The Hacienda(65)
He was standing with his back to the door of the north wing. Could he not feel the cold? It seeped into my bones with each step I took closer to him, closer to the north wing.
I let him kiss my cheek. His lips were warm.
Did the callousness of guilt inure him to the cold? To the madness that sank its claws into me as deeply as the chill?
I met his smile with my own, pasting it firmly across my cheeks as we went to the green parlor to welcome our guests.
Mamá said Papá was so charismatic he could charm guns out of the hands of his enemies. I believed it until I saw him led away from our house at bayonet point. Perhaps he was not quite that charismatic. But he had a way of talking through a room that somehow drew even the most reserved members of a party out of themselves. A seed of that still lived in me; though it was barricaded behind thick walls of pride, I drew on it now as I entertained Do?a María José Moreno and Do?a Encarnación de Pi?a y Cuevas. We sat on one side of the room, bathed in delicate candlelight, our skirts spread around us like the petals of exotic flowers. Their husbands and mine drank on the other side of the room, discussing crops and sheep. The fine European glassware in their hands and the silver candelabras from the capital gleamed in the glow of the fire. From the look of the room, one could almost believe we were in the capital.
Almost.
The presence of Andrés and Juana was blatant evidence of just how far from civilization this parlor was. They were stiff islands of silence each apart from the groups. As hostess, I had ensured that Andrés would be seated strategically on the rug that covered the faint witch’s glyphs whose shadow still remained ghostlike on the flagstones, in case it flared from the energy of too many people. He sat with a Bible on his knee, his face drawn and shadowed, pretending to listen to the men’s talk of pulque. Opposite him was Juana, his reflection in discomfort as Do?a María José talked of further furnishing the house.
“Oh, I completely understand,” she cooed when I apologized for the sparse decorations. “It was empty for years. I remember when Atenógenes and I took the house from his brother, oh, it must be forty years ago now. It was in such a state of neglect. The work it took to bring it back to life!”
Over her shoulder, I caught sight of Juana scowling. She made no effort to disguise it.
“At least now, with the war over, it is easier to get things from the capital,” Do?a Encarnación added, nodding sagely before launching into a discussion of the benefits of lining the courtyards with Puebla talavera.
My eyes flicked to Andrés. His face was a perfect mask of interest as the men discussed rumors of Church reform and lightly mocked him for knowing as little about it as they did.
I wished I could whisk him away from all these people. For a hot, swift moment, I hated this room and everyone in it but him. I wanted to burn San Isidro to the ground and build it up from the foundation, a sanctuary for the two of us.
Mercifully, we moved to the dining room not long after. I was terrified that I had ruined dinner, that the hacendados and their wives would turn their noses up at what I had spent hours preparing with Paloma. That terror—unlike so many others in the house—turned out to be unfounded.
“You must give our compliments to Ana Luisa,” Do?a María José said, sipping her wine with a flourish.
“She’s dead.”
Heads turned to Juana, for it was she who had spoken. Her posture was relaxed, too relaxed, and her words slurred ever so slightly.
She was drunk.
I shot a swift look at Rodolfo. His jaw was tight as he stared at his sister. I had to intervene before she caused any damage—to her reputation or ours alike.
“Do?a María José, I’m so sorry to bear this news,” I said softly. “Ana Luisa passed away recently. It was sudden, and quite a shock to lose someone so beloved to our family.”
The hacendados’ wives made sympathetic sounds; their men nodded solemnly, following Andrés’s example in crossing themselves and sending words to heaven for Ana Luisa.
“Her daughter, Paloma, is taking her place as head of the household,” I said. “Despite the tragedy, I think we can all agree she rose to the occasion marvelously.”
More sounds of agreement, and the energy in the room relaxed. I made to catch Rodolfo’s eye and failed. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, but he fixed a cold look on Juana, who swayed slightly as she worked through her dinner.
Crisis averted. Dinner was nearly through. Rodolfo had always said country socializing never went into the small hours of the morning like in the capital. Depending on how much the men drank and talked, the whole evening could be over in an hour or two. The hacendados would leave, Andrés and Juana would leave, and then . . . it would be Rodolfo and me in the house. Alone.
I swallowed, laughing airily at some joke Don Atenógenes made. I turned to Andrés as if to ask him a question. He looked a touch nauseous; he had barely touched his food. I pursed my lips, then froze—
The chair next to him was meant to be empty.
It wasn’t.
The woman from my dream sat there. Gray silks and a golden necklace gleamed in the candlelight as she perched her sharp chin in her hands and gazed down the table at Rodolfo, thoroughly engrossed with each of his gestures.
María Catalina, the first Do?a Solórzano, looked so painfully real, so flesh and blood, it sent a dagger of terror through my heart.