Love in the Ruins

by Barbara Cartland

  She opened the gate and walked in.

  The flowers in the garden were breathtakingly beautiful and there was a multitude of birds singing in the trees.

  Mimosa thought it was like stepping into a Heaven of Peace where there were no problems and no fear.

  She followed a tiled path towards a door. It was fronted by a portico that had a number of white pillars to support it.

  The door was open.

  As she wondered whether she should walk in, a woman appeared.

  She was carrying a basket on her arm as if she was going into the garden to pick flowers.

  She was a middle-aged woman with dark eyes.

  As Mimosa had hoped she would, she gave a shrill cry, threw her basket down on the ground and exclaimed in French,

  “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! You have returned!”

  Her voice rose as she went on,

  “You have come home! But where have you been? We have been looking for you everywhere, trying frantically to find you!”

  She moved forward as she spoke and, reaching Mimosa, put her arms round her.

  Mimosa just stared at her blankly.

  “Who – who am I – and – why am I – here?”

  The woman stared at her.

  “You are home! We have missed you. We thought you had been kidnapped. Oh, mademoiselle, thank le Bon Dieu that you have come back to us!”

  There was a hint of tears in the woman’s voice, but Mimosa only said dully,

  “Where – am I? I – I cannot – remember.”

  The woman took her by the arm.

  “Come inside,” she said. “What have they done to you, those devils? Oh, my poor mademoiselle, have they hurt you?”

  Mimosa allowed herself to be led into a large beautifully furnished sitting room with its long windows opening out into the garden.

  The Frenchwoman sat her down in a chair saying,

  “You are hot and tired! I will get you something to drink.”

  She hurried from the room.

  Mimosa could hear her calling out that Mademoiselle was back and giving orders for food and drink.

  Then she came back and, kneeling by the chair where Mimosa was sitting, she said,

  “Just rest, then you will feel better.”

  “I-I cannot – remember – ” Mimosa murmured. “Who – am – I?”

  “You are Minerva Tison,” the Frenchwoman said slowly and clearly. “Minerva Tison – that is your name.”

  Mimosa did not repeat it, she merely looked blankly at the Frenchwoman.

  “I am Suzette. Surely you remember me? Suzette whom you used to laugh with and say she was your right hand.”

  “Su – ze – tte,” Mimosa said slowly, hesitating over both syllables.

  “That is right,” the Frenchwoman said, “and you are Minerva.”

  Mimosa closed her eyes for a moment.

  Suzette rose to her feet as a servant came in with a tray on which there was coffee and some petits fours.

  Suzette poured out the coffee and gave it to Mimosa.

  She took it from her tentatively and then she sipped a little of it, feeling that it was what she needed after walking so far and then Suzette asked gently,

  “Can you remember what happened to you after you were taken away?”

  Mimosa shook her head from side to side.

  “I-I can – remember – nothing – who I am or why I am – here.”

  “Then they must have beaten you,” Suzette said angrily. “Those wicked, wicked men! If only we could catch them. They would be punished for the way they have treated you!”

  Then deciding that it was the sensible thing to do, she said,

  “I think, mademoiselle, you should go upstairs and sleep. I am sure that you will wake up remembering what has happened and knowing who you are.”

  She thought that Mimosa looked as if she did not understand and then helped her out of the chair.

  With Suzette supporting her she went slowly up the stairs.

  There was a wide landing, then what Mimosa thought was the most beautiful bedroom she had ever seen.

  There was a huge bed with the headboard in the shape of a silver shell and the bedcover was made of exquisite lace that must have cost a fortune.

  All the furniture was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  A looking glass on the dressing table was surrounded by angels painted in their natural colour.

  Suzette found Mimosa an exquisitely beautiful nightgown that she thought could only have come from Paris.

  It must have been worked by nuns and then she remembered how Minerva had told her that she had bought a negligee from there when she was with her mother.

  Suzette helped Mimosa into bed and, when she was lying back against the pillows, she hurried away.

  Mimosa was certain that it was to send messages to the French authorities, who had been looking for Minerva, to announce that she had arrived home.

  She drew a deep breath of thankfulness.

  So far Suzette had not queried for a moment that she was not who she pretended to be.

  After all there was no reason why anyone in Tunis should have the slightest idea that Minerva Tison had a cousin who looked exactly like her.

  Yet now, when she could think about it quietly, it seemed extraordinary that Minerva should have been living alone in the Villa without her father or mother.

  Or, in fact, with only this Frenchwoman who she supposed was a paid employee.

