Chapter
Twenty-Five

Nora returned home in the middle of autumn, when a muted palette of yellows and reds colored the mountains and hills of upstate New York. Ithaca was flush with students still excited about the new school year, and their hurried pace and chatter pierced Nora with longing for that simplicity. She wished she could join the people walking past her house and through the cemetery on their way to comparative literature and biology classes. But she couldn’t. Not only because she’d expected to be away until February and had no commitments, but because India had changed her.

“Tell us again how everything with Owen happened.” Rose leaned forward in the iron chair set beneath their garden arbor, her round eyes sparkling with the thrill of romance.

Nora wanted to tell her and Bitsy about Frederic and Sita and Swathi. About Muruga and Pallavi. About the hypocrisies of the mission board and her love for an Indian child. But she couldn’t. Those stories were sacred, and she didn’t want to minimize their impact by sharing moments, piece by piece. It was a story that needed to be told in its entirety, so until Nora’s mind didn’t race with worry every time she said Sita’s name, and until she could speak about Muruga’s attack without her teeth chattering, she would only tell them about Owen.

She didn’t think she’d ever tell them about her butterfly and the precious few days she’d thought she would make her mark as a scientist.

Nora crossed her ankles, luxuriating in the waft of lilac that caressed her nose every time her skirts rustled and released the scent of the sachet they’d been folded away with. India had wended its way through her very marrow, and she missed the languid days, the scent of spiced tea waking her up every morning, and monkeys calling to one another. But she didn’t miss the smell of four unwashed men. “I’ve told you this story already.”

Bitsy leaned her elbow on the small round table and flicked her wrist, her fingers resting in an elegant pose. “You know Rose lives for romance stories. She reads through those sentimental novels faster than she can eat a chocolate bar. And she’s always stringing together fairy tales, as though life works like that.”

Nora indulged Rose with a smile. “Thankfully, neither Owen nor I struggled with seasickness. We were able to stand at the railing and listen to the ocean break against the ship. I should have hired a companion, because we spent too much time together. There may be scandalized Englishwomen still clucking their tongues over the forward Americans.”

Rose leaned farther toward her, and even Bitsy showed a gleam of interest.

“When we arrived in London, we stayed with Owen’s aunt again. On the way to India, we only had two days, and Owen spent much of that time with family. But this time we had a week, and his family might as well not have existed. I didn’t have the proper attire to go out and do the usual things, but we rode through Hyde Park and spent hours talking over books in his uncle’s library, and stole kisses in the garden.” Nora blushed as she remembered those kisses. “He told me he loved me.”

Rose clasped her hands together and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Is that why you came home early? To be married?”

Nora blinked. “What? No. We haven’t discussed that at all.”

Rose showed no signs of having heard Nora’s response. She swayed in her chair, looking for all the world as though she were about to swoon, and a featherlight smile spread her lips. “It’s so romantic. Just like a fairy tale. You fell in love in an exotic location, far from home, while walking on a jasmine-scented cloud.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Bitsy laughed. “I’m sure it was nothing at all like that. Nora is entirely too practical to walk on jasmine-scented clouds.”

Nora smiled when Bitsy winked at her, but it had kind of felt like that. India, and everything that happened there, spoke to her in whispers that caressed her memories, wrapping everything in exotic perfume and sultry, cicada-song nights.

She ran her fingers over her lips, remembering the press of Owen’s. She hadn’t seen him since they’d parted ways at Grand Central Station—he to spend time with his family in Manhattan before returning to Cornell, and she to continue the journey home—and she wondered if he’d truly been a part of that hazy dream.

She’d abandoned her sensibility on the shores of New York when she’d left four months ago, and now that she’d returned home and stepped into that coat again, it felt snug and ill-fitting. Maybe India had changed her. Or maybe it just revealed to her that she’d been wearing a costume for years.

“What is he doing?” Bitsy asked. She studied the back of Nora’s house, a speculative gleam in her eyes.

Nora turned but saw nothing amiss about her home’s gray clapboard siding. “Who?”

“Lucius.” Bitsy jerked her chin upward. “He just peeked out your bedroom window, then drew the curtains. It’s suspicious.”

