Mr. Davies would be present. Nora could get word on Sita.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
Hours later, Nora found herself questioning her quick capitulation when she’d endured a two-hour dinner sitting between an eighty-year-old career missionary and the pimpled sixteen-year-old son of a retired military captain.
The only bright spot was seeing Swathi slip into the large parlor as the dinner party finished their meal and made their way out of the dining room. Nora had pushed to the front of the crowd, hoping to capture Swathi’s attention, but her friend had sat at a piano and begun to play—quite expertly—an interminable ballad.
Nora stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed and foot tapping, waiting for Swathi to finish her display of musical genius. Mr. Davies caught her eye from across the room and nodded, concern on his handsome face.
“What is wrong with you? You’re behaving abominably.” Owen took Nora’s elbow, forcing her to relax her arms.
“I dislike dinner parties. Intensely.”
“Yes, we can all see that.”
She glared at him. If he only knew . . . but she wouldn’t tell him why she hated the beastly things. How mortifying. Her eyes swept his figure. He did look fine. He’d worn a dress coat on their ride to Mr. Welling’s house—Frederic had a jatka pick them up, and the horse-drawn carriage was an improvement over the lumbering mattu vandi—and they’d been separated as soon as they’d entered the door, so she hadn’t realized what a figure he cut in his starched shirt and swallowtail coat.
He tipped his head toward her, and she realized she’d been caught staring. She coughed into her hand and looked away. “You look nice. Quite dashing. I wouldn’t have thought you’d pack something so frivolous.”
Owen laughed. “Why must you always follow a compliment with an insult?”
She blushed. Did she do that? “I . . . I don’t know.”
He didn’t respond, and she forced herself to look at him, afraid she’d hurt his feelings, but a soft smile played on his lips. His gaze took in her figure, and she supposed he dragged the moment out in retaliation for either her own unabashed study of him or the insult that had so casually dropped from her lips.
She rubbed her hands down the skirt of her dusky rose silk gown. She wished she’d followed her mother’s advice and packed an evening gown. Nora had insisted she’d have no use for one and, in a compromise, offered to bring this dress, which she’d had made for her graduation ceremony. “I’m not properly dressed.”
“You look stunning. We’re among missionaries. I’d say I’m overdressed.”
She looked around the crowded room and realized he was right. Most of the women wore what she would consider Sunday best, and the men—
Nora’s thoughts froze. “Did you say I look stunning?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s true.”
She raised her hand to her head and patted the chignon she’d spent ten minutes shoving pins into as she’d rushed around her tent, looking for her gloves. “No one has ever—”
“It’s true.”
Nora had always been too busy to spend more than a moment thinking about her looks. Occasionally she’d catch her reflection as she placed a hat on her head near the foyer mirror or as she fished her hand in the water below the falls, looking for water bugs, and she’d see that she had her mother’s eyes or her father’s ears. Beyond her heritage, though, she didn’t care overmuch about her appearance.
But the conviction in Owen’s voice sent waves of pleasure through her, reaching all the way to her toes. Maybe she cared just a little, at least where he was concerned.
“I always thought my lips were too full to be considered attractive,” she said.
“You don’t have to insult yourself after someone offers you a compliment.” Owen lowered his voice. “And I quite like your lips.”
From the corner of her eye, Nora saw Swathi slip from the piano and cross the room. In the opposite direction.
“Excuse me, Owen. I need to see to something.” As fast as she could without drawing attention, Nora hurried after Swathi.
When she finally
reached her, she grasped Swathi’s arm and marched her to a quiet corner near a set of ornately carved wooden doors.
“Are you avoiding me?” Nora asked.
“Of course not.” Swathi lifted her face. Her mouth tightened, and something flashed in her eyes—anger? Nora raised her brows, and Swathi’s face crumpled. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I knew you would ask about moving Sita, but I’m just not ready.”
“I don’t understand. You know it’s unsafe for her here.”
Swathi’s eyes filled, and her chin trembled. “I miss having a child around.”
Oh, dear. “I sympathize, but her father came to our camp. He knows I had something to do with it, and he won’t stop looking for her. The longer she stays with you, the more likely it is he’ll find her.”
