A Mosaic of Wings

by Kimberly Duffy

  The woman near the fire looked up at the sound of her name. She used her sari to wipe at the corners of her eyes, then turned her attention back to the pan she was cleaning.

  Nora ran her hand over the wisps of hair puffing around her temples, pushing them down and bidding them to obedience. “I don’t need a chaperone. I’m a scientist, and my sex is irrelevant.” She drew herself to full height, which did little for her confidence.

  “Of course you need a chaperone. You are an unmarried woman under my care. How John thought this was a good idea is beyond me. I always thought him to be a pragmatic fellow, but this bit of foolishness shows otherwise.” Mr. Alford put his hands on his hips and scowled at her. She met his gaze and refused to break eye contact. She had done nothing wrong, and she wouldn’t be bullied by a British man with outdated notions.

  “Nora will be an asset to the team,” Owen said. “And I’m sure Pallavi will be a suitable chaperone.”

  “I don’t need a chaperone.” Nora pierced Owen with a sharp look. How would anyone take her seriously if she was trailed about by the cook?

  Mr. Alford spun away. “Come eat some dinner.”

  He stalked toward the khaki-clad men who sat on camp stools, scooping bits of sauced rice from tin bowls with their fingers, and muttered words Nora couldn’t hear. Owen and Nora followed him, and one of the men offered her his seat. She sat in it, grateful for the chance to get off her shaking legs.

  Another man nudged a bowl of water nearer to her with his foot. Nora dipped her fingers into it and let the cool water remove the journey’s dirt and grime. She wiped her hands on the scrap of fabric Mr. Alford tossed to her.

  Pallavi offered her a bowl of something that smelled heavily of spices. Eager to prove her mettle, Nora tried to use her fingers like the men, scooping bits of rice and sauce into her mouth. Most of it fell back to the dish before she managed to get it into her mouth, but she smiled at Pallavi anyway. “Delicious.”

  Owen settled cross-legged beside her and dug into his dinner, having no problem with the lack of utensils. Soon the other men went back to their meals, no longer staring at her with curiosity.

  She’d eaten only a few bites, not nearly enough to quell the hunger biting her belly, before Mr. Alford motioned to the man who’d given up his seat for Nora. “Leonard, you may as well tell them how our days are run. I can’t very well send her back home. There are three rules governing life here—do your work; if you’re going more than half a mile from camp, take someone with you; and don’t cause any problems.” He smacked a palm against his neck. “Blast these mosquitoes. Blast dysentery. Blast it all.” He threw his dish to the ground, glared at her, then stalked into the weeds rimming camp, his feet stirring up dust and his curses stirring up anxiety.

  The food in Nora’s mouth turned as thick as glue, and she forced it down her throat.

  “Ignore him.” Leonard unfolded himself from the ground and took Mr. Alford’s camp chair. “He’s only discouraged that so many on our team have succumbed to illness.”

  “And my arrival last month didn’t help matters.” The youngest man, a boy, really, shrugged. He had a wide pleasant face made pink by the fire, and a shock of blond hair. “My welcome was no warmer than yours, Miss Shipley.” He grinned at her. “I was raised in India, and we summered in Kodaikanal. I was an obvious choice to join the team.”

  The third man, sitting outside their circle, snorted. He puffed on his pipe and rubbed at his scruffy mustache. “You are no more obvious a choice to join us than Miss Shipley, you upstart pup. You being here has everything to do with the fact that your father is close to that gibface leading the missionary alliance in town.”

  The younger man shrugged, and his grin grew in width. “Come now, old man, you’re only jealous you had to work hard your entire life for the advantages I have just for knowing the right people.”

  “Let’s not give a poor first impression. I am Leonard Taylor.” Leonard pointed to the pale young man with the infectious smile. “This is William Abbott, and the one over there is Jeffrey Steed. He’s always puffing on that pipe. If it bothers you, tell him, and he’ll put it out.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. It’s medically necessary for my asthma.” Mr. Steed took a deep draw.

  Mr. Taylor shook his head. “We each have our own tents. Make yourself comfortable, for it’s the only private space you’ll have. Mr. Alford currently has us searching for a Papilio buddha.”

