“I saw something interesting and gave chase.” She stopped in front of a spindly tree and bent to brush the silky purple petals of the orchid growing at its base. “This entire place is full of interesting things to see. I’ve spent too much time in camp. I’m glad I came out today.”
William knelt and snapped the orchid halfway down its stem, then stood and tucked it behind her ear, his face as red as the berries hanging from the tree’s branches. “That’s exactly what someone who enjoys travel would say.”
Nora laughed as Sita surged ahead and broke through the tree line into the grassland where camp had been set. After painting an especially beautiful crimson tip, Nora had grown bored and decided to step into the forest.
She hadn’t forgotten William’s words from two weeks earlier. “That’s exactly what someone who enjoys travel would say.” She’d taken every opportunity to explore, discovering beautiful flora and fauna, sketching everything, rebuilding her collection with the specimens she found beneath logs sprouting with mushrooms or collecting nectar from showy flowers. She didn’t want to take this opportunity for granted. When the trip was over, she might never leave New York again.
“Do you want to come explore with me?” Nora had asked Sita when the girl crept into camp, sidling past her aunt, who was taking a nap near the cabin, her arm thrown over her eyes. Of course Sita had agreed.
They studied the ponderous movements of a green beetle and watched a brilliant blue flycatcher eat a dragonfly and tripped over moss-covered rocks that made stepping-stones across transparent creeks.
Being with Sita and enjoying the diversity of this foreign wood felt familiar and comfortable. But soon the sun had begun to fall from its peak, and Nora knew she needed to return.
She hiked up her skirts and trailed after Sita, who was poking her head into each of the tents.
“What are you doing? Come sit with me and help me finish my work.”
Nora pulled out the little stool at the table and ushered Sita to it. Dragging a camp chair up next to her, Nora sat and pulled one of the boxes forward. She removed the lid and pulled the canvas she’d been working on toward her. This particular butterfly had been giving her problems. She couldn’t quite replicate its iridescent blue hind wings that faded to black.
“Why is she here again? I thought I told you weeks ago to send her away.”
Nora lifted her eyes and looked at Mr. Alford, who stood only paces away, staring down his aristocratic British nose at Sita.
Sita wiggled in her seat and kicked her foot against the table leg. Nora had spent enough time with the child—had listened to her chatter on about school and family and friends—to know she became restless when confronted. But she’d also realized that Sita’s quick defenses and ill-mannered expressions, her squirms and impulsivity, hid a girl with a sensitive heart.
Nora reached across the divide between their chairs and rested her hand on Sita’s. She wouldn’t deny the satisfaction she experienced when her touch settled Sita. Set her at ease.
“Sita visits nearly every day, and she is quite helpful while I work.”
Mr. Taylor and William stumbled into camp, clutching their stomachs, and made beelines for their tents. Owen and Mr. Steed followed at a slower pace, stopping when they reached Nora’s table.
“What are you doing back this early?” she asked.
Mr. Alford crossed his arms, and his long fingers tapped out a tempo against his sleeves. “Leonard and William are unwell. Owen, Jeffrey, and I will head back out. Please tend to our patients.”
Nora stared at him. “You don’t expect me to . . .”
His expression pinched, and he ran his hands through macassar-oiled hair. “What is your purpose here if you can’t help where I need it?”
Mr. Steed coughed and slunk away, but Owen mouthed the word pleasant.
Nora pushed back her chair and stood. She flicked away stray shavings of pencil from her bodice and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. All the while she looked at Mr. Alford, took his measure, forced her pulse to stop galloping beneath the thin skin at her wrists and temple. His brow furrowed. He looked around at the tents, Pallavi stirring lentils over the fire, and the shrubs circling everything, as though they offered refuge from Nora’s steady gaze.
“I came,” she said in her best pleasant schoolmarm voice, “to work with a team of dedicated scientists on a book for the Crown. My expertise lies in entomological research, not nursing.”
His eyes narrowed, and he looked past her. A sardonic smile curled his lips. “Evidently you also have little expertise when it comes to children.” He jerked his chin toward the table.
