The Hacienda(7)
She did not join us when Rodolfo and I went into the town of Apan for Mass on Sunday.
It was my first visit to Apan, and the first time I would be seen by the hacendados of the other estates and their wives. Something in the air shifted as we passed through the gates of the hacienda, and I relaxed back into my seat. I rested my head on Rodolfo’s shoulder and rocked with the carriage’s movement, listening as he told me about the hacendados to whom he would introduce me after Mass.
“Their politics are slow to change, but they were my father’s allies and will continue to be ours, if their tolerance of Juana is any measure of their patience.” He took my gloved hands into his lap and held them, running a thumb over the lace absentmindedly. Though my eyes were closed, I could picture his wry half smile as he said, with a touch of knowing amusement, “Besides, country society is rather toothless compared to the capital.”
It took an hour to ride to the center of Apan. When Rodolfo helped me out of the carriage, I was struck by how small the town was. Some three thousand people lived here, Rodolfo said, and perhaps a thousand more scattered on surrounding haciendas, but what was such a number to me, who had grown accustomed to the density of the capital? Now I saw it concretely. The town itself—the central plaza de armas before the parish, post, barracks, other assorted buildings—was so small we could have passed through it in the carriage in ten minutes.
Sickly cypress trees lined the path up to the church. Though its front facade was simple, decorated only with carved stone, its stucco walls were impeccably whitewashed, as bright against the azure sky as the clouds. A bell rang from a single tower announcing the beginning of Mass.
I had assembled my attire from demure colors, soft gray and green, and was glad I did so as we entered the church. Even though my dress was by no means the most elaborate, it was by far of the highest quality, and I drew stares from the townspeople as I fell into step beside Rodolfo up the aisle of the church. My mantilla fluttered gently against my cheek as I genuflected and took a seat in a pew reserved for us and other hacendados near the altar.
In the capital, I had been merely one general’s daughter among many; here I was Do?a Beatriz Solórzano, the wife of one of the wealthiest estate owners, urbane and mysterious. Whispers rippled through the pews behind me in the quiet moments before the beginning of Mass.
I relished it. I cupped that power and held it close to my chest as Mass began. San Isidro was not what I had pictured when I married Rodolfo, but that power was. This was my new life. This was what I had won.
Mass was a long hour of incense and murmurs, rising and sitting. We all moved as one, speaking and responding, the steps of the dance carved into us from years of repetition like the rhythm of a lullaby. I had always found the Latin rites monotonous at best but paid even less attention than usual now there were hacendados around me to size up. Rather than watch the gray-haired, plump priest and his raven-like mestizo attendant behind the altar, my attention flitted like a hummingbird from head to head in the pews. Which of these strangers would be a friend? Who might be a foe?
After Mass, Rodolfo began his introductions: Severo Pi?a y Cuevas and his wife, Encarnación, of Hacienda Ocotepec, a pair of Mu?oz brothers from Hacienda Alcantarilla, and elderly Atenógenes Moreno and his wife, María José, of San Antonio Ometusco. All were pulque-producing haciendas, and—judging from the fine silk and stately peninsular fashions of the wives—they had survived eleven years of civil war as well as Rodolfo’s family had.
“It is good your husband’s sister is no longer alone,” Do?a María José Moreno said, taking my hand and putting it on her arm affectionately as we followed her husband, Atenógenes, and Rodolfo toward the door of the church. Her hair was spun silver beneath her mantilla, her back slightly humped from age. “There are widows who run their own haciendas, it is true. I must introduce you to the widow of old Herrera. She used to live in the capital as well and has been running Hacienda Buenavista for nearly ten years now. But Do?a Juana . . . she is a figure of some curiosity. I am glad she now has someone as refined as you to be her example.”
She patted my hand with the absentminded affection of a grandmother, but a hint of warning underscored the softness of her voice. I kept my expression carefully still as I tucked that information away. Perhaps the hacendados were not as tolerant of Juana as Rodolfo thought.
Do?a María José lifted her rheumy eyes, squinting through her mantilla. “You’re nearly as lovely as Do?a María Catalina, though quite darker. Perhaps you will weather the country better than her. Poor thing. Such a delicate constitution.”
The words struck me like freezing water to the face. Rodolfo’s first wife. Of course they would bring her up. I pasted a concerned look on my face, nodding in agreement. This was the first time I had met someone who knew Rodolfo’s previous wife, who wasn’t merely sharing ill-spirited gossip. I should have asked her for the truth about the first Do?a Solórzano’s untimely death.
But the idea repulsed me. Less lovely or not, quite darker or not, I was Do?a Solórzano now. Rodolfo and all that was his were mine, won in a fair fight.
Loathing itched under my skin as I looked down at Do?a María José. Women like her thought themselves sage when doling out advice to young brides, so I steered the conversation away from dead women and my complexion by asking her empty questions regarding marriage, nodding and smiling where I knew I ought to as she replied. But my mind was elsewhere.