A Mosaic of Wings
Page 34
“That is a step down from your previous position, is it not?”
His face sagged, and he dropped his arms. “I have little choice.”
Nora’s fingers twitched, and she thought she might touch his arm in a gesture of sympathy. But she didn’t. “I am considering a position that will take me far from Ithaca, but it won’t be until after I finish school.” She’d sent a letter to Mrs. Martín, letting her know she’d be able to join her in her work in two years. And if she no longer needed help, well, Nora knew there were lots of places on earth waiting to be explored. So many insects needing to be studied. She and Owen would find them.
“I hope you’re not planning to go too far. Your mother is already upset at the thought of us on Long Island and you at school here in Ithaca. She wouldn’t like for you to be even farther away.”
No, she wouldn’t. But could Nora live her life worrying about her mother’s desire that she stay nearby? Lydia was, after all, a married woman and should be relying on her husband to meet her needs. “I believe it might be good for Mother—and you—if I kept some distance for a while . . . wherever I end up.”
Lucius licked his lips. His eyes darted from her and back again before he nodded. “Yes. That might be a good idea.”
Mother had married a man Nora could hardly abide, but maybe, with the gift of privacy, Lucius might become a man she could respect a little. If Nora wasn’t available to meet Mother’s emotional needs, she would be forced to rely on her husband. And that could make all the difference in a man like Lucius—a man afraid of never measuring up. Nora, with her constant reminders that he was nothing like her father, had done her mother no favors. In the end, Nora’s harsh comparisons only further distanced her from the one man who could bring her mother peace.
Lucius took a few steps backward, then paused at the door. “No matter what decision you come to, I believe your father would be proud of you.”
He slipped into the hallway, leaving Nora standing with her mouth agape.
She unclenched her hand and looked at the bumblebee. “Sometimes the most foreign things happen in the most familiar places.”
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Darling, I think I’d like to see Cascadilla Falls.”
Nora paused in her packing and looked up at her mother, who stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She tipped her head and looked for signs of delirium on her mother’s face, but couldn’t find any. Her mother appeared lucid. In fact, she looked almost robust.
Lydia took a tentative step into Nora’s room. “I think, since we are leaving for Long Island soon, I should see it.”
Nora folded the shirtwaist in her hands and laid it atop the others already neatly tucked into her trunk. Tomorrow she and Owen would wed in front of her family, his parents—who had agreed to attend, though reluctantly—and a few close friends. Then they’d move into their new home. School started in a few weeks, and Nora wanted to settle into married life before studies and work consumed her time. She had a lot to do.
But her mother was watching her with large, timid eyes and looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. It was time she saw the place her husband had died.
The walk to Cascadilla Falls wasn’t strenuous and normally took Nora less than fifteen minutes, but she and her mother walked at a more sedate pace, taking frequent breaks to admire icicles hanging from gabled roofs and naked trees.
Lydia took Nora’s arm as they passed beneath the tree canopy and plunged into the woods. Silence enveloped them, turning the worn, pitted path they traveled into an aisle and the brush and saplings surrounding them into a nave. The cold had frozen the water, and there was no warning that they had drawn near. No happy gurgling sound. No roar. Lydia gasped as they cleared the trees and the falls loomed before them—an icy sanctuary that required reverence and respect.
“This is where . . .” Lydia looked around, and her chin trembled.
Nora pointed high above them, at the tree standing as a marker beside the falls. “There.”
Lydia didn’t look. Instead she turned to Nora and grasped her hands. Her eyes filled with tears, but she tipped back her head and blinked until they dried up. She smiled, her lips trembling, and Nora knew her mother had more courage than she gave her credit for.
“Your father told me the day you were born that you were made for wondrous things. You never did conform to my expectations, and I’m so glad now. You’re doing what he knew you would.”
Warmth curled in Nora’s belly even as her breath fogged the frozen air. “Will you be all right? I hate the thought of you leaving Ithaca. I wish Lucius hadn’t decided you must leave. I wish he hadn’t lost everything.”
“Hush, darling. Don’t speak of it.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“You are pursuing your happiness. Let me have mine.”
“In ignorance?”
Lydia sighed and released Nora’s hands. She looked out over the falls, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “You are so like your father, always ferreting out truth and trying to understand. Despite his mistakes, Lucius has always been good to me. He does love me.”