Nora whirled and saw the back of Sita’s head, bent low over Nora’s canvas. Sita’s arm slid back and forth over the table as she rubbed something over Nora’s painting, her tongue poking from between her lips, oblivious to Nora and Mr. Alford’s attention. She sat back and studied her work a moment. Picking through the pastels, she chose one and ran it over Nora’s mediocre rendering.
Mr. Alford chuckled behind her, and Nora nearly lost her grasp on the calm demeanor she’d forced her expression into. Because of him, not the child. It wouldn’t take long to replicate her work—she’d not gotten to the challenging part—but Mr. Alford, with his hubris and self-satisfaction, made her vision narrow.
She touched Sita’s back. “What are you doing?”
Sita turned and flashed a dimple. She lifted the canvas, holding it aloft with all the pride a child of eleven could muster. “Do you like it, Akka?”
Nora gasped, then snatched the picture from Sita. “Oh my.”
She’d expected scribbles. Inappropriate colors. An immature likeness.
But this . . . Sita had perfectly replicated the butterfly’s magnificent color. Somehow she’d managed what Nora had struggled to do—the blue looked dusted on, blending seamlessly with the black. Thin black markings, highlighted with white, shot through the wings as though painted on by a fairy’s pen.
“How . . . ?” Nora turned to Mr. Alford and blinked up at him.
He smirked. “That bad?”
She shook her head, too flabbergasted to take his delight at her possible downfall personally. She turned the canvas around. “It’s perfect.”
Owen whistled, and Mr. Alford plucked at a piece of dry skin on his lips, his glance skittering from Nora to Sita. “You did that, Sita?”
Sita gave a slow nod. “I thought I could help.” She scrunched up her nose. “I’m sorry.”
Nora set the picture on the table and touched Sita’s shoulder. “It’s a wonderful thing. How did you do it?” She brushed a fingertip over the blue wing.
“The watercolor was the right color, but not the right . . . I’m not sure how to say it, but the butterfly wing glowed.”
“Saturation.” Nora nodded. Sita was right. The blue watercolor was the perfect hue but didn’t display the wing’s dimension.
Sita continued. “I thought, if I used the blue and white pastel over the blue watercolor, it would look more like it.”
“Clever.” Nora bit her lip, then smiled. “It’s perfect, and I love it.”
Sita glowed beneath Nora’s praise.
“Mr. Alford,” Nora said, “I want to apprentice Sita.”
“What?” He laughed. “Why would I allow that?”
She turned, careful to arrange her expression into one of neutrality. “The child is interested in entomology and displays a rare artistic talent. I insist.”
He sputtered. “You can’t insist on anything.”
“Really? Because as far as I can tell, you have no other illustrator. Do you really want to wait another month or two for one to arrive? I’ve allowed you to dismiss my education and experience, to underestimate and devalue my work. Despite Professor Comstock’s belief that I would be a useful part of this team, I’ve been asked to illustrate and shop and nurse. I will train Sita, or I can go home.”
Owen crossed his arms and winked at Nora. “If Nora leaves, I’ll have to
escort her back to the States.” He moved to her side and slung his arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “We’re a team, she and I.”
Warmth spread from Nora’s belly to the tips of her fingers and toes. She touched her fingers to his, as light as a hummingbird, and then fisted the side of her skirt to keep from slipping her hand into his. It seemed she had to travel halfway across the globe to learn the depth of a man she’d spent three years dismissing.
Mr. Alford tossed his head. “Fine. What do I care? Just keep her away from my work. We leave in ten minutes, Owen. Be ready.”
As Mr. Alford sauntered away, heading toward Pallavi and haranguing her over yet another meal of lentils and rice, Owen dropped to the stool beside Sita. “You’re talented.” Sita grinned and turned her attention back to her work. Owen looked up at Nora. “She’s really been here every day while we’ve been working?”
Nora shrugged. “I’ve been bored. You’re all gone all day, exploring and discovering. I needed to do something other than draw, or I’d go crazy.” Pallavi and Mr. Alford’s arguing grew louder. “Anyway, if you hadn’t returned early, he’d never have found out. She’s always gone before you come back.”