A flame, set by Lucius’s bonfire, flickered in Nora’s stomach, burning off all thoughts of dreams and Owen. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

When Bitsy and Rose stood, she waved them back to their seats, then strode across the garden and into the house. As she marched up the back stairs, she formed all kinds of arguments in her head. Most started with I have no insects for you to destroy, but when she opened her bedroom door, her rehearsed lectures hadn’t prepared her for what she saw.

Lucius stood before her dresser, picking through her jewelry box. He held up an emerald ring that had belonged to her great-aunt, turning it this way and that before slipping it into his pocket. When he lifted her cicada brooch, Nora’s entire body went rigid. That brooch, given to her by her father and adored by Sita, didn’t belong in Lucius’s rough fingers.

She marched across the room. “What are you doing?”

Lucius jumped, and the brooch fell to the floor. When she bent to retrieve it, he beat a hasty retreat to the door.

She snapped upright. “Stop. I want answers. Why are you rifling through my jewelry? Why have you stolen my ring?”

He turned and faced her, then rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and heaved a great sigh. “I need money.”

Money? Her mother’s inheritance should have taken care of them for years. The house had no mortgage, and they didn’t lead an excessive lifestyle. “Why do you need money?”

“Do you not remember that I lost my position? I haven’t been able to contribute anything in months.”

Nora’s heart sank to her stomach. “And my mother’s money?”

Lucius’s lips flattened. “That is none of your concern.”

“You’re stealing my jewelry. I think it is my concern.”

“You seem to have forgotten that everything in this house belongs to me, but here, take it.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring.

Nora held out her hand, making him cross the room. When he laid it in her palm, she said, “You may own the house, but this jewelry belongs to me.”

He lifted a shaking hand and scrubbed his face with it. When he dropped his arm, his eyes were on the ceiling and a twitch quivered his jowls. “I’m not going to beg you, Nora, but my only other option is asking your mother to sell off some of her jewels. I wanted to spare her that stress. You know she isn’t strong.”

Nora, in the process of taking inventory of her jewelry, froze. Her mother, though no longer bedridden, had only left the house twice since Nora’s return. She retired early and slept late, didn’t eat much, and constantly complained of headaches. Stress, any stress, triggered dizzy spells that put her in bed for the rest of the day. Nora didn’t think her mother would respond well to Lucius’s request for her jewels.

“Is Mother aware of your financial straits?”

“Of course not. I didn’t want to lay that burden on her. Had you been receptive to courting Mr. Primrose, this would have been resolved with a wedding.”

“I was never going to marry someone who thought so little of my work and sex.” Especially after experiencing Owen’s support and encouragement.

Nora sifted through her box, testing the weight of the pearl necklaces, gemstone rings, and gold bracelets. She never wore them. Couldn’t stand jewelry, really. Her tastes ran toward simplicity—neutral shirtwaists and skirts, simple hats, sensible shoes. The only piece she wore regularly was her Lalique brooch. She lifted her hand to her ears, where the earrings she’d bought in India with Owen dangled. And these. Now she also wore these.

She refocused on the jewels in the box. Her father had left her mother in Nora’s care, and even though Lucius had turned up to take over that role a year later, Nora believed it still to be her responsibility. She’d failed so many people. She couldn’t bear the thought of failing again.

She plucked the brooch from the box and flipped the lid closed. “Take whatever you need from there to pay your bills.” The brooch was a reassuring weight in her palm. She held it up. “Except for this and my earrings. Don’t ever touch those.”

Nora tucked the blanket over her mother’s lap, then joined her on the swing on the front porch. The day had wound down, and people passed the house on their way home from jobs and classes, waving at them as they gently swung.

“I missed this,” Nora said.

Contentment shadowed her mother’s smile. “I missed you. I do hope you got that out of your system and you’ll stay home from now on.”

Nora didn’t tell her about Lucius’s ultimatum—that she was to live with his sister if she wasn’t awarded the scholarship. The board wasn’t hosting the scholarship contestants’ lectures until February, when she and Owen were initially expected home. Her mother didn’t need to fret and worry until they made their choice and Nora knew if she was to stay or go.