Nora looked up at the tree on the edge of the waterfall. Its limbs twisted toward heaven, as though reaching for something that would never be. “I wish Papa had never brought me here. I wish I hadn’t climbed that tree.”
“Sometimes,” her mother whispered, “life makes choices for you. Other times you’re the one choosing. But in the end, none of us really has much control. We can only do the best thing—the right thing—with what we’ve been given. That’s what I tried to do when I married Lucius. I wanted you to have a father. I also wanted another chance at what I had with your father.” She sniffed, then forced a quivering smile. “I’m proud of the path you’ve taken, Nora.”
Nora gazed out over the falls, taking in the way the rocks stepped down as though a giant stonemason had used the waterfall as his staircase, the lichen and moss clinging to the sides of the crumbly limestone, the trees crowding around them. The willow oak that stood strong and erect above it all, its inside carved out by pests, a hollow reminder of Nora’s most regretted choice.
Nothing buzzed or chirped or flew. Winter had sent everything into burrows and hibernation. But Nora could picture Cascadilla Falls in the spring, alive with activity and the busy work of insects and birds. She’d visit with Owen, bringing his ratty blanket and an adventure novel. By that time, they’d have stepped into their life. Would have discovered lovely and heartbreaking and difficult things.
Nora took her mother’s arm, and they headed back toward town, down the path that led to Owen, her work, and the promise of every wispy dream tangling together in a mess of past and present, desire and sacrifice, waiting and going.
A strong wind sailed over the water that had spent thousands of years carving shale. It rustled the dry grass and knifed through her clothes. In it, Nora heard her father’s voice.
“Little Bumble Bea, don’t forget this most important lesson.”
She stopped her study of the grasshopper and looked at Father. He’d given her many lessons, but never had he called any of them the most important. “Yes, Papa?”
He pressed her nose with the tip of his finger and smiled. “Just this—do you know what separates us from the insects?”
She shook her head.
“They do what’s best because of instinct and habit. We do it because of love.”
Nora smiled and squeezed her mother’s arm. The most important lesson, indeed. One that took a trip across the world to learn. And coming home to understand.
Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
The idea for A Mosaic of Wings was sparked when my then eight-year-old daughter said, “Hey, Mom, why don’t you write a book about a girl entomologist?” I’d already decided I was going to switch genres from contemporary romance to historical fiction, and I loved the thought of writing about one of the nineteenth-century female scientists who made an impact o
n history.
But I hated insects.
While researching, every time I’d search for “cockroach mating habits” or “largest spider in India,” I’d cover my eyes and squint at the photos through my fingers. Eventually, though, I began to see God’s incredible design and creativity in the subjects I was studying. I’ve dedicated this book to my daughter, who is now thirteen and still wants to be an entomologist, but also to every person who has loved these amazing creatures.
It’s especially for Anna Comstock, who, with her husband, John, worked at Cornell University. I learned about Anna as a homeschooling mom who followed a Charlotte Mason philosophy of education. We Charlotte Mason homeschoolers love nature studies, and Anna’s book Handbook of Nature Study is often referred to and much loved. Not only did Anna illustrate all of her husband’s books, she also wrote and illustrated her own. She was instrumental in the nature study movement and became Cornell University’s first female professor.
I did my best to portray Anna and John accurately. Of course, they died long ago, and I had to fill in the gaps as best I could. Any mistakes are completely my own, but I hope I’ve done justice to this wonderful and interesting couple. If you want to learn more about Anna, please read her nature study book, as well as the biography The Comstocks of Cornell.
Unlike my feelings for insects, I’ve loved India for decades. I had the opportunity to live there after high school, as well as visit more recently with a nonprofit I volunteer with. There is nowhere else in the world like India. It’s a complex, layered, vibrant country that captures the imagination. It’s a place you don’t quickly forget, and you always want to return to. I hope you fall for it as madly as I did.
Writing about a culture you didn’t grow up in, especially one as flexing and complicated as nineteenth-century India, is always an intimidating prospect. I did a massive amount of research, but there were times I couldn’t find an answer and needed to make the most educated decision. My Indian friends and sensitivity reader were immensely helpful—but there were many conversations that ended with one of them saying, “I don’t know, Kim. That was a hundred and fifty years ago.” Any mistakes are mine, and I’m sincerely sorry for them.
