A Mosaic of Wings

by Kimberly Duffy

  Gooseflesh rose along her arms and legs. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you. You’ve been indulged, and a woman indulged is a dangerous thing. I’ve already lost one family to poor decisions made by an irrational and unfeminine woman. I won’t allow you to destroy this one.”

  “Give me the letter.”

  He gave her a hard look, then turned and left the room.

  Nora stared after him. “He is unbelievable. He thought nothing of ruining my future.”

  Martha clucked her tongue. “You can come live with me.” She dropped her voice. “Lucius must, too, though he doesn’t yet realize it. I certainly won’t be giving him the money he wants, given his history. Between the two of us—I’m sorry, Nora, but your mother will be no use to us in this matter—we will ensure Lucius grows in his understanding of women. We’ll make him a proponent for suffrage.”

  With a groan, Nora sank into the settee and pulled a pillow over her face. “Aunt,” she said, her voice muffled by the velvet cushion, “I don’t want to change the world one man at a time. I only want to study insects.”

  And, Nora realized with a sinking stomach, now she wouldn’t even be able to escape Lucius if she moved to Long Island.

  Dear Miss Shipley,

  I’m taking the liberty of contacting you to tell you what happened in India after you and Mr. Epps left. Frederic has given me permission and sends his (not quite warm) regards.

  When you involved yourself in local affairs, I thought you stupid and enthusiastically waited for the consequences to fall. I will admit, I didn’t expect them to rain fire down on our camp.

  You already know we lost none of our work, for which Frederic is grateful. I wouldn’t have minded spending another half year away from England, but he felt it was time to return home. The local people weren’t happy with our presence thanks to your interference.

  So home I went. I was invited back into my house by my wife and nine daughters.

  Yes, nine.

  As they hugged me with enough exuberance to send me back across the Channel, I remembered your foolishness and admitted you might have also shown a measure of bravery I lack.

  My daughters will never know anything but comfort and privilege. And, except for as many forays away from them as I can muster, I’ve never thought they deserved anything else. But I certainly wouldn’t have sacrificed my work and career to ensure someone else had those things.

  So, Miss Shipley, your actions may have resulted in a burned camp, a shortened stay, and ejection from Kodaikanal and the surrounding areas, but you showed a strength of character I will never forget.

  Don’t feel the need to respond to this letter.

  Mr. Jeffrey Steed

  When the moon dipped below the horizon, Nora climbed the stairs, clutching Mr. Steed’s letter, which she had read half a dozen times. She wished Lucius hadn’t gotten a hold of it, but she didn’t wish Mr. Steed had not written it. He’d meant well. And, coming from someone who hadn’t really liked her, his words offered more validation than from another, more pleasant person.

  As Nora neared her mother’s open door, she paused. Lucius hadn’t had to tell her to keep their conversation from her mother. Over the last few years, they’d both conspired to keep Lydia from becoming aware of distasteful news. It was this environment of secrecy that had led Lucius to sell the journal without consulting Lydia first.

  Nora understood his reasoning. That sort of news was likely to send her mother into a relapse and cause her already weak condition to deteriorate. But Nora thought maybe Martha’s behavior—her honesty and transparency—offered something better. A chance to share one another’s burdens. The exposure of poor choices. Nora was sure she’d heard a Bible verse relating to that very thing. Fools walked in darkness, and she’d been a fool, allowing Lucius to convince her that Mother needed to stay in darkness.

  If Mother had been aware of her husband’s gambling, would she have allowed him to retain control of the journal?

  Nora cleared her throat and knocked on the doorjamb. When she peeked into the room, her mother motioned for her to enter from her place on the bed. “Darling, I’m so glad you’re here. Will you read to me for a while?”

  “Of course.” Nora settled into the chair beside the bed, lifting the book into her lap. A Little Tour in France. Nora rarely read anything but scientific texts and papers. Her mother, though, adored every new book that was released. She particularly loved books that took place in other countries, maybe because they took her far from the four walls of her house.

  Nora flipped through the pages of Henry James’s newest. She’d like to publish a book one day.

  She froze, startled by the thought. She’d spent so many years dreaming about running the journal, she’d never considered another route to publication. But, really, why not? If Frederic could find the backing to publish his field research, surely she could too.

  Nora shook her head, clearing it of the farfetched fancy. Her mother watched her with guileless eyes. Which came first, her mother’s naiveté or Lucius’s desire to keep her in the dark?

  “Mother, are you aware we need to move?” Nora asked.

  Lydia’s smile tightened. “Read the book, darling. I’m curious to hear about his travels.”

  “Lucius has lost our house. I will move in with Martha, if Lucius holds to our agreement, and you will have to leave Ithaca, as well.”

  The blanket covering Lydia’s legs wrinkled beneath her grasping hands. She balled it into her fists. “Every other book on France centers on Paris. This one should prove entertaining and enlightening.”

  Nora sighed. She flipped the book to the first page. Maybe her mother knew her own limitations. Knew she couldn’t cope with the truth. But how unfair that Nora alone was burdened with it. Lucius wasn’t her choice, after all. Her mother should bear some of the brunt of her own husband’s character flaws and failings.