  “A Malabar banded peacock. I never dreamed I’d see one in person.” Nora glanced at Owen, and he smiled. “Professor Comstock will want to hear our observations.”

  “Be sure to wear appropriate clothing tomorrow,” Mr. Abbott said.

  Nora raised an eyebrow and looked down her nose at him. “I always wear appropriate clothing.”

  Owen coughed to hide a laugh, and Mr. Abbott went red. “I only meant that the sun is bright. You’ll need to wear a wide-brimmed hat and something comfortable for hiking and climbing.”

  Mr. Taylor slapped his hands against his knees. “It’s been a long day, and you must be tired from your travels. We usually relax a little before turning in. Pallavi serves breakfast at”—he looked over at where she sat, scouring a pot beneath a tree—“well, whenever she feels like it.” He stood and looked down at Nora. “I don’t care what sex you are as long as you are able to withstand disease and carry a rucksack. I, for one, am glad to have both of you on our team.”

  Nora’s tent held only a cot and her two trunks. Near the flap, which could be opened and pinned up or released to close the tent in darkness, she had wrangled a slab of wood over two upturned crates, creating a sort of desk that sported her microscope, jars, boxes of pins, and other accoutrements.

  She flipped onto her back and tapped her feet against the cot’s frame. Even though she’d turned in right after dinner, sleep hadn’t come. Owen, no doubt, had nodded off while chatting with the men around the fire. She’d been lying in bed for an hour, but the unfamiliar night sounds wouldn’t allow her to rest. Monkeys chattering, parrots squawking, a cicada of some type joining with its family in an otherworldly chorus.

  The men sat outside her tent, discussing the day’s work in elegant British accents. Mr. Alford’s voice set her on edge.

  Nora stiffened at the sound of footsteps at her tent flap. “Nora,” Owen whispered.

  “One moment.” She stood and grabbed her calico wrapper from the end of the cot. Donning it, she quickly did up the buttons and settled back down. “Come in.”

  Owen ducked beneath the flap, then pinned it up so that the doorway framed the men, the dancing fire casting shadows on their faces. Mr. Steed peered into her tent, squinting to see through the inky blackness of the night separating them. Nora ignored him.

  Owen grabbed the upturned bucket she had set beneath her desk to use as a stool and dragged it toward the cot. He set an oil lamp on the floor beside him before sitting.

  She tucked her legs to the side. “Is it okay that you’re in here? It’s highly unusual.”

  “Everything about this is unusual, Peculiar,” he said as amusement bloomed across his face. “I think we’ll have to relax convention here. While the other men are just outside your tent, in full view, I believe it should be acceptable. I wanted to see how you’re doing. You were so quiet at dinner, and then you disappeared.”

  “I don’t believe my presence is agreeable.”

  He folded his fingers and rested his chin atop them. “You’ll win them over. They won’t be able to ignore your brilliance as soon as they see you in the field. Just give it time.”

  “Prove myself.”

  He nodded. “You will.”

  She raked her hands over her scalp, disrupting the braid she’d woven earlier. Prove herself. Again. Over and over, in every part of her life, forever and ever, she’d have to prove herself. The thought sometimes seemed daunting. Would there ever be a time when she wouldn’t have to prove herself? When her accomplishments would be validation enough? “I wond
er if Mary Davis Treat had to prove herself to Darwin when they began corresponding. Or when she had insect species named after her. It seems very unfair that I have to prove myself when dozens of women before me already have.”

  Owen crossed his legs and wiggled his foot. He bit his lower lip, studying her in the flickering light of the lamp. “It is unfair. But it’s unfair that I don’t have a father who supports my endeavors, and it’s unfair that the men who worked with the team previously had weak constitutions and became ill, and it’s unfair that Pallavi is spending her dotage scrubbing pots for foreigners instead of napping beneath a banana tree.” He shrugged. “We all have handicaps we have to overcome.”

