Lady Trent (3 page)

The maidens entered with her suitcases and
carried them to the door, putting them in the care of an escort.
“Will I not be staying again?” She asked, entertaining a tug of
regret. This was an environment she would’ve liked to enjoy a while
longer.

“You will be supplied a room in the palace
for the remainder of your stay.”

Just how long would that be, she wondered,
and again, why?

Camille ushered her outside and to an
awaiting carriage—a fancy outfit with rims lined of gold and a team
of beautiful white horses the likes of which she had never laid
eyes upon. From the lord himself, she figured. The escort lent them
a hand in stepping up and inside before taking his place above.

The ride was very short. They travelled the
end of the street, turning onto another and then yet another. They
came to a bridge leading into the city, and then a set of gates
that looked as if they could be closed at any given time. The
stagecoach travelled streets paved with cobblestone, aligned with
shrubs and trees and flowers, and passed by houses, shops, places
of business and marketplaces. There were people everywhere, going
about their business. They stopped to stare as they went by.

Camille leaned closer to her to say, “Lord
Trent’s carriage. It does draw the attention of the people.”

Rachel said nothing, but continued to stare
out from the small window. Several minutes into the ride, a castle
came into view. Not just a castle, but a palace; A very huge and
beautiful palace.

It was breathtaking.

Camille smiled thoughtfully. “The very name
of the Great City speaks for itself. It is one of the richest in
all of New Ebony. The emperor’s palace is only richer than this,
and one other, the palace of Emwark.”

The marketplace they passed through was full
and very busy, engaged by men, women and children, some of whom
also stopped what they were doing to stare as the carriage passed
by. There was another set of gates, which they travelled through by
permission of the guards keeping it. The entire ground was paved
for a generous space. Then there were yards and lawns, very nicely
decorated with flowers and trees and shrubs.

Directly outside of the palace the driver
halted and they were lent a hand in stepping down. Rachel took a
moment, so long as she was allowed, to stare up at the enormous
structure before her.

Several guards had come out to join them.
“This way,” Camille whispered to her, and they were directed along,
four guards ahead of them and four behind. They were eventually
joined by a slender, neatly dressed man whom Camille referred to as
Percival, and who travelled along with them, placing Camille in the
center of the trio they together made.

It was obvious Camille had been in this place
before, perhaps numerous times. She was at perfect ease. Rachel
tried to imitate her by walking tall and staring straight ahead, to
not be completely distracted by the brilliant decorations they
passed along the way lest she trip and stumble over her own feet or
appear overly informal in comparison to her companions. She could
not completely resist. Moving only her eyes, she caught brief
glimpses of breathtaking paintings, rich-looking crimson curtains
that put one in mind of a king’s robe, and golden statues of
various sorts. The marble floor was clean and flawless, even
pleasant to the very step. It was all so stunning, like from
stories she had read and heard as a child, ones she’d dismissed and
avoided in her later years.

The guards ahead led them to a set of doors
before separating in perfect unison, two to the left and two the
right. Percival stepped up between them and swung the doors opened.
He stood by to allow Camille and Rachel to enter before him.

The quarters they entered were immense and
extravagant as all else. Immaculate. The atmosphere was very quiet,
cozy, warm, and engaged by one relaxed man who sat far across the
room staring toward the opposite direction at a fireless
hearth.

Percival guided them closer, stopping dead
center a large crimson rug. “Milord,” he summoned, straightening
slender shoulders while making the announcement, “Sister Camille of
Harp. Rachel the Elder of Westerly.”

Jacob Trent turned his head toward their
direction. Palms pressed down at either side of him, he pushed
himself up, stood and turned altogether. Rachel had held her breath
for this was a moment she had both anticipated and dreaded with all
her might, the moment when she would actually meet Jacob Trent face
to face, the lord of the Great City.

