Landry Park

by Bethany Hagen

  I’d seen this performance many times.

  “All this talk is upsetting Miss Westoff,” Jamie interjected. “Mr. Landry, may I take her back to the house? Surely, this kind of interrogation can wait until her injuries have been seen to and she’s had a chance to compose herself.”

  Father looked around the grove, considering, and then nodded. “Madeline, go with them. Help tend to Miss Westoff, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let yourselves be seen. The last thing we need is an entire house full of panicked gentry.”

  “They will panic once they see the police,” Mr. Glaize said. “It’s hopeless to pretend this will stay quiet for long. If people don’t figure it out tonight, gossip will certainly be circulating around the brunches and business meetings tomorrow.”

  Mr. Wilder looked miserable.

  Father considered Mr. Glaize’s words. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Glaize. Perhaps we should explain the circumstances to the assembly and encourage their quiet cooperation with the investigation. Maybe they’ll sleep more soundly knowing we already have a direction to take our inquiries.”

  Jamie stooped and lifted Cara into his arms. His thin frame struggled with her weight—slender as she was, she was tall and strong—but he gallantly walked toward Wilder House, the two of them silhouetted against the bright lights shining from the windows.

  “Madeline, please go with them like I asked,” Father said. “I want you safely inside the house until we can be certain the estate is secure.”

  I stepped toward the house, then stopped and turned. “Father, I don’t think it was a Rootless who attacked Cara.” My voice quavered a little at the end; Alexander Landry was not an easy man to disagree with.

  His iron eyes turned their metal gaze to mine. “And what makes you so certain? In the midst of all the trouble the Rootless have been giving the gentry, the physical evidence that a Rootless was here in these woods, and the information Miss Westoff herself has revealed to us—”

  “She hasn’t revealed anything,” I interrupted. “She said only that she thought she might have seen that bag. That’s hardly proof, and you know how Cara can be.” I couldn’t explain to him the sense of responsibility I felt for Cara’s testimony; I couldn’t even really explain it to myself. I tried another tactic. “Why are you so eager to blame the Rootless?”

  He stepped closer so that Mr. Wilder and Mr. Glaize couldn’t hear. “Why are you so eager to defend them? If you knew how dangerous they’ve become and how ignorant and depraved their minds are, you would not be so quick to shelter them from justice. Must I remind you of your uncle Stephen?”

  I paused. Stephen Landry—Father’s older and only brother—had died shortly after graduating the academy. He’d been seen spending time with several rough working-class men—including some Rootless—and the rumor was that he’d gotten into some kind of trouble. They never found his body and they never tortured the truth out of the youths they arrested, but a pack of police dogs found his bloodstained jacket buried in the Rootless ghetto.

  “Uncle Stephen died over twenty years ago.”

  “You feel the pain less keenly because you never knew him. But perhaps you’ll understand now that your friend has been attacked.”

  I wanted to say something in reply, something to refute what he had said, but my mind stumbled under the weight of Father’s gaze. So I remained silent. My best hope was that Cara would ultimately reveal whatever inscrutable reason she’d been out in the cold, without a chaperone, without a friend, without even a jacket.

  About half of the guests had stayed, talking together in clumps while servants gathered up the remains of the food and pushed brooms across the dance floor, now littered with fallen hairpins and crumbs. Some of the gentry left, fearful of another attack, but the remaining guests crowded around me as I tried to walk through.

  “We saw Jamie Campbell-Smith carrying Cara. Is she all right?”

  “Was she attacked?”

  “Where is your father? Did he call the police?”

  I just shook my head, mumbling that I didn’t know. I needed to find Cara. I was the only one who knew that she wasn’t being entirely truthful. Maybe I alone couldn’t convince my father not to go after the Rootless, but if Cara would name her attacker—or at least confirm that he wasn’t a Rootless—then Father would have to respect her word. And mine.

  Mother came up to me, sliding easily between the clusters of people, keeping the train of her delicate gown from being trampled. “Darling, you must go see to Cara. Addison would, but she just learned of the whole thing after coming in from having a cigarette, and the shock made her faint. I volunteered to help her home to rest.” Her voice was tender, but her eyes belied her concern. If she stayed by Addison’s side, she’d be the first to hear of any news.

  “Where is Cara?”

  “Upstairs in the north end of the house. Miss Wilder kindly loaned her chambers.”

  I gave Mother a quick hug and set out for the staircase, pushing past a laughing Philip Wilder as I did. I pulled my skirts in close as I rushed down the hallway to the front foyer, hung with long banners displaying the Wilder crest: a bow and arrows set against a green forest. There I found a thin green carpet running down the shallow steps, with intricate balusters lining the sides of the banisters and a railing that gleamed with polish.

  The chandelier in the foyer had been extinguished, leaving only the flickering wall sconces, which barely illuminated the stairs. The front doors were thrown open, and a small pool of lamplight from outside shone on the wooden floors.