“We had just discovered a strange symbiosis between an ant species and some sort of lycaenid when William began . . .” Owen’s face went a bit green. “Leonard soon joined him, and they were so weak, we needed to see them back. Frederic wants to get back to the site as soon as possible so we can continue our observation.”
Nora bumped Sita to the corner of the stool and perched on its edge. She clasped her hands and leaned toward Owen. “Tell me what you found.”
He shook his head, and his brow wrinkled. “A caterpillar was resting on a leaf, and ants were swarming it. We expected them to carry it away, or at least kill it, but after a while, it appeared they were protecting it.”
She blinked and leaned against Sita’s shoulder. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. But when a hornet tried to attack the caterpillar, the ants chased it off.”
Nora reached for a piece of cast-off paper and a pencil. She pushed them over to Owen and said, “Draw the larva. While you’re gone, I’ll look through the books and see if I can find any mention of it.”
He took the pencil and bent his head low. His hand made quick, broad strokes, leaving a basic rendering of a brown caterpillar sporting haphazard setae. He gave her a wry smile. “It’s not as good as yours or Sita’s would be, but it’ll do.”
She took the paper. “It’s fine. I’ll find it if there is anything in the literature about it.” She traced the drawing’s bold lines with her finger.
Owen reached out and touched her hand, startling her. “I wish you could come with us. This is the kind of thing you most love.”
The sadness in his voice touched her. She’d never thought it possible, but she’d come to think of him as a friend. And especially in the absence of Rose and Bitsy, she appreciated that. Needed it.
He gave a surreptitious glance around and squeezed her hand while leaning closer. “When everyone is asleep, let’s sneak out. I’ll show you where we found the caterpillar. It’s not far, and I don’t think it’s going anywhere, at least not until its next instar.”
“I’d love that,” Nora said, not knowing if she was more excited about studying an interesting species or spending time with Owen.
Oh, heavens.
Chapter
Thirteen
Soon after the healthy men left, disgusting sounds came from Mr. Taylor’s and William’s tents. The contents of Nora’s stomach threatened to spill into her throat. She was grateful that in all the years she’d tended her mother, vomit had rarely appeared.
“So,” Nora said to Sita, switching to Owen’s vacant chair and forcing cheer into her voice, “where did you learn to draw like that?”
Sita tipped her head. “Learn? I learned English and maths at the mission school. My father is a clerk for a British family. They sent me to school. But this”—she waved her hand toward the canvas—“I just see in my head and draw it. It’s easy.”
Nora wouldn’t call art easy. It took her intense concentration to flesh out what she saw before her. God had given the child a gift, of that Nora was certain. What a shame to waste it. “How would you like me to teach you about insects and methods for illustrating them?”
Sita nodded, the little gold bells dangling from her earlobes tinkling as they struck her jaw. “I want to learn to write better too. My spelling of English words is poor.”
“Good. You can transcribe my notes. That will help with your spelling and handwriting, and you’ll learn about insects in the process. Do you have school?”
Sita’s lips and eyes drooped. “No. I finished last year. There isn’t any point in continuing when I’m destined to die.”
“Die? Surely you’re being dramatic.”
Sita picked up a blue pastel and mushed it against the table. Pushing her finger through the powder, she drew whirls and curls. She scratched her chin, leaving a chalky smudge, and heaved a sigh too great for one so young. “When my father brings me to the temple to begin my duties, I will refuse. He might not let me live if I humiliate him. If I don’t honor his promise to Yellamma.”
Nora had no concept of what it would be like to serve in a Hindu temple. No idea, even, what Hindus believed except that they had a thousand gods and most of them lived in the lavishly decorated shrines that peppered the countryside. “Do you want me to talk to your father?”
Sita laughed. Hard laughter that sent tears rolling down her cheeks. Laughter that turned to sobs before Nora could even react to the unexpected mirth. Sita leaned toward her, forcing Nora to wrap the little girl in her arms. To rub her hand down Sita’s thick braid and whisper comforting sounds against her temple.