“I met a woman in India who’d lost her son. Her husband seemed to think my absence caused you great distress.” Nora kept her eyes focused on the progress of a boy jogging down the street after his nurse, a toddler hanging on to his hand.

“He was correct.” Her mother grasped Nora’s hand.

A young man, wearing the pin of a newly initiated Delta Upsilon member, crossed the street before them and took the porch steps two at a time. He doffed his hat and held a letter toward Nora. “From President White.”

Nora took it, and the student leapt from the stairs and ran back toward campus. She slid her finger beneath the flap, and her heart leapt to her throat. What if Frederic had contacted them? She pulled out a thick piece of stationery embossed with Cornell University’s seal. Skimming it, she saw that President White wanted only to inform her that the board, despite not knowing the reason behind their early return, wanted to take advantage of it and move up the lecture series so that they could award the scholarship in time for the winter term.

Nora inhaled deeply. They were to present in a week.

She should tell the board what had happened. Professor Comstock had asked, of course, wondering why they’d cut their trip short by three months. Nora and Owen had agreed to tell him only that their work was finished and they were no longer needed. But where things stood, she and Owen had equal opportunity to receive the scholarship. If she told them what happened, there would be no chance for her.

She pushed away the conviction and guilt, instead focusing on the most important benefit of the board’s decision—Owen would be returning soon. She wrapped her arms around herself and laid her head against the back of the swing. Soon she’d be in Owen’s embrace, and this would all be over.

Nora knocked on the door of a White Hall apartment. Owen had returned to Ithaca from Manhattan only the day before and planned to stay with his friend until after the scholarship was awarded. He’d stay for another two years if they selected him. Nora didn’t know if he’d stay if she won it.

She smoothed her hands down her burgundy wool skirt and fiddled with the bow at her throat. Would he still feel the same about her? Had returning home changed things? She imagined a man with his wealth and family connections would be sought after by all of New York’s single society ladies. Who was she but a small-town entomologist with nothing but a jeweled cicada brooch to her name?

The door swung open, and Nora found herself swept into Owen’s arms. Her heart stuttered when he pressed his face into her hair. He was clean-shaven, and she was surprised to find she missed his beard.

“I knew I’d miss you, but that was too great an affliction,” he said.

She pulled back and tipped her head, exposing her throat, which Owen stared at. His lips twitched, and she wondered if he wanted to press his mouth to the pulse beating an erratic cadence just beneath her skin.

She swallowed, and he raised his eyes. “I missed you too.”

He trailed his finger around her hairline, tugging out a curl. Then he gently touched his lips to hers.

Too gently. They’d been apart for such a long time.

She pressed into the kiss, her heart leaping to her throat when he groaned her name.

She pulled back and smiled. “How was your visit home?”

He blinked. “I . . . it was . . .”

“Cat got your tongue, Owen Epps?”

His slow grin appeared. “Someone else entirely.”

She laughed and pressed her hand against his chest, forcing some space between them. “Really, how is your family?”

With obvious effort, he answered her question. “My brothers couldn’t be bothered to take time off work, so I didn’t see them. Mother fussed and said I had lost too much weight. It was comfortable and clean, and Cook made sure to feed me well. The only person who asked me about my work or experience was my grandmother. She enjoyed hearing about everything.”

“Everything?”

His smile sparked, and a flame lit beneath her breast. “Everything.”

“What did you tell her about your work and experience and . . . everything?”

“I showed her the specimens I had collected. She particularly liked the red-disc bushbrown butterfly. I told her about William’s obsession with sun protection and Jeffrey’s ‘asthma’ and Leonard’s love of leeches. I didn’t tell her too much about Frederic, but she’s an astute woman, and I’m sure she gathered enough from what I didn’t say to make a fair impression of him. I told her about the spicy food and awful illness and Sita—though I didn’t tell her everything about Sita. My grandmother is wonderful, but the shock of that story might be too much for even her. I told her about Pallavi and your friend Swathi and the monkeys and cows.”