Something like courage steeled across Swathi’s face, and Nora couldn’t help but admire her. Swathi offered Nora a brave nod. “I’ll get everything ready.”
Relief lifted from Nora’s shoulders. Soon Sita would be safe, and Nora could face whatever repercussions Frederic meted out. “Are you hungry? You didn’t join us for dinner.”
Swathi sniffed. “You’re so consumed with your insects that you’ve learned little about how things are done in British India. Do you think they would eat with us? How little these Christians know of God.” She clapped her hands over her mouth, and her gaze darted around. Then Nora heard a nervous giggle squeeze past Swathi’s fingers.
Nora blinked, her focus sharpening on Swathi’s large dark eyes and high cheekbones. There was no hiding her friend’s ancestry. Even Mr. Davies, who had an English father, would never be fully accepted by those who ruled this maddening, complex, astonishing country. Nora suddenly became aware of the danger she’d put them in. They could lose everything. They were risking everything for a child they didn’t know.
God, forgive me my arrogance. For weeks, Nora had assigned herself the role of Sita’s hero. Her savior. Without her, how could Sita be safe? Without her, how could Sita escape? Only she could sacrifice big enough to lead her friend to freedom. But with Swathi’s chastisement, Nora recognized her pride for what it was. Nora, too, knew little of God. He was bigger than she was. Bigger than Sita’s predicament. And much more able to arrange for one girl than she was. And her sacrifice was small in the face of what Swathi and Charan risked.
Nora grasped Swathi’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.”
Then she left, not wanting anyone to connect them.
She hadn’t taken three steps when Mr. Welling intercepted her. “I’m glad you were able to attend our dinner, Miss Shipley.”
Nora inclined her head, hoping her cool smile would dissuade him from further conversation, but he seemed oblivious to the hint and chattered for a few moments about the superb meal his French-trained chef had prepared and the splendid music, and could she believe a native played so well?
Nora resisted rolling her eyes and scanned the room for Owen. She saw him conversing with a man who sported a long beard and a twirly mustache, and her heart leapt.
Goodness, he was attractive. And, she’d come to realize, quite kind. Maybe the kindest man—after her father—she’d ever known. She also knew that, despite his flippant attitude toward work and education, he was intelligent.
“. . . he’s not your greatest admirer right now, Miss Shipley, but that can be changed, don’t you agree?”
Oh, I think he admires me a great deal. Her lips twitched.
“I don’t see the humor in this situation.” Mr. Welling’s words, couched in joviality, drew Nora’s attention. “And I suggest you rectify it immediately.”
Nora frowned. “Who are you speaking about, Mr. Welling?”
His jowls jiggled as he sputtered. “Frederic Alford, of course.”
“Of course.” She blinked. “Why are we discussing Frederic?”
“Frederic is concerned about your interference in the life of a local child. Sita, I believe her name is. I agree with him, of course. You must return her to her father.”
She rubbed her forehead and sighed. Now she understood Frederic’s real reason for sending her. Had he and Mr. Welling conspired to coerce her compliance? They didn’t know her well, if so. “Mr. Welling, with respect, I cannot—I will not—reveal her whereabouts.”
“You must.”
“Why must I?”
“If you don’t, it will cause the Indians to become unsettled. She attended the mission school our board runs. If parents find out a student was taken from her family, they will not continue to send their own children to be educated. What would happen then?”
“They would have to learn to read in their own language, perhaps.”
Mr. Welling’s nose reddened, but he kept his lips pulled into a taut smile, and Nora couldn’t help but be impressed. Her rebellion, as Lucius called it, had brought many weaker men to passionate ire. “You do not understand the seriousness of the issue, which is expected, as you are neither a missionary nor an Indian.”
“I do understand the seriousness. A child—brought to faith in Christ at your school—was to be forced into a life she neither wanted nor could endure. And no one but an American scientist was willing to help her. That is serious.”
Mr. Welling’s smile dropped, and his watery eyes held a warning. “It was not your place.” His rich voice rose, and the nearby guests grew silent, a silence that rippled through the room until only a few straggling whispers lifted from the corners.
