The Hacienda(66)
As if she heard my heart slam against my rib cage, her head snapped to me, avian sharp, and she caught my eye with her own glowing red ones. My chest contracted, so tight it was akin to a spasm, as she grinned savagely at me. It was too wide, with too many teeth, too long teeth, and—
She vanished.
Gooseflesh rolled up my arms; an iciness poured into the room, one so profound it was all I could do to keep my teeth from chattering.
Yet the conversation carried on. Do?a María José laughed along with Rodolfo, opening her mouth and revealing half-chewed rice and pork; Juana shot her a murderous look and slumped glumly in her chair.
Did none of them see? Could none of them feel it? I set my fork down. It clattered onto my plate; I quickly put my hands in my lap to conceal their trembling.
When Do?a María José expressed her concern at my shaking, I forced a broad smile.
“Only a chill,” I said. “The house can be terribly drafty at times.”
Andrés shot me a concerned look; I refused to acknowledge it. I kept my peace for the remainder of the meal, answering questions only when they were directed at me, watching as Juana sabotaged every attempt to draw her into the conversation with brusque replies.
I should have found her retorts excruciating. Rodolfo certainly did: the more strained the expressions of our guests became, the more his jaw tightened. The colder his eyes grew.
It washed over me in dull waves of noise. My attention was consumed by how the house shifted around us, waking and stretching as the night deepened. By my own heartbeat, its staccato and persistent drum just below my ear.
The house hated this charade of normalcy. Its loathing seeped through the walls, tangible and thick as mud. I waded through it as I followed the guests from dining room to parlor for nightcaps in a haze; everything moved too slowly, dragged by the thickness of the cold, the weight of the house’s watching.
It was all I could do to make myself obey as Rodolfo waved me over to join him in bidding good night to the guests. I kissed their rouged cheeks dutifully, echoing their empty compliments with my own empty gratitude, echoing Rodolfo’s promise that we would join them at their haciendas. I let Rodolfo lead me back to the parlor on his arm.
Andrés sat with the Bible closed on his knee. Juana was opposite him as she had been before, glowering at the fireplace.
Rodolfo released me suddenly. He crossed the room in three strides and seized his sister by the arm, yanking her to her feet.
Andrés rose to his feet in surprise. “Don Rodol—”
“You beast,” Juana spat, cutting him off. “Let me go.” Rodolfo ignored them both and dragged Juana out of the parlor, kicking the door shut behind him.
It bounced off the doorway, swinging open an inch or two into the hall.
“I am at the end of my rope.” Rodolfo’s voice carried easily into the parlor.
“So hang yourself with it,” Juana spat.
“It will be a miracle if they do not immediately tell the whole district Juana Solórzano is a drunk and a whore.” Rodolfo raised his voice to speak over her. “A miracle if I marry you off and get you the hell out of my house.”
“Father said the house was—”
The smack of palm on cheek. I jumped; Andrés and I locked gazes, eyes wide in horror.
“Do not ever dare to call him that in my presence again,” Rodolfo roared. “You and I both know he is no father of yours, and I will no longer tolerate your lying bastard tongue. You will change your behavior and act as befits the station we pretend you deserve, or so help me God, I will throw you out and make sure you inherit nothing of his honest work. Get out of my sight.”
Juana’s boots struck the flagstones, sharp, determined, leading to the front door. She slammed it shut behind her.
Surprise brought a tinge of color to Andrés’s wan face. If what Rodolfo said was true—that Juana was a bastard, that she and Rodolfo did not share the same father—it was as much a surprise to him as it was to me.
The sound of Rodolfo’s shoes striking the flagstones drew near; hastily, Andrés and I both sat in the chairs closest to us. I seized some needlework. Andrés opened the Bible and began reading in the middle of a sentence. I focused on rethreading the needle as Rodolfo entered.
I lifted my head, keeping an innocent look pasted on my face. Rodolfo seemed as calm as if he had been strolling through the garden with his sister, not shouting obscenities at her and threatening to throw her out of the house. The dying fire cast him in a soft, reddish glow; the only signs he had been angry were the twitch of a muscle in his jaw and a single lock of hair falling into his face. This he brushed aside in a smooth, controlled movement.
He was Janus-faced, my husband. A creature of rage and violence on one side, a serene, gilded prince on the other. He was a staunch defender of the Republic and casta abolitionist who raped women who worked on his property.
I could not trust him. Either side of him.
I could not anger him either. Too many women had died in this house for me to test his patience.
There was nothing I could do as Andrés, my only protection, stood and bid good night to Rodolfo.
“Yes, I think it best we retire,” Rodolfo agreed, turning to him. “I have had a long day of travel.”
I rose, shooting Andrés a look from behind my husband’s back.
Don’t leave, I longed to cry out. I was sure he could read it on my face, in the desperate glint of my eyes in the firelight, as he nodded farewell to me.