Lady Trent (2 page)

She briefly examined the question. “Maybe
after I have had my bath,” she politely replied, directly adding,
“And you needn’t refer to me by such a title.”

“May I bring you some water or tea?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“Anything at all, milady?”

She inhaled a deep breath, exhaling with an
answer. “I cannot think of anything. I do have but one question. I
wonder if all servants in this place must keep their gaze to the
floor.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Please call me Rachel. I am just a woman
like you, and a servant as well…to many. I am permitted to look all
people in the eye, both men and women alike.”

“It is our custom, milady.”

“I see,” she accepted, her smile fading as
she felt pity for the girl and saw it useless to persuade her. Who
was she to audibly denote the rules of another place? “Well, then,
I don’t suppose I need anything at all as of now.”

“Shall we prepare your bath?”

She’d noticed the tub at the far side of the
room. At home she would draw and heat her own water, would never
expect anyone to do it for her. But she could see there was no
fighting against a custom that was different than those from where
she’d come. “Yes,” she found herself accepting, for evening was
close to setting in and she wanted to be well rested for the next
day.

It was not long. The two humbled maidens
together filled the tub with steamy, hot water and left her alone
to bathe. She eased carefully into the water, sinking in and
relaxing. Her body adapted to the temperature although beads of
perspiration did pop up on her forehead from the billows of steam
that rolled up and around her. She leaned back, basking while the
water went from hot to warm and then cooler. Night had fallen.
She’d nearly drifted to sleep, possibly had dozed off a moment or
so. Seeing as to how the water was turning cold she quickly
finished washing, afterward stepping out and wrapping a towel about
herself. Doing so, she observed a gown that’d been brought up to
her for the following day. One of the maidens had simply laid it
out on the bed as if to request she try it on for size prior the
occasion.

She touched the beautiful dress, silky in
some places, lacy in others. Surely something less extravagant
could have been chosen. She could not so much as imagine herself
donning such an outfit as this. A skirt and blouse would have
appealed to her more, even in this fashion.

She wondered if the gown would be a proper
fit, decided possibly so. Adjustments could be made if perchance
needed. She imagined there was space to work with.

She continued to study the garment, wondering
for possibly the hundredth time what this summons was all about and
what the next day had in store for her.

She took care hanging the gown in the
wardrobe and then brushing her hair, thinking of her friends back
home. She considered their activities at that particular time. It
wasn’t a difficult thing to decide. The residents of Westerly
operated in an orderly-like fashion. At this hour they were in
their homes with family members or those they considered family:
friends and acquaintances that could be considered family just the
same. Had it been a night of the sixth day of the week every
able-bodied man and woman would’ve by now gathered in the chapel
for prayers…except, of course, in the event a child was born, which
was not too common an event in Westerly. But no matter the day or
circumstance the citizens kept occupied, doing whatever physically
able be it working in the fields, the markets, the chapel and
orphanage, the home for the widows and the sick. There were also
times to rest, to eat with family and friends, to play music…to
celebrate events whenever one occurred. The people of Westerly did
know how to celebrate an occasion.

Smiling at the thought of home she slipped
into her flannel gown and lied down. She had denied dinner already,
accepting only a cup of tea and one solitaire slice of toasted
bread. Sleep would not come easily. Not while she was so consumed
with questions about tomorrow.

She stared through the window from her bed,
up at the moon for a while, and then closed her eyes hoping to
sleep. But she found herself denied the slumber she so deeply
desired.

After an extended period of time had lapsed
she arose from the bed, slid her feet into a pair of slippers, her
arms into the sleeves of a robe and tied a scarf over her head. She
afterward slipped from the room and travelled down to the inner
gardens which she’d observed and admired earlier from above.

The wind was blowing. Although without a
chill she clutched her arms to herself wondering for the hundredth
time what this petition was all about. Two years had passed since
she’d sent a message to the lord of the Great City requesting
monetary support for the poor in Westerly. Its population consisted
mostly of outcasts, young and old alike, many of them sick whether
in body, mind or soul, and all of them poor. They did as best they
could no matter how hurt or even just simply uneducated. A wanderer
would occasionally find his way into the town, and some suitable
way decided upon to graft him in with the rest. Nobody was ever
denied what she considered a privilege—to become resident of a town
where everyone accepted everyone and pitched in according to their
own ability to see to it they were all properly accommodated.

The mayor, she sadly recalled, was an
eighty-year-old man who had little logic these days. He did his
best to govern despite poor vision, hearing, and illnesses that
kept him bedridden most of the time. He was so old and frail and
helpless, even. Who would take his place when the time came?
Hopefully someone better equipped to help tend to the overall
well-being of the community. It seemed every black sheep in all New
Ebony had landed there.

To tell the truth, at times she felt utterly
drained by the responsibilities placed upon her, for she
consistently found herself in some decision-making position whether
for the people individually or as a whole; not just called upon for
spiritual guidance, which was her ultimate duty to give, but
guidance in general pertaining to every condition imaginable.

A strong gust of wind blew. Her scarf
unraveled and began blowing away. She tried to catch it but failed.
Another gust of wind. She closed her eyes against it, turning
toward the opposite direction to protect her face and eyes from
potential debris. After the air had settled again she glanced
around for the lost accessory. The moon was now hidden behind the
clouds so that she couldn’t see anything at all.

She inhaled a very deep breath and released
it as if in surrender. “Time shall tell,” she said to the heavens
in reference to the questions she had concerning the summons. “Time
shall tell, and I know you are with me.”

Yes, she had searched her mind. Was there
something she’d done wrong and was yet to be punished for? She
couldn’t think of anything. Her fault had once upon a time been her
temper, rather an inability to control it. But she’d come such a
long way with it, managed to regulate her moods with ease. Other
than an occasional verbal disagreement she couldn’t see where she’d
done any particular thing wrong.

