Bethany Hagen - Landry Park

“No,” I said automatically, then remembered I was talking to a friend. I put my hands over my face. “Yes,” I said through my fingers.

Jamie came and sat next to me, skinny legs crossed, his too-short pants exposing his socks. “And this doesn’t have anything to do with David Dana?”

I lowered my hands. “I’m just as ridiculous as all the girls we used to make fun of,” I mumbled.

“You are not ridiculous,” Jamie said, patting my hand. “We made fun of the people who were chasing after marriage and money for marriage and money’s sake. You genuinely like David. That’s different.”

“Is it? Not that it makes any difference now,” I said bitterly. “I should have realized how I felt earlier, not after he asked another girl to debut. I kept telling myself I didn’t care about him, that I thought he was arrogant and fake.”

“He certainly acts that way, doesn’t he?” Jamie mused. “They could not have built a better gentry boy in a laboratory.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t compete with Cara. I couldn’t when we were little and I can’t even after she is covered in bruises and scratches.”

Jamie tensed.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s… nothing.”

I turned to look at him. “What is it? Is it about Cara’s attack?” When he didn’t answer right away, I knew I was right. “Jamie, please tell me. I’ve been trying to figure this out for almost six weeks, and I have nothing to go on.”

He fidgeted. “I overheard Philip Wilder at the country club the other day. Something about putting Cara in her place.”

“What?” I got to my feet, mind racing, replaying his mocking behavior at the Lawrences’ last month. “He wasn’t with Marianne when her family escorted her into the ballroom… he must have been out in the grove with Cara.”

Jamie raised his hands. “I didn’t hear much, and hearsay is not proof. I just heard him laughing to his friends about meeting Cara the night of the debut. He said, ‘she deserved it, and I’d do it again.’ Then he and his friends called her names a gentleman should not repeat.”

“It makes sense,” I said. “He attacked her, but Cara knew she couldn’t accuse him, not when she would have to admit to agreeing to meet him privately at the Wilders’ and risk creating a new scandal. So she accused the Rootless, knowing the police wouldn’t bother to prove otherwise.”

“Even if Philip did attack her—which we can’t prove—how do you explain the abandoned Rootless bag on the scene? It’s not worth one of the Rootless’s lives to leave an expired charge on gentry property. The punishment for willingly exposing a non-Rootless to radiation is torture and death, and then imprisonment of one’s family.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m going to find Philip and force the truth out of him.”

Jamie looked worried. “Don’t get yourself into trouble. Especially now that the Rootless have marked your house. Do you think that anything you do will change your father’s mind and stop his campaign of discipline?”

“Do you really think it’s that pointless?” I asked.

“Will it even make a difference to the Rootless?” Jamie asked. “If you manage to prove that they didn’t attack Cara, but the gentry still punish them for the vandalism and for the minor arsons and for the robberies at the ration station—do you think they’ll stand up and thank you?” He shook his head. “I work with them every day, and while I genuinely pity their suffering, I also see that your father has made them too angry and too desperate to react in a civilized manner.”

I nodded to be polite and to stave off another argument, but I wasn’t convinced. Not in the least.

The brassy blare of horns interrupted our conversation. Jamie offered an arm, and we left the library and the winter wing, closing the door behind us and entering the rose-strewn hall.

Now that everyone had moved to the ballroom for the grand entrance, the hall was mostly devoid of life. A few harried-looking servants tended to the buffet tables and to the marble floor, littered with crushed pink petals and fallen beads. No one noticed us creeping into the ballroom—their eyes were ahead on the staircase, where David and Cara were making their first appearance of the night.

I scanned the room for Philip Wilder, but as soon as I saw the debut couple, I could focus on nothing else.

I saw Cara first, the deep pink of her silk dress catching every ray of light, making her shimmer and glow. Fresh pink roses were set in her hair, and she carried a small nosegay in a silver holder. Murmurs rumbled through the crowd—look at her dress, look at her —but after glancing at Cara once, I only had eyes for David.

He walked easily down the stairs, one arm supporting Cara, the other swinging at his side. Amusement lit the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was happy. He wanted to be here. He wasn’t just after Cara for her family’s influence or her non-debt-ridden estate.

I felt like I might be sick.

Servants began to circle the room, handing out glasses of champagne for the toast. David and Cara paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the requisite speech. Addison climbed a low dais at the side of the room. “We are here tonight to celebrate my beautiful daughter’s debut into society,” she said proudly. “Cara has worked so hard…”

As she continued with her speech, I stared at David, drowning out everything except the sound of my memories.

We are alike, you and I, he’d said. But then he’d flung spoken like a true Landry at me, like an insult, like a knife.

Though one hand was in his pocket and there was a relaxed set to his shoulders, his eyes flicked around the room ceaselessly and his left foot tapped against the marble stair. He was possessed by the same nervous intensity I’d noticed a few weeks ago in the library, when he’d badgered me into confessing my turmoil over my future.

“. . . So please join me in raising a glass to my daughter, Cara, and to her escort, David Dana.”

David looked surprised when he was handed a glass—clearly he hadn’t been listening to a word of Addison’s speech. The guests raised their glasses and murmured their individual benedictions, then drank. I held my flute with trembling hands, unable to bring myself to take a sip.

The band started playing, and David led Cara to the middle of the ballroom floor, where the crowd parted to give them room to dance. The onlookers sighed and clapped at intervals, taken with the couple, with Cara’s beauty and David’s charm, but I could barely watch. My stomach churned every time he pulled her closer, his hand so low on her waist that his fingertips brushed her bustle. Once, a slender lock of hair fell into her face and he reached to tuck it behind her ear. I found myself remembering what it felt like, his fingers on my skin.

One moment caught my attention. David leaned in to kiss Cara, and instead of welcoming him, she turned her head ever so slightly so that his lips landed on the corner of her mouth. It looked simply like she had turned her head to make her next step in the dance, but from where I stood, I could see a brief flash of distaste flit across her face, as if enduring his kiss was some sort of chore. I had seen that expression many times in our childhood, in etiquette lessons, in school, in our beds late at night when I insisted on reading passages from books aloud.

But as soon as I noticed it, it was gone. I suspected that I had probably imagined it in the first place.

The dance ended and the crowd erupted with applause. Now everyone could dance and the debutante and her escort would partner with as many guests as time would allow.