  Nora took a deep breath of honey- and cumin-scented air and looked at him. Really looked at him, past the handsome face and expensive clothing and cavalier charm. She’d come to realize over the past weeks that he wore his don’t-care attitude as a measure of protection. Because occasionally he said something so profound that it couldn’t possibly have passed through Owen Epps’s lips.

  “You aren’t as apathetic as you would have us believe,” she said.

  “Sometimes people see what they want, never looking deeper than the masks we all wear.”

  “What mask do I wear? A Blattellidae?” She held her index fingers over her head, wiggling them like antennae.

  Owen leaned toward her, and she was grateful for the dim light that hid the color filling her face at his nearness. A very masculine scent drifted across the small space between them and brushed her nose. She dropped her hands to her lap and licked her lips, her throat going dry when the action drew his attention.

  What was this? She’d never responded to Owen in such a way. She didn’t want to now. It’s the exhaustion of travel. Being in an exotic country. The strangeness of him sitting so near me. She cleared her throat and scooted toward the fabric wall, not quite believing her arguments.

  “I saw through your mask a long time ago, Nora. You pretend you don’t care. That your blood is ice in your veins, and you have no room for anything in your life but insects and education. But I see.” His voice dipped. “I see you.”

  For a moment Nora felt exposed, as though she’d forgotten to don her wrapper. As though she stood before Owen, vulnerable and unclothed. She didn’t want him to see her. Didn’t want him to notice there was anything more to her than insects and education.

  Raucous laughter erupted from the men outside, and one of them cursed.

  Owen tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Gentlemen.”

  With a few sighs and huffs, they settled down, but Nora could sense some antagonism still. She shook her head. “I don’t believe this is going to end well.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. Do your work. Discover something interesting.” He chucked her beneath the chin. “Keep that mask up for a while longer. Until the day when you feel safe enough to take it off.”

  Chapter

  Nine

  A chattering monkey woke Nora early. With bleary eyes and an exhausted body, she dressed and spent a few moments jotting a letter to her mother.

  I’ve arrived. India is beautiful.

  Knowing she could better explain the sights with paint than with pen, she gave up and picked her way across the camp toward the fire, where Pallavi held out a tin mug.

  “Masala tea,” Pallavi said.

  Nora took the cup and sipped at the fragrant drink. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

  She’d never enjoyed coffee, but this spicy, sweet tea seemed a good way to start the morning.

  Pallavi grinned. “It is good for your health.”

  Nora smiled. “Your English is very good.”

  “My father worked for a British colonel in Trinomalee, where I’m from. My brother’s employer asked him to move to Kodaikanal nine years ago. I have no husband, so I came too.”

  Nora had heard the porters speaking in a tangle of Tamil—the words sounding like poetry—so different from the Romance languages she was familiar with. She’d never had a natural propensity for languages, and she wondered how someone navigated between Tamil and English.

  She left Pallavi to her chores and approached the ramshackle cabin—the only permanent structure in camp. Wooden walls rose to about five and a half feet. An open timber frame supported a thatched roof. Pushing aside the canvas flap that served as a door, she peeked inside.

  Three long tables formed a U around the perimeter of the building. They were cluttered with microscopes, nets, boxes of scalpels and pins, stacks of pillboxes and glass jars, and cork-lined setting boards. A slim table pushed against the far wall sported a dozen books and myriad art supplies—paints, pencils, vials, canvases, and brushes.

  Early morning sunlight filtered through the gaps between the roof and the walls, sending dust motes twirling. Someone stepped around her.

  “The insects waiting to be catalogued and illustrated are in boxes beneath the far table,” Mr. Alford said.

  Nora took a sip of her tea, eyeing him over the mug’s rim. He didn’t look as tired today, the circles beneath his eyes having faded overnight. He still appeared to be put out by her, though. He tapped his teeth with a fingernail and studied her like a schoolgirl would a spider found in her bed.

  She turned from him and surveyed the room. “It’s quite dark in here. How do you see to study?”

  “We normally bring the tables and supplies outside. That will work until the monsoon season comes. When it does, our research will be dependent on the rains. We were supposed to have finished by now, but everyone kept getting sick. Hopefully you Americans will prove hardier than us Brits.”

