Landry Park

by Bethany Hagen

  We were close to the maze now, walking past the locked door with its peeling paint and bones of history within.

  “David . . .” I started, not sure what I was going to say. I never got the chance to find out, because David reached out to touch my grandmother’s necklace on my chest, and I froze. I was trapped between the outer stone wall of the maze and David, who held me as fast with a thin gold strand as he would’ve if he’d had an iron chain.

  “I feel so much like I want to trust you,” he whispered. “But then I remember that you’re a Landry.”

  His fingers grazed my skin as he placed the cameo gently back against my chest. He stepped away from me and I could feel the gap between us like a wound.

  “You can trust me,” I managed to say.

  “If you had any idea how much I want to.” His eyes were earnest, intent on my own, their color making everything around them seem monochromatic and faded.

  I stepped closer. “Then do it,” I said, half daring, half begging. I tilted my face to his, trying to look confident and assured, like I was a person who could be trusted with anything.

  He took my chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “Madeline Landry,” he said in a serious voice. His eyes searched mine, and I searched back, my entire world possessed by his hand on my face.

  “David,” I breathed.

  He bent his head down, and—as the summer wind blew silken petals and the scent of fresh crisp fruit around us—he lightly brushed his lips against mine, so lightly that I wondered if it had been a stray petal and not David.

  But as I was about to part my lips, as I was about to lean forward and press myself against the expensive suit and the sun-warmed body beneath it, he jerked back, staring at me as if my lips had been covered in poison.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his face clouded with—what? Disgust? Regret? Pity? “That was extremely presumptuous of me. A gentleman should not take liberties.” He sighed to himself. “Certainly not a gentlemen with a girlfriend.”

  That need in my chest—a need so like hope—shattered into a thousand pieces.

  No matter how much we shared, no matter how many times we locked eyes and I had to will myself to keep breathing, he would always be distant and unreachable.

  But he wasn’t distant with Cara. He was the one who tried to kiss her at her debut and claim her as his own. No, it must be me. I was the reason that we could never draw nearer than two magnets with the same charge.

  “Walk with me back up to the house?” he asked.

  I acquiesced, and we trod up the emerald lawn together.

  Madeline—

  I’d hate to think that your last memory of me would be of my acting so ill-bred. Rest assured that I am normally much more refined.

  Your friend—

  David

  Unlike invitations and library books, which were always printed on expensive paper, most letters were written on tablets with a pen-like stylus, so they could be delivered electronically, but still be written in one’s own hand. The gentry, cautious of forgery and rebellion, prided themselves on their distinctive penmanship. Flying loops and spidery letters made it difficult for someone who hadn’t spent years with a tutor to copy a signature.

  I could picture David writing this letter at his fort in the Rockies. Sitting in his tailored captain’s uniform, adding the long flourishes to the word friend, perhaps not knowing how it would taunt me. And yet, despite the part of me that begged for a little dignity, I pulled it up on my tablet three or four times a day, hoping to decipher some new meaning in the words. Why was he apologizing for the kiss? Was it guilt about Cara? Was it because he thought I was angry?

  Or was it because he regretted kissing me?

  I finally responded—sending a note that was at once distant and formal, something that made it sound like I barely cared if he responded or not.

  David—

  I hope this letter finds you well. I hope that Colorado is as beautiful as they say, and that the army affords you much satisfaction.

  Sincerely,

  Madeline

  Rumor had it that Cara was pining for David, though I had difficulty imagining Cara pining for anyone. And it had only been two weeks since he left—hardly time for true melancholy to set in. But it was said that she rarely left her rooms, that she was seen wandering aimlessly around the castle grounds, that servants found her crying over her tablet in odd corners of her estate.

  David. How could one person upset this city’s life so completely?

  • • •

  I had told Jack that I would help with money and food, and I meant it, although giving even just a basket of food was harder than I thought. Martha—I had finally taken the trouble to learn Cook’s name—kept a faithful ledger of all food purchased and consumed. My mother was nominally in charge of the kitchens, but Father frequently reviewed the accounts to make sure the servants were accounting all things honestly. Martha was nothing if not honest and proud of her twenty-five-year tenure as head cook in our kitchens—and thus, anything more than a couple loaves of bread and cheese would be difficult to take without raising a fuss.

  Here, my mother’s lassitude toward the drudgery of housekeeping became an asset, and I convinced her to allow me to start setting the menus for breakfast and lunch. She seemed pleased at my newfound interest in household duties, and it allowed me a chance to order a little bit extra for each meal. Not enough to arouse suspicion, but enough for two or three baskets a day, carried out to the maze by Elinor, whom I kept under-informed for her own protection. There, they were picked up under the cover of night and brought back to the hungry mouths on the east side of town.

  Money was a different story.

