Never Doubt I Love by Patricia Veryan Page A

Hall was enormous. It was also, thought Zoe, extremely ugly. Two storeys in height, its wide stone front was broken by rows of small square windows. At the centre a recessed entrance portico was dignified by four tall stone columns supporting a large pediment. This structure partially blocked several of the windows, so that they appeared to Zoe to be hostile eyes peering suspiciously from under a frowning brow.
    The carriage had evidently been anxiously awaited, for the front doors were flung open and a large and agitated butler came out onto the steps followed by three equally agitated liveried footmen. Lady Buttershaw was handed down and surrounded by a small crowd of solicitous and elegant ladies and gentlemen who swept out of the house and swept her inside again, all talking at the top of their lungs.
    Zoe was assisted by a tall footman with a pair of pale and protuberant blue eyes which scrutinized her curiously. He conducted her up the steps and into a large entrance hall, then with a terse nod took himself off. Awed, Zoe gazed at Gothic stone rib-vaulting that soared to the roof, and at the arched openings to the first-floor gallery that ran around the hall on three sides. The noisy crowd had vanished, but Zoe was too interested to feel abandoned. She wandered through more Gothic arches into another hall containing a magnificent wood-panelled staircase with the statue of a Grecian lady on the first landing, and a life-size portrait of a proud gentleman in a flowing periwig who sneered down at the stone lady from the facing wall. Beyond the stairs was a spacious wainscoted chamber wherein small tables were set among groups of chairs. Zoe peeped in.
    â€œThe morning room,” said a soft voice at her ear, and she jumped guiltily, and jerked around.
    The lady who stood there appeared to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Her features were delicate, and her eyes large and a very light blue. She wore a gown of white taffeta over modified hoops, the high neck buttoned to the throat and the full sleeves worn longer than the present style and gathered in at the wrists to falls of snowy lace that drooped over her hands. The unrelieved white of her attire, the powdered hair, the white cap, and the pallor of her face added to an impression of extreme fragility, and there was a wistful quality to her smile as she fondled the large black cat she held.
    â€œOh, I do beg your pardon,” stammered Zoe, dropping a curtsy. “I am—”
    â€œMiss Zoe Grainger, I think,” said that gentle voice. “And ’tis I should apologize, my dear, that you were so rudely abandoned. I am sure you know who I am, for my sister will have told you of me. But I will introduce my friend.” She held the black cat higher and its big green eyes scanned Zoe dispassionately. “This is Attila.”
    â€œHe is very handsome. May I stroke him, Lady Yerville, or does he live up to his name?”
    â€œYou must call me Lady Julia; everyone does. And—no, he is very well-behaved. Until he goes berserk. But—”
    â€œBut since he frequently does so, he is not allowed in this part of the house!” Lady Buttershaw had come up unnoticed and her loud voice caused both ladies to jump. “Furthermore,” she went on, frowning at Zoe, “’twas impolite in you to go off on your own without waiting for proper introductions. One wonders if your mama ever taught you anything of etiquette!”
    Lady Julia protested bravely, “But Clara, Miss Grainger had been abandoned and—”
    â€œNonsense! ’Twould not have harmed her to wait a minute or two whilst my friends greeted me. She has much to learn. I shall say no more on that head for the present, however.” Lady Buttershaw’s basilisk gaze was on Attila. “One might think that I could return to my home without being obliged to scold within the first five minutes, but as usual my wishes are ignored. You know very well,