He was a large man—not heavy, but tall and
strong-looking. His shoulders were broad and his presence a
powerful one, although not in any egotistical way. He was dressed
just as he’d been described…richly. Although not a youngster his
face bore very few wrinkles and was quite handsome one could not
help but note. His expression was warm as was the twinkle in dark
brown eyes which exposed both contentment and pleasure at the sight
of them. She slowly released the breath of air she’d held seeing
how harmless he did appear, not matching at all the description
she’d come up with by way the letter she’d received from him two
years earlier.

“Sir Trent,” Camille pleasantly greeted,
bowing her head in a quite sophisticated manner.

“Camille,” he returned, his voice deep but
mild. He came closer, the grin never leaving his face. “A pleasure
to see you.” He took her hands and dropped a kiss on her left
cheek. He afterward focused upon Rachel, stepping over so as to
stand directly before her. His penetrating eyes became very bright
and dazzling, brimming with a pleasure she had not expected. He
took a hand, raised and dropped a kiss upon it.

“Rachel the Elder.” His grin deepened,
revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Camille’s silence had
guaranteed it was true. It appeared he almost laughed.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” he
replied.

“And you,” she managed.

“I am pleased you made it safe and sound. It
is an honor to have you here.”

Her gaze fretfully lowered, skipping about
the floor. Her nerves were a bit on edge and she didn’t really know
what to say.

“I trust your trip was safe,” he said.

She looked up to find a crease between
concerned dark brown eyes. “It was,” she assured him.

“And that you were properly greeted upon
arrival.”

“Of course,” Camille casually replied with
that same considerate smile, the same calm thoughtful voice.

“I haven’t the slightest complaint,” Rachel
assured him.

“Then neither do I,” he said, peering into
her eyes as if to draw something out of her very soul. He turned
his attention toward Percival who’d stood silently by. He nodded
his head. Camille turned and Percival began escorting her from the
room. Rachel’s eyes followed, watching the two of them go. The
doors closed behind them and her heart skipped a couple of
beats.

“Please,” Jacob began once they were alone,
his grin fading away, “don’t be afraid. I did not request this
audience in order to do you harm. You are safe. I promise it.”

She allowed him to take her elbow. He ushered
her toward the sitting area from which he’d arisen and to a plush
chair situated to the left of the fireplace. He extended a hand,
offering her a seat. She slipped away from him and took it.

Noting how very tense and confused she was,
he raised a hand and then lowered it while his eyes saddened. “I
imagine my petition was entirely unforeseen. You must be
confounded, apprehensive, worried. It is your right to be all of
those things and more.”

“Why did you ask me to come here?” She
directly asked.

He seemed a bit confounded, apprehensive and
worried, himself. He avoided her stare for a time before coming to
say, “I was eager to meet you if it may be so simply put.”

“I don’t understand,” she quietly admitted
and would have mentioned his letter. But she could tell he was
preparing to say something or another and did not want to
interfere.

He had put his hands behind his back, his
gaze to the floor. “I am a foolish man,” he alleged, “A very, very
foolish man. I have always been a foolish man. I was a foolish
child. A foolish young lad.” He raised his head, lifting his gaze
to hers. “You recall my message from so many years ago.”

“I recall it well.”

“As I recall yours,” he quietly replied and
after a brief silence eased down to claim the seat opposite her. “I
have recalled it again and again and again the past several
months…word for word by memory alone. I could no longer resist
speaking to the one who wrote it. I regret my reaction to it. In
fact, I have never been sorrier for any one thing than that
response. I must have come across as something dreadful.”

She was touched by the genuine regret upon
his face and in his eyes. “You weren’t kind, no,” she admitted, and
gently shrugged. “But I had forgotten it; that is until this
summons brought it all back to mind.”

“Had I ever been referred to as kind?” It
seemed more a point than an inquiry.

“No,” she answered anyway. “But insolent
rumors and even possibility mattered little when the people of
Westerly were suffering. I would rather risk being refused than be
guilty of doing nothing at all.”