  “When did you plan on giving me Father’s publication?” she asked.

  Lydia’s smile turned genuine. She released her hold on the blanket and smoothed her fingers over the puckered cotton. “I told Lucius before you returned from India that he should begin the process as soon as you got home. I thought it would give the two of you a chance to work together. Has he spoken to you about it?”

  Nora tipped her head and tapped her fingers against the book. How could her mother be married to someone for five years and know so little about him? “He has. He sold it.”

  Lydia’s expression fell, and she leaned against the bedframe, tugging the blanket up toward her chin. “I’m tired, darling. I don’t think I want to be read to after all.”

  It’s not my place to tell her. It’s Lucius’s. But Lucius wouldn’t tell her, and Nora had grown tired of pretending all was well to save her mother from the distressing reality of the man she’d chosen to wed.

  “Of course, but first you must know that Lucius has gambled away your money. All of it. He’s lost the house and journal. He’s been selling my jewels.”

  Lydia’s pale lashes lay against her even paler cheeks. A shudder ran through her body, and then she grew still.

  “Mother! Everything is gone.”

  Nothing so much as fluttered in recognition of Nora’s exclamation. Her mother’s words were slow and thin. “I’m sure Lucius will take care of everything, darling. Don’t worry.”

  By the time Nora had set the book aside and stood, Lydia’s chest rose and fell with the steady breaths of sleep.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  Nora peered past the fringed drapery and out onto the street. Leaves scattered the front yard, tripping and flipping in liberty, and the glass was cool beneath her hand. She might go to Cascadilla Falls. She could use some fresh air. Lucius had kept a fire burning in the parlor, saying her mother wasn’t well and had woken in the night with chills and shivers.

  Nora slipped her finger beneath her collar, swiping at the sweat slicking her clavicle. She turned from
the window in time to see Lucius enter the room carrying a box straining beneath the weight of a hundred stamps.

  “You’ve got a package.” He dropped it on the small table beside the settee.

  Nora hurried toward it. “It’s from India,” she said after studying the markings. She carefully untied the string and removed the brown paper wrapping. Lifting the lid, she saw a thick envelope and a cardboard box.

  “What is it?” Lucius asked.

  “I have no idea.” She flipped open the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers. As she shuffled through them, her heart stuttered. Page after page of wobbly script, transcribed from her notes on her butterfly—the habits she managed to observe the two times she studied it alive, the mimicry it managed so well, the differences between it and the Delias eucharis. And, on the final page, a perfectly illustrated image of the butterfly, so lifelike that Nora thought that if she touched the paper, the wings would flutter and the insect lift off the page.

  “It’s my butterfly,” she whispered, her nose beginning to burn. She lifted the small cardboard box and read the note attached to the top.

  Akka,

  Before you left for Madras, Owen told me all of your work had been destroyed. I’m sending you the copies I made. I hope it helps you. I must confess, I stole the first butterfly you found. I thought it might remind me of you, but I think you need it more. My aunt sent me my things, care of Swathi, and I’ve only now received them. I hope it’s not too late.

  I love you.

  Sita

  “Oh, Sita.” With shaking hands, Nora removed the box’s lid, and on a bed of cotton sat her beautiful stained-glass butterfly. A tear dripped from her nose and splashed against the box.

  She looked up at Lucius, who still stood over her. “A butterfly from India?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “What is it?”

  Nora dropped her eyes to the insect again, but all she saw was Sita. Her wide smile and flashing eyes and dimples that winked so often. Sita, who had placed on Nora the burden of sacrificial love.

  “It’s a Prioneris sita.” The name felt right. Greek for “sawtooth,” which described the markings on the wings, and Sita for the friend who had shown her that some things were more important than success.

  Nora raced up the stairs of White Hall, clutching Sita’s box to her chest. When she reached the second floor, she paused and sucked in a deep breath to calm her racing pulse. Then she burst through the open door of Professor Comstock’s office.

  His snores filled the room—a small feat, given how little space was left from the books stacked in precarious piles on the floor and boxes of various sizes covering every available surface.

  Nora picked her way across the room and sat in the chair beside his. She watched his dear, familiar face for a moment and smiled. His wheezy exhales fluttered his mustache, and the gold, wire-rimmed spectacles sat askew on his nose. This man had impacted her nearly as much as her own father, and she wanted to make him proud. Maybe she still could.

  “Professor Comstock.”

  He sputtered and blinked. Sitting up straight, he immediately grasped the pen that had spilled ink over the paper on his desk and began writing. “When the Corydalus hatches—”

  Nora laughed. “Professor Comstock.”

  He jerked his head toward her. “Nora! How long have you been there?”

  “Not long. I have something I need to show you.”

  He sat back, and she gently laid the box in front of him. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifted the lid. When he pulled Sita’s illustration from the stack, he looked at her with round eyes and released a short puff of air. “Is this what I think it is?”

  She nodded. “I named it Prioneris sita.”

  “An appropriate name, I think.” He looked at her, and his face glowed with approval. Of the find, the name, or her, Nora didn’t know. She hoped it was the latter.

