Winter Bride

One
 
Jed Corbin possessed a face that riveted attention and a deep voice he played like a musical instrument, projecting notes of humor, sternness, and crisp decisiveness with faultless symmetry. He bore no resemblance to Arnold at all, Ysabel realized with profound relief.
 
“It’s time you went to bed now.” The command came from outside the library where Ysabel sat. “I’ve made you a cup of hot chocolate and set it on your nightstand in your room. What are you—” Betty Starnes stopped in the doorway, her gaze fastened with shock on the face of the man on the big-screen TV. “Jed,” she muttered.
 
Ysabel’s finger went instinctively to the off switch of the remote control before she realized it was no longer necessary to hide her interest in Jed Corbin. “You were here before he left, weren’t you? Did he look like this when you knew him?” Ysabel leaned forward, absorbed with catching the expressions flickering across the journalist’s mobile face.
 
“No, he was only twenty-two and his hair was black, not silver … and his expression is harder now.” Betty tore her gaze from the television to stare accusingly at Ysabel. “You shouldn’t be ogling that imp of Satan. You know Mr. Arnold wouldn’t like it.”
 
“He’s broadcasting from Paris tonight. He seems quite competent.” She added casually, “I just ran across the program.” Was she afraid to tell Betty the truth? she wondered. It was none of the housekeeper’s business that Ysabel had purposely arranged to watch Jed Corbin tonight, but the habits ingrained over the years were hard to break.
 
She tried to block the waves of disapproval the woman was projecting as she hit the mute button on the remote control. That was better. Jed Corbin’s deep mesmerizing voice was having a disturbing effect and interfering with her concentration. A perfectly natural reaction, she thought quickly. She had never been permitted to watch him on television, but from what she had read in the papers he had the same effect on millions of other viewers.
 
Jed Corbin was the foremost news anchorman in the United States and though he had built his reputation on a combination of sound journalism and breathtaking fearlessness, his magnetic physical appeal must have been a valuable asset to him. Twenty-two, Betty had said. That meant he was only thirty-six now, and his close-cropped silver hair was definitely premature. It was difficult to imagine him with dark hair or with any hint of softness clinging to him. His tan face was lined by experience, and his light blue eyes gazed out at her with weary cynicism. Dressed in a cream-colored cable-knit sweater and tweed sport coat, he was as different from the elegant, thoughtful anchorman Ysabel regularly watched as a tiger was from a pussy cat.
 
“Competent? The only thing Jed Corbin’s competent at is causing trouble.” Betty marched over to the television, her tall, powerful body quivering with indignation. She turned off the set. “I can’t believe you did this. You were told that man’s program was never to be watched in this house. Here, poor Mr. Arnold has been in his grave only two days and already you’re flaunting his orders.”
 
“Betty, I’d like to see—” Ysabel broke off as she saw the woman’s determined expression. The housekeeper would have to learn the status quo had changed, but Ysabel was too weary to fight her at the moment. The last six months of Arnold’s life had drained her strength and stamina, and she must save herself for the important battles. “Very well.” She obediently rose to her feet and started toward the door. “By the way, I phoned Lyle Townsend late this afternoon, but his secretary said he’d have to return my call. Make sure he’s put through to me even if I’m already asleep.”
 
“Why would you call him?”
 
The question was spoken with Betty’s usual blunt curiosity, but Ysabel ignored her rudeness. “He’s Arnold’s lawyer. I thought I’d ask him to come to the castle tomorrow to have a discussion concerning the will.”
 
“You know what’s in the will. He read it to you in this very room right after the funeral.”
 
Ysabel carefully restrained the flicker of annoyance she felt. She had learned to control her anger, suppress her true nature, and it was not time to release either. “I’d still like to go over a few of the clauses with him.” She wished Betty would just accept her words without questioning. Lies did not come easily to her. Heaven knows, her life in this house would have been a good deed easier if they had.
 
“You shouldn’t trouble your head about such business. Mr. Townsend will take care of everything for you just as he did for Mr. Arnold.”
 
Ysabel forced a smile. “But it’s my duty to at least have a superficial idea of Arnold’s holdings.”
 
“Maybe,” Betty acceded grudgingly. “Okay, I’ll put through the call.”
 
“Thank you.” Ysabel kept the sarcasm from her tone. She moved toward the stone steps leading to the second floor of the castle. “Good night, Betty.”
 
“You remember to drink your hot chocolate. You need it to help you sleep.”
 
Ysabel knew Betty didn’t care a whit about whether she slept well or not. The chocolate was just another way of enforcing her will on Ysabel. Arnold had taught his housekeeper well the ways of tyranny. “Yes, of course.”
 
As she climbed the steps she noticed how softly and fluidly the skirt of her ivory-colored velvet robe flowed over the cold gray stone. How she had grown to hate these lounging robes Arnold had insisted she wear these past seven years. The gowns had become a symbol of her bondage as much as Betty’s arrogant, bullying presence. But her imprisonment was nearly over. Soon she would be able to fully concentrate on the purpose that had obsessed her all these years, and both the symbols and chains would go up in smoke.
 
And Jed Corbin could well be the flame that would burn through the links.
 
“Now, mind you go right to bed,” Betty called after her.
 
Ysabel smiled serenely but didn’t look at her as she lifted her skirts with the quaint, graceful gesture Arnold had taught her, and proceeded up the stairs. “Don’t I always do what you tell me?”