Page 7 of The Hacienda
“It is good your husband’s sister is no longer alone,” Doña 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 Doña 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.
Doña María José lifted her rheumy eyes, squinting through her mantilla. “You’re nearly as lovely as Doña 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 Doña Solórzano’s untimely death.
But the idea repulsed me. Less lovely or not,quite darkeror not,Iwas Doña Solórzano now. Rodolfo and all that was his weremine, won in a fair fight.
Loathing itched under my skin as I looked down at Doña 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 mycomplexion by asking her empty questions regarding marriage, nodding and smiling where I knew I ought to as she replied. But my mind was elsewhere.
She is a figure of some... curiosity.
Curiosity meant gossip, and gossip—be it ill-intentioned or not—always had a seed to spring from. Perhaps it was Juana’s irreverence about her appearance that inspired talk. Perhaps it was her brusqueness. She certainly did not beget the same kind of sympathy her deceased sister-in-law stirred in acquaintances.
These thoughts trailed after me into the evening, coiling through my fingers like my hair as I plaited it by candlelight, sitting in a chair before my vanity. I did not tell Rodolfo about my conversation with Doña María José, though questions uncurled in my chest like weeds, their roots finding firm purchase in my ribs.
I couldn’t ask him much of anything still. Our newlywed intimacy was an uneven thing: I knew the warm smell of his throat, the rhythm of his breathing as he slept, but not the thoughts that played behind his face. Uncharted silences stretched between us, long and pitted with secrets. What did he fear? Why had he hidden Juana from me? If he loved San Isidro so much, why avoid it for so many years?
So many questions, yet I bit my tongue. I glanced over my shoulder at the bed behind me. Rodolfo was already breathing deeply, tangled in white blankets, a lock of bronze hair flopped over his forehead and straight, sharp nose. A sleeping prince beneath a delicate shroud.
As beautiful as he was, I had no romantic notions about Rodolfo when I accepted his offer. Though he wooed me with sweet litanies of my fine qualities—my strength, my kind smile, my laughter, and my eyes—I did not believe he married me for who I was at all. My appearance may have convinced him to look past my father’s politics; after all, I was a newcomer to capital society, and I knew I was beautiful. These two truths made me an enticing mystery to conquest-minded men.
But I was also someone who turned a blind eye to the susurration of rumors circling his widowerhood, and Rodolfo wanted a bride who did not ask too many questions. I chose to gamble on his secrets. Our relationship was founded on one thing and one thing only: my world was a dark, windowless room, and he was a door.
I turned back to the mirror and continued braiding my hair. An ache built slowly in my chest, a heavy, sweet ache edged with sharpness like broken glass. I missed Mamá. I missed Papá. I missed who I was before we lost everything: someone who saw her parents tease each other and laugh, who watched them hold hands while reading beside the fire at night or while whispering conspiratorially behind a door they thought was fully shut.
I used to be someone who wanted that. Whoyearnedfor it. I wanted what it was Mamá had when Papá kissed her forehead and ran his thumb over her cheek before he left for battle. Whatever it was that made Mamá watch the window, restless and unable to be comforted, whenever he was due to return. Whatever it was that made them see each other for who they were, not their class or their casta.
My parents fought to be married despite their differences, despite the prejudice of Mamá’s family, because they hadthatto fight for.Thatwas what I wanted. Someone who saw me not as darker than someone else, nor not quite as lovely as someone else. Not the daughter of someone. Not a piece to be played in a larger game. Someone who saw me for who I was and treasured me for it.
And what did I have?
A stranger whose lips left me cold, whose heavy touch in the darkness inspired no desire in me. Questions swirling unanswered through my mind. Letters to my mother sent and unanswered. A house bare of family. An emptiness in my own rib cage, yawning and clawing and growing as much as I tried to repress it.
I bit my lip as it began to tremble. Yes, I had seized the name Solórzanodespite barely knowing the man who bore it. Yes, I had married a man who came between me and Mamá, a man whom I did not love.
I sacrificed that dream because survival was more important than being lonely.
And now I had a roof over my head. An hacienda in my name. An income rooted in the land, firm and sheltered from the twin tempests of war and plague.
Afuture.
I was grateful to Rodolfo for lifting me from obscurity. For saving me from poverty. Perhaps, on my warmer days, I even felt fond of him for transforming my life. Perhaps one day I could even learn to love him for it.
A wink of color caught my attention in the mirror. Two red lights stared at me from a darkened corner beneath the window.
I blinked, and they were gone.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. An oily feeling slipped over my shoulders.
I was being watched.
I whirled to face the corner, eyes wide and desperate, searching the dark.
The light cast by the dying candle barely reached the foot of the bed. Black shadows shrouded the room, deepening near the walls.
The room was empty but for sleeping Rodolfo. There was nothing there.