  I had started to climb up the steps when I heard the faint whisper of tires on the road. I stopped to see blue lights cresting the hill, mounted on sleek black cars. As they came closer, I could see the Cherenkov lanterns mounted on the tops of the cars. The gentry usually stored their lanterns in lead-lined cases when they weren’t using them, but the police kept their Cherenkov lights unveiled at all times, letting the signature cerulean halo announce their presence.

  The police cars pulled up to the house and stopped. The constables stepped out, then gestured to the back of the house while they pulled out notebooks and black bags. “They said she was attacked in the grove,” one officer said, his voice carrying easily into the foyer. “Let’s start there, assess the scene, and then interview the witnesses.”

  “When he called, Mr. Landry said it was possibly the Rootless,” one said quietly.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Filthy beasts,” a third one spat.

  I flinched. It’s not as if I were friendly with any of the Rootless—we’d learned in the academy that they’d inherited their lot due to inherent laziness and violent tendencies, and that mingling with them was dangerous—but the viciousness of the hatred toward them sometimes shocked me. They were people too. Human beings. And surely there was a basic level of respect that we afforded any and all human beings, no matter what caste they hailed from? And weren’t we, as the gentry, supposed to be the leaders and examples for everybody else?

  I stepped farther up on the staircase, wanting to watch but not be seen. Part of me wanted to run back to my father, to be there to temper his testimony, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Maybe when I was the owner of Landry Park—if I was ever the owner—my word would finally mean something.

  I took another step, and someone spoke aloud. “Normally these debuts are terribly boring, so I make a point of arriving late, but I guess this time I missed all the excitement.”

  I turned to see a blond man, tuxedo-clad and completely unfamiliar, stepping into the lamplight from the shadows in the foyer. In the dark, I could tell nothing more than that he seemed about my age and had blond hair so light it looked almost translucent under the Cherenkov lights. A carefully tailored tuxedo revealed wide shoulders and a narrow waist—an athlete’s body.

  Had he been there this whole time watching the police? Watching me? I suddenly felt self-conscious of my hair—ruffled and slightly frizzy from the wind—and my dress, decora
ted with bits of leaves and pine needles from the grove. It’s dark, I reminded myself.

  Besides, who cares what a stranger skulking around the Wilder estate thinks?

  He leaned against the doorframe and struck a match to light a cigarette. With the sudden flame, I caught a glimpse of sharp features and a wide mouth. Long eyelashes and eyes the same blue as the Cherenkov lights behind him.

  “I almost didn’t come,” he said, after a long drag on his cigarette. “Really, I get bored to death at these things. But police! Drama! You people in Kansas City sure know how to throw a party.”

  Right there, I decided I knew his type, and we people in Kansas City already had plenty. Rich, bored, and confident that the world hung on his every word, he thought that his disdain was somehow electrifyingly amusing to everyone around him.

  “It’s not funny,” I snapped. “A girl was attacked. Hurt.”

  He cocked his head at me. “I suppose you’re right. But the police said it was the Rootless—they’ll find the animal soon enough, throw him in jail, and then everything will be as it was.”

  “It wasn’t the Rootless,” I said firmly. “My father and the other gentry, they just want the Rootless to be guilty.” I stopped suddenly. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, here at the party. How long have you been here at the party?”

  He shrugged. “A few minutes, I guess. Why—” His gaze sharpened. “I didn’t have anything to do with that girl, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He sighed and started digging in his coat pocket. He pulled out his tablet, pressed a few buttons, and held it out for me. From a few feet away, I could see the copy of an airplane ticket, putting his arrival time in Kansas City less than an hour ago. About the same time I heard Cara scream.

  “I came straight here from the airport,” he said. “Satisfied?”

  “I’ll be satisfied when I find out what really happened,” I informed him, although I was privately relieved that I wasn’t standing alone in the near-darkness with a violent man.

  We stared appraisingly at each other for a moment. “What’s your name?” he finally asked.

  I needed to be upstairs with Cara, not wasting time with a stranger in the dark. I turned to go, but he strode forward and caught my hand. I could smell tobacco and something else—something spicy and wintery. This close, I was shocked by the radioactive blueness of his eyes.

  “Please,” he said. “I would like to make your acquaintance.”

  There was a boyish earnestness to his request, as if once he decided that he wanted something, he wanted it with every atom of his being.

  As I opened my mouth, a guest strode into the foyer, talking loudly into her tablet and relaying the details of the ruined party. So, instead of answering him, I abruptly withdrew my hand from his. Gentry boys and girls dated—and often did more than just that—before their debuts, but strictly speaking, both parties were expected to arrive at the marriage bed untainted and untouched, to ensure that the pedigrees remained carefully crafted and planned.

  He stared at his outstretched hand for a moment and then looked back up at me with those alarming eyes. And then he smiled, a smile full of white teeth and mirth and charm. A curious pang caught in my chest, as if a hook somewhere above my navel was jerking upward, making it hard to breathe.

  It was this pang—more than his question or the threat of gossip—that made me move my legs.

  “Good night,” I said, and climbed the stairs, my thoughts already turning back to Cara and her bruised face.

  • • •

  The upstairs hallway was better lit, with nuclear electric lights instead of candles, and the occasional window admitting moonlight from outside. I found Marianne’s room with little trouble, but when I knocked, Jamie was already opening the door to come out.