  I had never really thought about the exchange of money. I rarely needed to purchase anything myself, and when I did, I only had to leave my name with the shopkeeper or restaurant owner, and my purchase was paid with credit. All around me, food was being ordered from the city, dresses were being purchased and tailored, candles were bought by the crate, wine was rolled into the house by the cask, and books and trinkets of all kinds made their way to me or Mother or Father—yet I never once saw paper notes change hands. Money was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  I was tempted to give some of my jewelry to Jack to sell instead. But the more I thought about it, the more dangerous it seemed, because if a Rootless was caught stealing the penalty was death. No, it had to be money. Untraceable money.

  There was one opportunity during the week, but it was not without some risk. Every Friday night, Father and a few other gentry men—and if my mother’s venomous rants were to be believed, Christine Dana—went to the casino for the evening. My father was not much of a gambler, but he was also not one to miss an opportunity to display his wealth, and so he brought plenty of cash with him.

  Surely he wouldn’t miss a hundred gentry dollars, not out of a few thousand?

  So, one Friday evening, three weeks after David’s departure, I snuck into my father’s bedroom. Unlike my mother’s bedroom with its massive dressing room and elaborate bathroom, this was a place I had rarely been. The walls were covered in a deep purple color with crown molding leading to a high trayed ceiling, studded by a massive chandelier. Father had gone downstairs to greet Christine Dana personally—they would drive together to the casino—and had left his tuxedo jacket unattended upstairs.

  I had only moments.

  I tiptoed across the lush hand-knotted carpet to his armchair, where the jacket was slung over the back. I hesitated, checking behind me. I was alone.

  But I still felt as if someone was watching and judging my actions as I rifled through the jacket to find the deep inside pocket. Perhaps it was the ghost of Jacob Landry himself, coming to glare at me as I violated my father’s trust. I shook off the guilt and thought about the sorting yards and the torn radiation suits. The Rootless needed the money more than my father, who would spend it all on plum wine and roasted duck and spun-sugar sculptures of mermaids and d
ragons without a second thought.

  That doesn’t make it right to steal, a voice said inside my head. Don’t compromise what you know is right.

  But I promised Jack. And I know helping the Rootless is right. And—my hand closed over the fat fold of the money, driving away any other thoughts. I pulled it out, fascinated by how crisp and clean the notes were. Father must have withdrawn them from the bank recently.

  I peeled off one hundred dollars—two of the notes, and stuffed the rest back in the pocket. I turned to leave, but stopped, my heart in my throat, as soon as I saw my father standing in the doorway, his head tilted to the side.

  He came toward me, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps, and silently held out his hand.

  Ashamed, I dropped my eyes to the ground and placed the two notes in his hand. His face was tight, controlled, but not with anger, with consideration.

  “Are you stealing from me, Madeline?” he asked finally.

  After a minute, I nodded my head.

  “Why?”

  What could I say? That the money was for the Rootless, to support them until they planned a revolution to overthrow the gentry? And if I lied—said that I’d wanted a dress or a book—he would know I was lying. He knew my every expression, my every tone.

  He brushed past me and walked to his jacket. Pulling it on, he prompted, “Well?”

  “I . . . I had wanted some money of my own.”

  He examined my face. “Your needs are provided for, are they not?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the clump of money, which he divested of a few more bills. “Here,” he said, handing them to me. “Consider this an allowance.”

  I was shocked. I had expected nothing short of verbal flagellation . . . but more money?

  “And perhaps,” he continued, “a weekly allowance should be arranged. I can hardly tempt you to remain at the estate if I do not show you the perks of the job, can I?” He left after delivering a swift kiss to my stunned cheek.

  And after that night, the Rootless also found money in the baskets of food, and, no longer a thief but rather a keeper of promises, I felt satisfied.

  • • •

  A few days later, Jamie came over for tea. My cousin seemed to be the only person immune to David’s absence, which was a welcome relief. As we picked our way through thin sandwiches and crudités and as a thunderstorm raged outside, I gradually shared my story with him, leaving out David’s last visit and the ensuing angst.

  “Madeline, you could have been killed by those men,” Jamie said, his voice low, though he could barely be heard over the thunder and raindrops on the glass. “And you could have gotten seriously ill. You swear you don’t feel any radiation sickness? Nausea, headaches, fatigue?”

  I shook my head. “I feel fine. Just . . . confused.”

  “About what? David?”

  “I don’t want to talk about David right now.” Which was a lie—I did want to talk about him—all the time, in fact—but I didn’t know what I wanted to say. That he was frustratingly changeable was a given. That I never knew where I stood with him was a given, too. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and his conduct made no more sense after hours of musing out loud than it did if I kept my thoughts to myself.

  So I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

  “No,” I said, “I’m confused about what to do. I know I’m doing the right thing by helping the Rootless with food and money. I believe that their suffering is wrong. But Jack wanted me to leave Landry Park. He talked about how vicious my grandfather was and how wrong we all were about Jacob Landry.” I struggled to find words to express the exact nature of my ambivalence about my ancestor. “But just because Jacob Landry invented something that’s being used to suppress the Rootless, that doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person. Right?”