I pray grace over any inconsistencies or errors.
—Kim
Acknowledgments
So many people have been instrumental in my journey toward publication. So many have helped me bring A Mosaic of Wings to you. And since this is my first published novel, I’m going way back. So, thank you to:
Francine Rivers, who wrote A Voice in the Wind. I’d always loved books, but that specific book made me want to write them. Thank you, Mrs. Rivers, for honoring God with your creativity.
Mr. Posner, my eleventh grade creative writing and journalism teacher (we all have that one great teacher, right?). You were the first one to tell me I was talented. The first one to suggest I write a book (based on my autobiographical short story set in Ukraine). Different story, different place, but here it is. Your encouragement set me on this path.
My parents, for buying me a typewriter in high school, listening to my truly awful and melodramatic stories, and never telling me I needed a backup plan.
Joy, Flora, and Priya. Every memory I have of India is tangled with your presence. You made those six months full of relationship and pure joy.
Rachelle Gardner, my amazing agent. I still can’t believe you signed me. The day you told me you loved my book was the day I began to think this farfetched dream of mine might be possible.
The amazing team at Bethany House Publishers. There were so many reasons BHP was at the top of my publisher wish list. I’ve not been disappointed. Your support, expertise, and hard work are appreciated. I could not have done this without you.
Jessica Barnes, my editor. Thank you for seeing what this story could be, for believing in it and bringing it to the table, for pouring so much time and energy into making it beautiful. You are everything an editor should be. God smiled on me when I snagged that Blue Ridge appointment.
Bob Nuhn, my “bug guy” and entomologist. I’m not exaggerating when I say this book would not have happened without you. Your excitement for the science, detail-packed emails, and patient responses to my questions permeate every bit of Nora’s story. Thank you.
Madhu Balasubramaniam. God’s hand was in our meeting. You have become a wonderful friend. Thank you for reading my book and helping me make it accurate, sensitive, and a reflection of my love for India. You are an answer to prayer and my middle-of-the-night cultural, religious, and geographical questions.
My friends and family who have encouraged, supported, and been excited for me. I can’t name all of you, but know that I appreciate and love you.
Kristy Cambron. When you said, “Can you send Nora somewhere interesting? Somewhere overseas?” this book was born, and I’ll forever be grateful. You encouraged me to write in the genre I love about the place I love.
Stephanie Gammon, my very first reader and sweet friend. Your support and unwavering belief in my writing are constant sources of validation and encouragement. You know me better than anyone outside my family, and the fact that you still love me makes me question your sanity but also value your friendship. I can’t wait for the world to learn what a brilliant writer you are.
My girls—Lindsey Brackett, Leslie Devooght, Hope Welborn, and Kristi Ann Hunter. This journey has been made wonderful because of you. I love our Voxer chats, retreats, and Hangout meetings, and can’t imagine doing any of this without you. I have to remind myself to hang out with people who actually live near me because our daily conversations make me forget I’m not actually seeing you.
My children—Ellie, Grainne, Hazel, and August. Everything I do, it’s because of you. I want you to see in me the possibility of dreams coming true. Of hard work and diligence and effort and never, ever giving up. Of knowing who you are and what you’re meant to do, then doing it.
My husband, Shane. This book is especially possible because of you. I love you for never giving up on my dream, even when I was too discouraged to believe in it. For spending all those evenings after work doing baths and dishes and math. For being generous with your time and our bank account so I could go to conferences and writing retreats and Panera more times than I can count. You are the inspiration for Owen—kind, supportive, adventurous, encouraging, annoyingly extroverted, and always willing to speak the truth in love. The only reason I can write a decent hero is because I’ve watched you be one for over twenty years. I love you.
Kimberly Duffy is a Long Island native currently living in southwest Ohio. When she’s not homeschooling her four kids, she writes historical fiction that takes her readers back in time and across oceans. She loves trips that require a passport, recipe books, and practicing kissing scenes with her husband of twenty years. He doesn’t mind. You can find her at www.kimberlyduffy.com.
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A Mosaic of Wings
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for A Mosaic of Wings
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Part One 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part Two 8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Part Three 25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Author’s Note
A
cknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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