  He shook his head at me. “She needs to rest.”

  “The police are here. She won’t be able to rest anyway.”

  He looked around the hallway almost guiltily. “She won’t be able to wake up until morning. I gave her a couple of sedatives from the house medicine chest.”

  “You did what?”

  “She asked me to,” he said. “And she deserves to rest after all that she’s been through. Thankfully, she assures me that nothing of a more prurient nature happened; she was spared that horror. Still, she needs to recover and process and sleep. The police are gentleman; they will respect that.”

  I felt a geyser of frustration threatening to erupt in my throat, but tried to keep my face calm. I had a lot of experience hiding my emotions, but Jamie could read me better than most.

  “Madeline,” he said, “why are you so preoccupied with this? Cara would never lie to the police, and the police would never go after an innocent person.”

  “Cara lies to her own parents constantly! And if you think our constables are so noble, then how do you explain the random arrests and releases without any charges? The beatings? The confiscation of rations?”

  Jamie shook his head again, looking tired. “Those are in other cities, in the South,” he replied. “I have more trust in the authorities here. Everything will work out.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  He gave me a short bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Madeline.”

  I swallowed all the angry words and accusations that came to mind. Jamie was not the criminal or the liar; this was not his fault. And I couldn’t deny that Cara deserved the oblivion unconsciousness would bring. But still, the frustration of being made to wait—of being forced to watch as these events unfolded in all the wrong ways—dug fiercely at me.

  “Good night, Jamie,” I said with a curtsy, but inside I was screaming.

  I could hear my father’s voice echoing from his study, two doors down from the library. It had been three days since Cara’s attack, but all I knew for sure was that she’d told the constables that it was a Rootless who’d attacked her. My father refused to tell me anything else about the case, even though I knew he’d been talking constantly to the other gentry and to the justices of the peace. Although the gentry had the privilege of governing minor disputes on their property, something as rare and barbaric as the attack of a gentry woman would have to involve the courts. But the outcome would most likely be the same. The judges and lawyers were merely gentry not fortunate enough to have been born heirs.

  They would hardly be unbiased.

  I closed another book—a biography of Jacob Landry—and put it on one of the several reading desks, not wanting to climb the ladder to shelve it again. The room was two stories tall, with ladders and spiral staircases leading to the upper floor where the least-used books were kept. Having such a large library was unnecessary when most people used their tablets to get information, but books—old and new—were expensive, and we Landrys had always loved showing off how we could afford expensive things. Of course, even our extensive collection was carefully curated; each book had been hand-chosen by Father or his ancestors, and there was nothing antithetical to gentry beliefs in any of the leather- or canvas-bound volumes. Even the data available for download on my tablet was limited, and I knew for a fact that Father kept tabs on what I read. It was something I had never thought to question, at least, not until a few days ago.

  I followed the sound of Father’s voice to the door of his study, but stayed well out of view. The wide marble floors of the ground-level hallway made for exceptional acoustics, so I could hear every variation in his pitch. He sounded uncharacteristically agitated.

  “There has been an incident,” he told somebody.

  “Where?” The voice was male and digital sounding; Father was talking to his wall screen.

  “An estate outside of Lake Chicago. A landowner was found dead. Strangled.”

  “And you believe it was the Rootless?”

  “I do,” Father replied with confidence.

  “Just as you believe it was the Root
less who assaulted Cara Westoff earlier this week.”

  “I do.”

  “You know your father was equally eager to point a finger at the underclass.”

  I blinked at this. I’d heard before that my grandfather had been known for his sternness, but I’d never heard that he had been eager to go after the Rootless. Was that why Father was so intent on blaming the Rootless for Cara’s attack?

  “Lewis Landry wanted a secure life for his people. That’s all I want.”

  I risked a look inside. Father’s hands clenched and un-clenched around his pen, always a sign of danger. As if aware that he was giving too much away, he set the pen down and casually rested his hands on a set of three books, thin leather volumes that were stained and battered.

  “I am not suggesting that he was wrong or that you are now. It is simply interesting to see the Landry zeal once again.”

  “My father was nothing if not zealous,” Father said, and his voice was impossible to read.

  The man sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound meant to carry over the wall screen. “The Rootless have not tried to revolt once in two hundred years. What makes you think they’re planning to do it now?”

  “They’re restless. The rash of trouble that started in the South is creeping closer to Kansas City. You know that Landry Park is the symbol of the gentry: Jacob Landry is buried here, and the Uprisen gather here to advise the government. Even the president makes an annual speech from my study. If they wanted to pick one place to start unraveling the gentry, they’ll pick Landry Park.”

  I bit my lip at the mention of the Uprisen. After the Last War, America had retained vestiges of her governmental system—the Congress, the Supreme Court, and a President—but the real power lay in the hands of the gentry, and even more so in the shadowy circle of the Uprisen. Numbering only fifteen or twenty, they were the descendants of Jacob Landry’s most loyal supporters during the Last War, and were now a quorum of powerful gentry families that influenced everything in America, from the military to Congress.