  As he looked through Sita’s transcribed notes, grunting his interest, Nora sat with bated breath. His thoughts meant everything.

  He set the notes and illustrations aside and opened the sample box. “You have made quite a discovery. No wonder no one has noticed it before now. It’s an excellent mimic of the Delias eucharis. A lesser scientist wouldn’t have seen the differences.”

  “I realized after Frederic told me that the eucharis doesn’t mud-puddle that I needed to study it further.” She pointed to the hind wings. “And see how the orange spots on the underside of the wings are blunted? The eucharis has pointed spots. When I observed them mating, the sita flew rapidly and with great passion, quite unlike the Jezebel.”

  Professor Comstock laughed. “The best males of all species are passionate, are they not?”

  Nora’s only experience with the males of her species had proved her inadequacy in judging whether or not passion proved superior. She’d rejected Owen’s passion and felt certain he’d never demonstrate it again. At least not toward her.

  She ignored the knot tying up her insides and focused on the hope that had flown back into her heart with the arrival of the package. “Uncle John?”

  He looked at her with a soft smile. “You haven’t called me that since your freshman year.”

  “I felt it more respectful to address you as Professor when you became my teacher, but I’m done with school now, and I’ve missed you as my uncle. I’m asking you now, as my uncle, do you think I still have a chance to make a career in entomology?”

  Uncle John shook his head, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’ve always had a chance, Nora.”

  “I know I’ve lost any opportunity for the scholarship. And I won’t get my master’s. The journal is gone.” Her words grew thick. “But maybe I can publish my findings in a different journal and still pursue what I love.”

  She knew not everyone had the opportunity to do what they loved. She doubted Pallavi wanted to cook and clean for scientists, and Swathi wasn’t happy working with British missionaries—though hopefully the baby would bring her joy—but Nora hoped she might still have a chance to be a woman who forged a path in science.

  “I’m certain you’ve made a discovery that any publication would be thrilled to accept. Just because you offended a few men on the school board doesn’t mean your career is over. You might still be able to get your master’s, so don’t give that up just yet.”

  “I can’t afford it. And Lucius is moving us to Long Island.”

  He patted her hand. “There are other ways, Nora. I worked on campus in exchange for tuition and board, though I don’t think that option is open to women yet.”

  “I’m not sure it would be a good idea. As much as I don’t want to move, there is someone here who might not want to see me for another two years even more.” She dropped her head and whispered, “I hurt Owen.”

  Uncle John leaned toward her and tipped up her chin. His eyes, full of warmth and love, reminded her of her father’s, and Nora had never missed him so much as in this moment. “Don’t forget your male butterfly, my dear. Passion is a beautiful thing to behold, and it isn’t discouraged, or dismissed, so easily.”

  Nora pulled him into an impulsive hug, then began gathering her things together in an effort to hide her blush. As she passed through the doorway, a familiar scent caused her eyes to slide shut. She tightened her hold on her box, its splintered edges biting into her forearms. She felt Owen’s presence before he spoke, and when he touched her cheek, she exhaled a shuddering breath.

  She didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t speak. She held her regret as tightly as she held her future, tucked into a box shipped halfway around the world.

  His breath caressed her face. “Professor Comstock is right.”

  After his lips brushed her cheek, the door clicked shut, and Nora stood alone in the hallway, nursing the hope his touch and words had sparked.

  Chapter

  Thirty

  A light drizzle had started as soon as Nora left White Hall. It cooled her burning skin—th
e place where Owen’s lips had just barely grazed—and frizzed her hair.

  By the time she’d crested the hill and tramped up the drive to the house, her hair had escaped its knot and fallen in matted clumps across her shoulders. As soon as she entered the house, she darted up the stairs toward her room, hoping she could convince Alice to draw a bath. A long soak in rose-scented water would go far in cleaning the stickiness from her skin and easing her troubled mind.

  She slid into her room, stopping inside the door when she noticed Alice riffling through the armoire. A trunk lay open beside her on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Nora asked. She made quick work of removing her boots and scooted back so that she lay flat on her bed. She closed her eyes, enjoying the cushioned comfort of her mattress.

  “Lucius told me to begin packing your things.”

  Nora bolted upright. Alice continued to hum, pulling jackets from their hangers and folding them into neat packets to tuck into the trunk. She turned and held up an old work dress, its tan-and-moss-sprigged pattern faded and so ugly that even Nora refused to wear it. “Do you still want this?”

  Nora shook her head. “It’ll be good for rags. Why did Lucius tell you to pack my things?”

  Alice shrugged. “He said you were leaving next week with Ms. Martha for Long Island.”

  The room grew stuffy, and Nora’s vision swam. Blinking, she fisted the duvet and tried to make sense of Alice’s words.

  Her agreement with Lucius. No complaints.

  But that was before Professor Comstock had brought up other possibilities. Before she’d discovered the Prioneris sita and realized she could launch her career even without the scholarship. Before she’d decided she wanted more time with Owen.

  Now she knew that losing the journal hurt less than losing Owen. And maybe that was her father’s greatest legacy—not a scientific periodical, but the capacity to love unreservedly.