Chapter
Nineteen

I feel like dancing, Sita.”

After they illustrated the surprise butterfly—they both decided that would be more interesting than the other—they ate a lunch of leftover flatbreads and papaya so juicy it left sticky trails dribbling down their chins. Satisfied and dozy, they lay on a thick carpet of grass. Nora crossed her arms behind her head and stared up at the brilliant sky marred only by misty gray clouds gathered above the Western Ghats in the distance. The sun, not yet clothed in the filmy veil, shone a beatific face over them, bathing everything in its smile.

“Then dance.”

Wouldn’t that be lovely? Dancing when one felt like dancing instead of only when one ought to. Nora imagined what her stepfather would say if she flouted expectation and did a jig just because the joy rushing through her blood made her want to move.

Toss it all. “I think I will.”

Nora clambered to her feet, Sita following suit, and lifted her skirts to her knees. Counting the beat in her head, she turned a quick circle.

Sita laughed and clapped her hands.

Nora whirled, the tents, trees, crackling fire, and cabin swirling together as though she’d run a wet paintbrush through her palette. When her breath gave out, she grabbed her knees and panted.

Sita continued to clap. “Sing, Athai,” she called to Pallavi, who laid clothing out to dry in the sun.

Pallavi squinted at them but shrugged and warbled a high-pitched melody.

Sita swung her arms over her head, and with jerky little movements, her hands, arms, chest, hips, and legs kept time with the song. Her bare feet stomped the ground. Her white teeth flashed, along with her dimples, and with every wiggle and flick of her fingers, she tossed joy toward Nora.

“Dance with me.” Sita sway-stepped around Nora and put her hands beneath Nora’s elbows. With only a bit of guidance, Nora’s stance resembled Sita’s, and she thought she might look like one of the female reliefs she’d seen carved into the stone walls lining the harbor when their ship docked in Madras Port.

Nora pretended she wore a belly-baring top and a brilliant emerald sari—how shocking!—and she undulated her arms so that they brought to mind the movements of a caterpillar. So fluid and natural. Maybe God created us to move this way. Not in the precise, stiff patterns of a waltz. She knew she should have been horrified at her unconventional thought, let alone at the way she moved her body. But she only wished she could dispense with her corset and stifling layers. Feel the sun hot on her arms and the breeze weave its way across her torso.

The excitement of the morning’s discovery buzzed through her, twitching her fingers and wrists, her feet and knees. Bouncing her shoulders and fluttering her lashes like Sita, Nora gave in to her emotion, perhaps for the first time in her life, and enjoyed the brief moment of being.

With her eyes closed, Nora found herself borne away on Pallavi’s song, which had somehow tangled itself in her very movements. She heard neither the wind brushing the leaves on the trees nor Sita’s light-as-air steps tapping out a telegraph. She felt nothing but the sheer freedom of being alive where she was at the moment, glorying in God’s blessing.

Until Sita giggled and tugged on her arm, and Nora opened her eyes to see Owen watching her from across the campsite.

He stared at her, slack-jawed and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

Nora froze, her arms akimbo and her hip jutting at an awkward angle. “What are you doing back here so early?”

“I don’t feel well.” He took a few steps toward her and raised his hand. “You’re incredible.”

Then he crumpled to the ground.

The candle flickered, sending a long shadow against the tent’s wall. Owen, feverish and restless, groaned and rubbed his head against his small flat pillow. Nora dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water. She squeezed it, the droplets the only sound breaking the silence, and laid it against his forehead.

She shifted on the tiny camp stool and undid her shirt’s top button. Swiping her fingers beneath her clavicle, she turned an ear toward the tent’s roof. Rain, released from the clouds in a sudden river, pounded the canvas. Maybe it would bring relief from the heat. The inside of Owen’s tent ventured toward hellfire. She’d thought fresh air might serve Owen more than being closed up, but Frederic refused to allow him near anyone else, lest the illness spread. If William’s and Leonard’s lengths of incapacitation were any indication, Owen would be unable to work for at least a week.

Nora watched the shallow rise and fall of Owen’s chest beneath the light blanket and wanted to rest her hand against his heart. Feel the strength of it beneath her touch.

She dipped her fingers into the bowl and touched her forehead, allowing the water to dribble down her nose and onto her lap.

“I’m sorry.” Owen’s voice held no strength.

She set the bowl aside and took his clammy hand. “What for?”

“For becoming ill just when you most needed me.” His eyes had taken on a feverish glint, and she didn’t know if his sickness or his feelings for her had caused it.

“I’ll still be here when you’re better.”

He smiled, and then his eyes dipped closed, and she resumed her vigil.

The lush scent of rain swept into the tent, and Nora looked over her shoulder. Swathi stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

Nora motioned toward Owen. “He’s sick. I’m not sure what it is—malaria or an infection of some kind.”

Swathi’s thin shoulders rose. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve survived worse.”

Nora crossed the tent and dragged another chair to the bedside. “Sit here beside me. Did you travel in the rain?”

“I got here the moment it began. It’ll stop in a couple of hours.” Swathi settled into her seat. “I heard about the illness that’s visited your camp, and I wanted to make sure you hadn’t become ill.”

Nora shook her head. “No, I’m well. First it was Leonard and William, then Frederic, and now Owen.”

Swathi’s shoulders relaxed, and the tightness in her jaw eased. She released a heavy breath. “I’m so glad. I was worried. India is hard on Europeans.”

Nora glanced at Owen, who had tossed his arms and legs akimbo, restless and uncomfortable. “Hopefully he’ll recover quickly. He’s strong.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“Vomiting, lethargy, dizziness. They’ve all complained of aches and pain.”

Swathi’s face drained, and she stood. With nimble fingers, she undid the buttons of Owen’s shirt and tugged down the collar. She sighed and sank back down into her seat. “There is no rash.”

“No. None of them have had a rash.”

“I’m glad. It was one of the first symptoms Lukose and I had with typhoid.” She shook her head, clearing the shadows that had curtained her eyes. “How is your little friend?”

Nora cupped the back of her neck and twirled the stray curls escaping her knot. Owen had fallen ill two days prior, and she’d told Pallavi to let Sita know not to come until he was better. She didn’t want Sita exposed to whatever had felled three grown men. She didn’t want Sita around Frederic without her protection.

“She is in the same situation as before.” Nora shook her head. “Actually, I believe she may have drawn the attention of someone who means her no good.”

An agonized expression flitted across Swathi’s face. “I cannot bear the thought. Have you considered finding her a safe place to live until she is ready to go to Madurai?”

“I haven’t thought about it. Where would she go?”

Swathi glanced around, though no one but Owen was present, and he slept as deeply as a pupating moth. “I’ve talked to my husband about her, and we are willing to offer her a home for as long as necessary.”

There was a desperation in Swathi’s hurried words and grim expression. And a small flicker of hope, as well. Her eyes flamed with something Nora understood well—the need to be useful. Appreciated. Needed.

How much more difficult was it for a mother without a child?

She took Swathi’s hand. “Thank you, my friend. I will keep that in mind. It sets my heart at ease that, if necessary, Sita will have a safe place to live for a time.”

Swathi opened her mouth but quickly snapped it closed again, her teeth clicking against each other.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Nora asked.

Her friend’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I only want you to know that I will see to her needs—physical and emotional. I have so much love to give, and no one to lavish it on.”

Swathi’s eyes strayed toward Owen, and she clasped her hands in her lap. Nora wondered if Swathi and her husband were exactly who Sita needed.

It was already obvious that Sita was exactly who Swathi needed.