A gentle, commendable grin touched his lips.
“This is what I admire. You have a kind, charitable heart. I have
heard noble things about you, that your generous deeds are profound
and that your abilities have managed to keep an entire town
intact.”

“Now that I have met you face to face I
perceive you are hardly the tyrant I’d imagined…considering the
message I did receive. You
were
the one to write it.”

“I did not write it, no, not with my own
hand…but the words were mine. But now compared to then I am a
different sort of man. A very different sort of man.” He leaned
back, dropping folded hands upon his stomach. “As you may know I
lost yet another wife two years ago—around the time I received your
letter. And then one year ago my one and only child. My son.”

“I am sorry to hear this.”

“My son,” he quietly repeated, “only seven
years of age. It was a fault of my own, I imagine. I have heard it
said a man will reap what he has sown, even outside of the field. I
imagine I have brought devastation upon myself by bringing it upon
various people over the years… in various ways. I lost my one and
only child. But since then…when I lost him…” He stared out as if
into nowhere. “Something happened. Something…unusual.”

She watched him closely, leaning inward,
waiting for him to continue.

“I have never been one to cry. My mother
claimed that even as a babe I did not cry. I simply made demands.
But that day as a forty-eight year old man, when I heard that my
child was dead, I found myself in the chapel, down on my knees with
my face to the floor…crying—sobbing, even. With everything inside
of me, I mourned…and I spoke out into the open although there was
nobody there. I guess you could say I talked to God…and for the
first time in my life.” He stood, placing his hands behind his
back. “Something amazing happened that day…something extraordinary.
It was as if some cold, heavy weight lifted off me—like some heavy
invisible cloak…replaced by something else. Something good.”

“It was a conversion,” she happily told him,
intrigued by his recollection of the event.

“Some call it that… others merely repressed
anguish which upon release may bring peace to a man. No matter the
case it was good. I have since then been a very different sort of
man. And since then I have recalled that letter you sent; that
beautiful, genuine, affectionate letter merely requesting
assistance for the poor and the orphans and the widowed…and the
manner in which I declined it.”

“You needn’t begrudge yourself because of
it.”

“I honestly do not recall any letter making
me so angry as that one, and I have received many letters that
deserved a more livid response than yours. The badness inside of
me, I suppose, despised the goodness I saw in that letter…by your
hand. I did not doubt you at all. I knew you meant well. But my
response was completely inappropriate—uncalled for. I hope you will
find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“Of course,” she instantly obliged. “Of
course I forgive you.”

He came to her just as she stood. And
reaching for her hands, he took them, holding them up between them.
“I want to honor that request now, Rachel the Elder.” He grinned as
if at the title alone. The word “honor” bounced around in her mind,
rotating and repeating itself. Her heart palpitated and her blood
began to surge elatedly thru her veins.

“I know how poor the people of Westerly are
and have become, how they even distribute amongst themselves so
that no man or woman has any more or less than another, how the
desire to grow but continue this-this way of life is preferred. The
people are poor, rejected by the rest of the world for whatever
cause and they need my help. You have requested it, and I will
grant it. Now. Here. Two years later.”

She brimmed with an enthusiasm she’d never
before felt. “You mean…?”

He squeezed her hands in confirmation. She
beamed with delight and almost laughed. “You do not know how happy
this makes me.”

“Oh, but I see it in your eyes,” he said,
and lowered his gaze just a moment before seriously staring back at
her. “There is but one condition.”

The word, like a pail of water tossed upon
open flames, quenched her delight. “Condition,” she quietly
repeated.

His words came out slow as if he dreaded to
say them. “I will grant the request…in return for your placement
here…in the Great City.”

Her brows came together. She gave her head a
slight shake. “Here,” she softly repeated. “I don’t understand.
You…you must have many here to reverence the needy, such as Sister
Camille, and not near as many in need as Westerly.”