  “Alfred Nobel invented dynamite,” Jamie pointed out. “He was so haunted by its violent uses that he created the Peace Prize to counteract his unwitting contribution to war. Jacob Landry didn’t have time to really see how his invention was being used. After all, the Cherenkov lanterns brought light to millions in underdeveloped countries with no electricity. He probably assumed the nuclear charge would be just as beneficial.”

  I thought of Jacob Landry’s bust in the foyer, with the thin mouth and pinprick pupils. “I’ve never liked the idea of him, but I feel connected to him somehow. Like we can’t be untangled from one another. I feel that way about my father, too.”

  “Feel what about me?” Father came into the room, the lightning outside sending faint shadows flickering across his face. For a terrible moment, I thought he had heard everything about the Rootless and my part in helping them. As quickly as a clap of thunder, my knees and lips lost all sensation.

  Thank heaven for Jamie. He stood and bowed, and by the time he was done, I’d mostly recovered myself.

  “Mr. Landry,” Jamie said.

  Father shook his hand and offered him a cigarette, which Jamie graciously took, though he didn’t light it.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Campbell-Smith. How is work at the hospital?” His voice was calm. Pleasant even.

  “Very good, sir. Very good. I believe I’m able to help many people there, despite our limited supplies.”

  Father took a seat in a stiff armchair. Even sitting, he was imposing—tall and stern, like a statue of Zeus upon a throne. Jamie sat across from him, his face folded in an expression of nervous discomfort. I sometimes forgot that everything Jamie had—an apartment in the city, an invitation into society, even his job—it all depended on the goodwill of the gentry. The goodwill of men like my father.

  Everything I had depended on my father, too. If he knew that I’d gone to the Rootless and that I’d been giving them food and money, he could force me out of the house. Or, since I was the sole scion of the treasured Landry line, he could lock me here like some sort of prisoner, waiting for me to breed a grandchild who was more obedient than myself.

  I stared at him from under my eyelids, trying to read his expression.

  “Helping the poor is important, in its own way, although I hope that you will focus the hospital’s energies on the reproductive clinic. Ensuring that the Rootless have healthy children who can carry on their work is fundamental to our society, in addition to being an emotional solace for them.”

  Jamie ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t expect that you will be under that gold dome for long, Mr. Campbell-Smith. I foresee you in the private gentry hospital or perhaps as a personal physician to one of our noble families, and maybe sooner than you think. So long as you perform admirably at the Public Hospital, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Father lit a cigarette, and the spice of opium filled the air. “While I hate to interrupt your tea, I need a word with Madeline. Privately.” The word held an ominous promise.

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Sir,” Jamie said, and rose. He took my hands and leaned down to kiss my cheek. “Be brave,” he whispered in my ear.

  After he left, Father shifted in his chair, crossing his legs and taking a meditative drag from his cigarette. I braced myself for cold fury, counting the lightning strikes before he spoke.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  What will he say . . .

  Four . . .

  “The incident in my room a few days ago has given me cause to consider your future,” Father finally said. “I realize that for you to do something as out of character as stealing, there must be something bothering you. Significantly.”

  I held my breath.

  “And then I realized I knew exactly what it was. You feel that I’m not listening to your needs, you feel hurt that I’m not sending you to the university like you want.”

  I exhaled so loudly that he narrowed his eyes at me, but I didn’t care. He hadn’t mentione
d the Rootless! He still didn’t know!

  “I would not breathe a sigh of relief just yet,” he said. “You have repeatedly made your case for the university. The teachers at the academy have always raved about your scholastic performance, and over the last few months, the discussions we’ve had have proven to me how intelligent and prescient you are. I am very proud of you, Madeline, for demonstrating the sharpness of the Landry mind, both inside the academy and out of it.”

  A lump burned at the back of my throat. Father hadn’t told me he was proud of me in years, and I hadn’t realize how much I’d missed it. His approval.

  He gestured for me to come to him. I did, standing before him like a schoolgirl. He examined my face for a moment, before standing and folding me into his arms.

  He smelled like ivy, like stone.

  Like the house.

  “Never forget that I’m proud of you,” he said fiercely. “And never forget that I exact from you no less than what my father exacted of me and his father of him and so forth. You may be a daughter, but you have all the steel and strength of the Landrys. What I want for you is to be a rock for your children and your grandchildren, and for the gentry to regard you in the same light they regard your ancestors. You are special, Madeline, and you belong here, on this special estate. You will rule it, and the Uprisen, with an iron fist and an iron mind.”

  I tilted my head up at him. “You want me to stay here?” I said, voice breaking between gratitude and disappointment.

  His face when he looked down at me was the face of my father of years ago, debt-free and affectionate, willing to fold himself into a tiny chair to play at dolls and tea. “It is difficult for me to deny you anything. Give me time to think about it. Give me this year to prove to you how productive and useful you can be—how much there is to learn here at the house. And perhaps, you can prove to me how a university education will be an asset to the family. Agreed?”

  This is what I had been longing for—even if it was only a chance, hinged on a condition.

  For an instant—a fleeting instant—I almost asked him about Jacob Landry’s journals, asked about staying his persecution of the Rootless. This would have been the perfect moment, in one of his rare displays of affection.