The Hacienda(95)

Then I turned my back on Andrés, on Hacienda San Isidro, and stepped into the carriage.





35





ANDRéS



THE CARRIAGE WAS GONE. I knelt in the dust, staring at an empty horizon.

You will learn to feel it. Those were some of the last words Titi said before I left for the seminary in Guadalajara. When the time comes, you will know what is right.

Holding Beatriz in my arms felt right. Giving in, losing myself in her dark hair, in the warmth of her body, the brush of her lips over my skin—that, too, had felt right.

And yet . . . so did this.

All this time, I thought knowing what was right would bring me peace or contentment. Instead, sorrow draped leaden across my shoulders as I watched the empty horizon, every fiber of my being willing the carriage to turn back.

But it was right for Beatriz to leave.

Her need to heal was profound, and I knew it simply could not be accomplished beneath San Isidro’s roof. Yes, I had purged the house of its malice, cleansed its energy. But when I saw the fear that bloomed in her eyes when she looked up at the house, I knew there was nothing more I could do. She deserved a life free of such fear.

I had to let her go.

Beatriz leaving San Isidro would give the hacienda the space it needed to heal. I had sensed when I met her that she was not like the other Solórzanos, and I had been right—but not everyone who lived on this land knew and trusted her as I did. So long as she remained, she would be the symbol of the family that had carved so much damage into the land and its people. For too many generations, there had been a Solórzano to fear in the great house of this hacienda. Too many generations of pain. If the people who owned this land in deed never again lived on its soil, I could only envision peace coming of it for my family and the others who lived here.

But thickness welled in my throat at the thought of Beatriz never returning. Selfishly, I could not bear the idea. Her presence in my life the last few weeks turned my world on its head, pulled me out of my festering resentment for the Solórzanos and into action. It was her intercession that had ended my banishment and brought me back home. Without her, who knew how long San Isidro and my family would have suffered from haunting and hacendado alike.

Slowly, I rose. My limbs were stiff; my head ached from a night of little sleep. My eyes burned from tears shed and unshed, from the dust the carriage left in its wake.

It was right for Beatriz to leave. Just as it was right for me to stay here, on this land, with the people who needed me most.

That did not mean saying goodbye would be easy.



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*

IN THE WEEKS THAT followed Beatriz’s departure, I often sought solace in the house. During the siesta hours, when I knew Paloma and Mendoza would not be frequenting their realm—a small drawing room off the kitchen in the main house repurposed for their bookkeeping and general use—I would walk the path through the front garden, up the low steps, and into the shadow of the threshold.

One day, six weeks after Beatriz’s farewell, I entered the house and felt a tug of awareness from the rafters. I closed the front door behind me, surveying the dim foyer with narrowed eyes.

The door of the green parlor swung open with a low creak. An invitation. A quiet beckoning.

The house wanted me to go into the room. With Do?a Catalina gone, it went through phases of deep sleep and sentience, the latter frank and guileless, if occasionally prone to mischief. I was not afraid as I walked straight to the green parlor and stepped through the open door.

A white envelope lay on the carpet in the center of the room, its intentional placement and the contrast of paper against dark green rug capturing my attention.

How odd. Paloma and Mendoza were not fond of this room, and therefore it was unlikely they had forgotten any of their bookkeeping notes here. Though weeks had passed since the night of my failed exorcism, the night the darkness unleashed its full fury on me, the walls of the room still hummed with my touch. Memories swirled through my mind as I drew near: Juana slouched in this chair ignoring the hacendados, Do?a Catalina resplendent as a demon in the firelight. Mariana flinching away from me. Beatriz sitting on the flagstones when the parlor was bare; her face, framed by dark wispy curls and illuminated by candlelight, open and unafraid.

You’re a witch.

I savored the memory of her voice. The way her whisper held a profane, exquisite power over me, how its brush could send an aching trill down my spine.

When I was near enough to make out the name written in a looping, thin hand, I froze mid-step.

It was addressed to me.

Distantly, I was aware of my heart losing its rhythm, caught off-balance by a swift updraft of hope. I did not recognize the handwriting when I picked it up, but when I turned it over, the unmistakable Solórzano seal was embedded in dark green wax.

Beatriz.

I knew Paloma had her address, for she had mentioned their correspondence over dinner one night. When at last I could not resist any longer, I went looking for it. Without asking her permission—out of fear that doing so would raise her suspicion—I snuck into her and Mendoza’s realm.

How I would confess this sin to Padre Guillermo was a thorny question. And what of confessing the reason why I wanted to write to Beatriz? I thrust the thought away whenever it crossed my mind. I guarded the memories of her last night in San Isidro fiercely, protecting them from the harsh light of reality. I was not ready to repent. I was not ready to let go.