“I believe this is yours,” said a voice from
behind her. She swung around to discover a man standing in the
shadows, and then in the light of the moon as it began to peep out
from the clouds. He stood not so far away, the silk scarf in
hand.

Rachel had placed a palm over her heart which
had for a moment ceased to beat. She sucked in a sharp breath of
air, exhaling it just as quickly. “Sir, you…you startled me.”

“I am sorry,” he kindly apologized, and came
closer so as to offer the lost article. Although a little shaken by
the intrusion, she raised a slow hand to accept it. “Thank you,”
she uncertainly managed. “It was a gift. I would not want to lose
it.” Her eyes briefly studied the scarf and then the area beyond.
She barely shook her head, wondering aloud, “Where did you come
from?”

“The upper wall,” he told her. She glanced up
to identify what he referred to. The wall above the roof of the
complex had been the furthest thing from her mind up till the
moment let alone the idea that somebody other than herself would be
out and about at that hour.

“I have been watching you,” he said, and
then, “for quite some time.”

She turned to drape the scarf over her hair,
tying it back in place. “I suppose it is well if I am being
watched. I am after all a stranger here.”

“Rachel the Elder,” he aloud acknowledged.
“My friend should be pleased.”

“Friend.” She apprehensively studied the man.
He appeared harmless. But the exterior of anything in particular
could not be solely relied upon in any case.

“Jacob Trent,” he clarified, adding “I have
found no fault in you…just as he had hoped I would not.”

She barely shook her head. “I don’t
understand.”

“Perhaps I have said too much.”

Her gaze dropped while she considered the
peculiar statement, but for only a short time. “Tell me, sir… why
has he bid me to come here? You and he are friends,” she recalled
him saying. “You must know.”

“I know very little, only that you made an
impression upon him some time ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your letter,” he reminded.

“It was two years ago when I sent it. I also
received a message from him in return. His impression hardly seemed
set in my favor. He rejected my request for funds, which was my
ultimate purpose, and with an overall cruel choice of words. Has
anything changed?”

“Perhaps, but it is not for me to say. You
shall see and speak with him soon enough. Then you will have your
answers.” He took a step back and after a slight bow turned and
would have walked away.

“Sir!” she mindlessly called out, stopping
him. He turned back around to both see and hear her. “Am I in any
danger?”

He slid his hands into his pockets, barely
shook his head and claimed, “No. In fact, I would say you have
never been so safe as you are now, and will continue to be so long
as you are anywhere near the Great City. Be at peace. All is well.”
He bowed again and went his way, disappearing into the night.

Rachel turned, clutching her arms to herself,
staring out into the darkness while the winds blew all around her.
At one point she felt as if she was being watched and swung around.
She glanced up and in all directions. She saw nothing out of
ordinary and nobody. She relaxed. A gentle smile touched her lips.
She looked up at the heavens. “See what a fool I am,” she
criticized, “A fool to worry.” She smiled again and dashed toward
the door, making her way to her room, to her bed and toward a
peaceful rest.

CHAPTER TWO

That morning, as specified, she found Camille
waiting in the exact spot she’d left her the afternoon before. The
woman’s eyes dazzled with delight as Rachel descended the
staircase. She raised her hands, clasping them together so that
they formed one tiny fist. “Ah!” She beamed. “Beautiful!”

Rachel remembered the sight of herself from
the mirror upstairs. She could not help but silently agree. The
gown was lovely in itself making her look just the same. She wasn’t
really sure how to think of it. She could admit to feeling
Camille’s account—beautiful. But she felt extremely awkward just
the same.

She had not eagerly dressed for the day…quite
the contrary. More than anything she’d wanted to slip into the
skirt and blouse she’d brought along for the occasion. But she
hadn’t succeeded in persuading anyone in that place to allow her to
do so.

She hadn’t ever worn anything other than a
plain skirt and blouse—always simple and modest, just as Camille
had stated. It was a part of the Sacred Oath: the one she’d gone by
all these years…the
only
one to the best of her knowledge.
Things were obviously done differently outside of Westerly…in this
place, anyway.

Of course this ensemble was temporary and for
a specific occasion only. Still she just didn’t feel right, as if
she’d forsaken the Sacred Sisterhood altogether. How was it this
Sister Camille could dress so attractively and not seem to mind it
at all?

As with her attire the maidens had also taken
special care with her hair, brushing and leaving it to trail down
her back in thick, dark wavy locks, silky from the soap she’d used
to wash it, and also dabs of pleasant smelling lotions the maidens
had applied as some finishing touch. Another thing she was not
prone to, nor was she sure of, for she always wore her hair in the
tightest possible bun and never pampered it with anything besides a
gentle brushing once in the morning and again the evening. This end
result was absolutely stunning. She’d hardly believed the sight of
herself after she had been directed to a mirror through which she
both bitterly and impressively examined herself. She could not
describe what she saw, only that while it was increasingly pleasant
in one sense, it was increasingly disagreeable in another.

The analysis was short-lived. She’d quickly
proceeded following the instructions set out to her the day before,
meeting Camille at exactly the tenth hour in the same spot she’d
left her.

“Stunning,” Camille again commended and then
audibly reasoned, “I see it fits you well.”

“And with few adjustments.”

“You have a natural beauty, Rachel the Elder,
but it has surely this day been enhanced. This gown also serves a
reminder of what fine taste I have,” she praised. “It is perfect
for the occasion. Lord Trent should be pleased. As should you,” she
added with a most reassuring tone. “Do not dare for a moment be
guilt-ridden. To be so elaborately adorned should be considered a
privilege, not a sin. And trust me, Rachel the Elder, you have not
erred in the slightest.”