She swallowed and gave a slow nod. Then Owen laughed and tilted toward her, pressing his forehead against her own, his hands clutching her shoulders. They breathed the same air, inhaling and exhaling each other’s presence.

“And I told her about you, Peculiar. All about you.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you are the smartest, loveliest, most infuriatingly stubborn woman I’ve ever met.” He pulled back, and his shoulders drooped. “Then my father walked in and asked about my plans for law school.” He released Nora and raked his hand through his hair. “The few moments he spent with me, he used to demand I choose a school. I’m surprised he hasn’t threatened to disown me if I don’t comply.”

“You’d be a terrible lawyer.”

Owen smiled. “You know me better than my father does.”

She leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “There’s no winning this. If I’m awarded the scholarship—which is doubtful, but you never know—then you have to leave. If you win the scholarship, I’ll have to leave.”

“Long Island isn’t so far, and it will only take a couple years to finish my degree.”

She straightened with a sudden thought. “You told me in India that you hoped I won the scholarship. If you no longer compete for it, I’ll have a greater chance. Then I can stay here in Ithaca, and Lucius will turn the journal over to me.”

Owen’s mouth dropped. “Nora, I can’t do that now. My father will force me into law school if I don’t get it. Plus, it seems unlikely you’ll be offered it now. Maybe if you still had your notes and specimens . . .”

“If I don’t get that scholarship, I’ll lose any chance to fix everything.” She hated the tears clogging her throat and swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice the warble in her voice. Knowing he had to hear her desperation. “I’ll have failed my father and what he wanted for his work.”

“If I don’t get it, I’ll have to follow my father’s directives. Would you rather have the journal or me?”

The question settled over Nora like a weight. “That’s an unfair question.”

“How so?”

“That journal has been a part of my life for years. You’re a new addition.”

“Nora, you don’t really want that journal.” Owen held up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “I watched you come alive in India. Despite the limitations placed on you, you bloomed doing field research. Why would you chain yourself to something you don’t love?”

Heat boiled through her veins. “It’s all I have left of my father. And he wanted me to have it. I know he did.”

“But not if it meant giving up what you really love to do. He loved you more than his publication.”

“He made the ultimate sacrifice for me. Saving it is worth any sacrifice I have to make in order to honor him.”

“Even losing me? I’d like to know what you’d choose.”

“I’m not answering.”

Owen rested his elbows against the door on either side of her and pressed a light kiss to her temple. “Does a publication make you feel the way I do?”

Nora ducked and slipped away from his trap. “It makes me feel useful. It makes me feel a connection to my father.”

He pushed back his cowlick with a snap of his wrist, then crossed his arms. “It isn’t a person, Nora. It’s not your father. It’s just a magazine. Just words and paper.”

Her mouth fell open. Just a magazine? How could she have spent so much time with him and he not know it was everything? “You know what it meant to my father. You know it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He winced. “I thought maybe you’d found something else you wanted a bit more.”

Behind Owen, his roommate shuffled around the small, cluttered parlor, pretending to be tidying up but with his ear toward the open door. Nora lowered her voice, and her words came out clothed in a hiss. “Are you hoping I’ll give up the scholarship? Does loving you mean sacrificing my dreams for yours? Do you really care for me, or are you manipulating me?”

With every word, Owen’s jaw grew tighter and his gaze more distant. She saw the effect of her speech and tried to stop, but her fears bubbled beneath the surface, demanding release. Demanding answers.

Owen stepped into the apartment, his hand clutching the edge of the door. “I’m starting to think India and everything that happened there was a wonderful dream that ended the moment we crossed the Atlantic. How could you think, after everything, I’d expect you to give up your ambitions? But your dream isn’t that magazine.” He huffed a laugh. “I know you better than you know yourself. But it seems you don’t know me after all.”

She watched as the door shut, finality in the click of the lock. What had just happened? She held her head, which had begun to pound with regret, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

But she couldn’t say it to him. Because when it came down to it, she wouldn’t give up the journal for anyone or anything. Not for her own desires, and not for Owen Epps of Manhattan. No matter what he thought he knew.