  A metal racket sounded outside, and he grimaced. “That’s Pallavi telling us it’s time for breakfast.”

  Nora followed him from the cabin, and they joined the rest of the team at the fire. Pallavi stopped beating a dinged-up pot with a stick and handed out tin plates piled with sauced lentils, a green chutney, and soft rice cakes.

  Nora settled into a camp chair and attempted to eat her meal, the cakes breaking and plopping through her fingers onto the plate. Her stomach growled, and she wondered if she’d ever manage to eat her fill while in India. She accepted a tin cup filled with some sort of tangy-smelly preparation, thankful at least she wouldn’t have to eat that with her fingers. One sip, though, and she wished she’d kept to the rice and beans. She forced the drink down her throat. “What is this?” she asked Pallavi.

  “Moru. Salted yogurt. It’s good for you.”

  Nora sniffed the drink, wrinkled her nose, and as soon as Pallavi turned her back, shoved it beneath her chair.

  Owen sat beside her and offered a bright-eyed good-morning.

  “Are there any forks?” she asked Mr. Alford, who held his plate aloft and deftly scooped his food into his mouth with his fingers.

  He shook his head. “This is a research camp, not a fancy parlor.”

  Nora huffed. “I’d have packed one if I thought utensils would be in short supply,” she said under her breath.

  Owen chuckled. He expertly balled up a portion of the rice cake with the lentils, tipped it into his fingers, and pushed it into his mouth. “It’s quite good.” He must have seen the despair in her expression, because he set his plate down and wrapped his hand around hers. “Let me show you how. It’s simple once you get the hang of it.”

  She allowed him to guide her fingers and, with his help, managed to eat the majority of her meal. He offered her his napkin, which she used to wipe her fingers, then lifted his plate and ate the rest of his own breakfast.

  Mr. Abbott, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shaded his face, settled into a chair beside her. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, once the heat lifted.”

  He nodded, his freckled face turning sober. “It has been hotter than normal this year in Kodaikanal. But this is nothing. The air isn’t as heavy here in the hills. You should try Madras in May. It’s like breathing through wet wool. And call me William, please.” After she extended the invita
tion in kind, he cast a nervous glance at her hat—a simple straw boater. “Is that all you’ve brought with you? Have you a parasol? The sun is beastly.”

  “I believe this is sufficient.”

  “William is terrified of burning, aren’t you, pup?” Mr. Steed ambled over to them, his hands shoved into his pockets. He didn’t look as surly as he had the night before. He tapped the brim of his own hat—a narrow one that would do little to protect his skin. “I, on the other hand, have my Italian mother to thank for skin that only becomes golden. And I look dashed handsome.”

  Mr. Alford tossed his plate into a bucket of water near the fire. “All right. Let’s get going. I’d like to see if we can capture our elusive butterfly.”

  Mr. Steed ambled off, his voice lifted in an opera that showcased a more-than-passable tenor. She stared after him, having trouble reconciling the beauty of it with his difficult personality.

  William leaned toward her. “He’s been taking medicine again for his asthma.”

  “It makes him sing opera?”

  “It makes him happy. And we all prefer him happy.”

  Nora shook her head, then looked at Mr. Alford, wondering what job he’d assign her on their walk. Owen already carried a heavy canvas bag, and Mr. Steed was lifting another one over his shoulder.

  Mr. Alford caught her gaze. “Miss Shipley, I told you about the butterflies beneath the table in the cabin. Please begin with those. Watercolor, I think.” He waved at William. “Pull the table and art supplies out so she can work in the sun.”

  Nora looked from him to William, who had jumped from his seat at the command and darted into the cabin.

  “Is Nora not coming with us?” Owen stole the question from Nora’s mouth, which she appreciated because it seemed the words had stuck in her throat.

  Mr. Alford motioned to a spot when William appeared, carrying the rickety table in front of him. “We are behind on our illustrations.”

  Mr. Taylor and Mr. Steed stacked half a dozen cardboard boxes beside the table. Nora lifted the lid of the first and found three vibrantly hued butterflies resting in cotton.