When Sita’s tears turned to hiccups, Nora pulled away and gazed at her. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.” She rested her elbows on her knees and perched her chin against her fists.
Sita gave her a sad smile, and in the girl’s eyes, Nora thought she saw an understanding—knowledge—of something Nora couldn’t fathom. Something Sita tried to hide from her when her lids fell and her lashes brushed against the youthful swell of her cheek.
But that was ridiculous, because Nora had benefited from a Western education, and Sita had only spent a few years in a mission school.
Sita patted Nora’s cheek, her dusty fingers trailing Nora’s jaw. “You are very different from Indians. You don’t understand our customs.”
“I want to understand.”
“One of my duties, should I obey my father, will be servicing men who come to worship.”
“Servicing?” Nora shook her head.
Sita remained silent. She only watched, waiting for understanding to dawn, and when it did, Nora’s chest tightened as though the weight of the world rested on her lungs. The same weight Sita must carry upon her small shoulders.
“Your father has consigned you to prostitution?” Nora tried to keep the horror from coloring her words, tried to speak in a calm and modulated tone so judgment didn’t sharpen her voice and shut down Sita’s trust in her.
She didn’t know if she succeeded, but Sita lifted wet eyes toward her, and her chin trembled. “It is considered a great honor. Especially since the girls are usually from poor families. But we are not poor. Not in money, at least. We were only poor in boys. And Indian families need boys. My father had four daughters, and he promised Yellamma one of them if she gave him a boy. My brother was born after me.”
“And in that dedication, you must . . . service men?” Nora couldn’t keep the squeak from her voice. How horrifying. How unfair that a child would be sacrificed on the altar of misogyny. She would spend the rest of her life a slave to the depraved appetite of grown men.
Nora knew Sita’s fate was far worse than anything she would ever experience. Even if she never attained her career goals, even if every man she worked with treated her like Mr. Alford did, it wouldn’t compare.
“I will become a sacred prostitute.” Sita, looking so tiny curled up beside her, shrank even smaller. She lifted her feet to the chair and rested her head against her knees. “You see my plight? I cannot serve that way and honor my faith. I cannot tell my father I’m a Christian and refuse because he will send me away, alone. Maybe even kill me. Especially after the dishonor of my—” Her eyes darted around before landing on her lap. “What should I do?”
The air between them grew thick with Sita’s expectation and hope. No one except for her mother had ever relied on Nora. No one needed her. Certainly no one had ever thought Nora could save them from a terrible fate.
Dryness filled her mouth, and her heart—which had spent the previous six years sheltered beneath a barely-there veneer of phlegmatic constraint—twisted so violently, she thought the pain must rival being stung by a thousand fire ants.
For a moment, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Sita’s imploring one. The child held her captive. How could Nora have fallen in love with her so quickly, so completely, that Sita had reached a place she’d kept sealed from touch since her father’s death?
A hacking, retching noise slid from Mr. Taylor’s tent, and his desperate plea drew their attention. “Help me.”
Nora allowed the call to distract her from Sita’s small, tear-stained face. She pushed away the choking sense of almost-certain failure. How could she bear that? Failing Sita would be far worse than most any other failure. And Nora was only one person, standing in the gap for a child who shouldered a burden heavier than she’d ever faced.
Nora turned to Sita. “I’m being summoned.”
As Sita left the camp with silent steps, swaying her hips and arms in a dance to music only she could hear, Nora realized that even though she sometimes had as little control over her own choices as Sita, the end result didn’t look at all the same. Society would relegate Nora to parlors and quilting parties. Sita, though, would end up warming the bed of men twice her age.
Nora blinked at the sudden prick of unwanted tears and stood with resolution. She couldn’t help the situation, so she wouldn’t think about it. She forced her thoughts to nursing, something she had a good deal of experience in. It meant little in light of Sita’s plight, but the work would distract her from the strange emotions churning in her belly.
A Mosaic of Wings Page 14