A commotion stirred from Owen’s direction, and Nora looked up to see him elbowing his way toward her. When he reached her side, she saw censure in his eyes, but directed toward her or Mr. Welling, she didn’t know.
Nora sighed. Must she be at the center of every ruined dinner party? “Mr. Welling, I’m quite aware it wasn’t my place to save Sita from her fate. She attended your school and was introduced to Christ by your teachers. Therefore, it was your place to see to her safety.”
Mr. Welling sputtered, and those within hearing gasped.
Owen took her arm. “I believe we will take our leave. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Welling.”
He pulled Nora from the room, his fingers gripping her upper arm. When they reached the front garden full of roses spilling over low stone walls, he gentled his grasp and chuckled.
She pulled away from him and set off for the road, her shoes clicking against the marble walk leading away from Mr. Welling’s house.
Owen hurried after her. “Don’t be so angry.”
She paused at the gate and sighed. “I’m not. All I want to do is study insects, and I can’t seem to keep myself out of trouble.” Why couldn’t life be simple? Why did she always manage to get herself into one scrape or another? “At least I’m keeping someone from harm this time, not leading them into it.”
Owen placed his arms on either side of her, hands resting against the iron filigree bars topping the gate. “Except for yourself.”
He chewed on his bottom lip and crushed his brows together, the wiry hairs pointing in every direction. Nora had wanted to smooth those brows for months, and now she wanted to smooth the worry from his expression, smooth the fear from his heart.
She lifted her hands within the circle of his arms and followed the rounded arch of his eyebrows with the pads of her thumbs. They were coarse and rebellious, not giving in beneath her touch. His eyes and lips relaxed.
He bent his head toward her, his breath hot against her mouth. “I want to protect you. Even from yourself.”
“I don’t need protection.”
Owen tugged a lock of hair from her chignon and twisted it around his finger. He rested his forehead against hers, and his lips brushed hers as he said, “Let me. There’s never been anything I’ve wanted as much.”
Nora nodded. And when their lips met—was it him or her who closed the distance?—her heart crashed against her rib cage, and she thought she just might want Owen Epps more than the scholarship.
A cow lumbered by, s
haking its massive head, and the bells tipping its horns tinkled. Shoving its wet nose through the bars of the gate, it nudged Nora’s back, and she pulled away from Owen so she could push her palm against its bumpy head.
For a moment she considered letting it into the garden. Imagined Mr. Welling in the morning surveying his devoured roses. But the daydream was enough, and in the end she took Owen’s hand and set off down the road, firmly latching the gate behind her.
Owen nodded toward a path that veered from the main road and disappeared beneath a canopy of trees. “That’s Coaker’s Walk. Do you want to see it? I’m not ready to head back to camp.”
The trail wended up Mount Nebo, and soon they stood overlooking the mist-enshrouded trees surrounding Kodaikanal. The waxing moon, pregnant with the desire for completion, poured its ghostly light over the houses trailing down the hill.
As Owen wove his fingers between hers, the cicadas began to sing. Nora wondered if they were God’s own choir, sent to serenade them into each other’s affections. She tilted her head back, trying to see into the thick canopy, but the insects were elusive, lost to the darkness.
Together they edged from the rocky path and toward the ridge, fringed in knee-high grasses. Below them, the valley lay in fog. On clear days, Nora had heard one could see all the way to Madurai, but tonight they could only see the outlines of the hills.
Owen looked at her, his eyes glinting with something that caused her mouth to go dry. “Whatever happens,” he said, “I’m glad I came to India with you.”
“I’m—”
A scuffling sound caught Nora’s attention, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
She twisted to look back at the path. “Who’s there?”
Owen released her hand, leaving her feeling exposed. “Stay here.”
He crept toward the path, and Nora watched, her chest growing tight and her breathing shallow.
Muruga stepped from behind a tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “Where is my daughter?”
All her life, people had asked Nora, “Why are you so willful and stubborn?” and “Why can’t you be a normal girl?” She had never been able to answer then, but now she knew. God had made her that way for this moment. When faced with danger and society’s reproach, she wouldn’t back down.
A Mosaic of Wings Page 24