  ‘What can have happened to Aunt Emily?’ Mimosa wondered.

  She had always found Clint Tison charming and he had certainly been very kind to her. The whole thing was most mysterious and she longed to ask a thousand questions.

  But she knew that she had to play her part carefully and it might be a long time before she could find the answers that she longed to hear.

  Because she had not slept well last night she actually dozed for a little while.

  She woke when Suzette came hurrying into the room to say unnecessarily,

  “Are you awake, mademoiselle? Monsieur Beaton, who has been investigating your disappearance, is here and wants to talk to you.”

  Mimosa opened her eyes wide.

  “Where – am – I?” she asked. “I-I don’t know – who I – am.”

  “I told you that you are Minerva Tison,” Suzette answered. “But don’t worry, just let Monsieur talk to you for a few minutes. I will explain to him that you are very tired and it may take time before your memory returns.”

  Suzette went from the room and Mimosa could hear her say outside the door,

  “She still does not know who she is. I think those ghastly men must have hit her on the head or perhaps treated her so badly that she has been unconscious.”

  “At least she is home!” a man with a deep voice replied. “And that, madame, is all that matters.”

  “Of course, of course,” Suzette agreed.

  She opened the door wider to say,

  “Here, mademoiselle, is Monsieur Beaton.”

  Mimosa turned her head.

  A middle-aged man was approaching her who she guessed was in charge of the Secret Police. They were employed by the French in all the countries they occupied.

  He reached the bed and, as Mimosa put out her hand, he bent over it in a perfunctory manner without actually kissing it.

  That, she knew, meant he respected her as someone of importance.

  The French did not usually kiss the hands of young women, only those who were married.

  As Minerva was very rich, she would be treated with the utmost respect, regardless of whether she had a husband or not.

  “May I say, mademoiselle,” the Frenchman began, “how pleased I am that you have returned home and were not, as we feared, murdered by those who kidnapped you, leaving no clue as to where they had taken you.”

  “I-I don’t – remember,” Mimosa stammered weakly.

  “It will all come back to you in time,” Monsieur Beaton said politely, “and
I know how delighted everybody will be at your return.”

  Mimosa just inclined her head, as if to speak was too much of an effort.

  There was a pause before Monsieur Beaton asked,

  “You have no idea, I suppose, of where you have been or who has been keeping you prisoner?”

  “I – c-cannot – remember,” Mimosa said again.

  She saw the disappointment on the Frenchman’s face and after a moment she asked,

  “Is – this my – home?”

  “This is your Villa, mademoiselle and you have been living here for over a year.”

  “All – mine!” Mimosa whispered.

  “Oui, all yours,” Monsieur Beaton said impressively, “and Madame Blanc has kept it in perfect order for you. She was always convinced that somehow or other you would come back and she never lost hope.”

  Mimosa registered that Suzette’s surname was ‘Blanc’ and wished that she could ask more, but thought it would be a mistake.

  Instead she closed her eyes as if she was tired and Monsieur Beaton rose to his feet.

  “I will come back another day,” he said. “In the meantime, once again, mademoiselle, I must say how happy we all are to have you back with us.”

  He smiled at her and then went on,

  “I promise that in future you will be well guarded, so that this sort of outrage will never happen again.”

  Mimosa murmured a weak “thank you” and he went from the room.

  She could hear him and Suzette talking animatedly as they went down the stairs.

  She had won!

  She had established herself as Minerva.

  Monsieur Beaton had not suspected either that she was an imposter.

  Because it was such a relief she wanted to jump up and look round the villa.

  She also wanted to find out as much as she could about her cousin.

  She knew, however, that it would be unwise and she forced herself to lie quietly in bed.

  Later she ate a little of the delicious luncheon that was brought upstairs to her.

  Suzette sat chatting to her while she did so.

  “You must eat everything you can,” she said, “or the chef will be very disappointed.”

  Mimosa registered the fact that she had a chef.

  “He has been in despair while you have been away,” Suzette continued, “with no one to enjoy his soufflés, his pâté and all your favourite dishes. And, of course, he missed Monsieur le Comte, as we all did.”

  Mimosa stiffened.

  Then she asked in a childlike little voice,

  “Monsieur – le Comte? Who is – Monsieur le – Comte?”

  “Now, mademoiselle, surely you must remember him? We thought at first that you were so unhappy at his departure that you had thrown yourself into the sea!”

  She paused, but Mimosa did not speak and so she went on,

  “Then one of the gardeners said he had seen two men carrying you away and, when we found your bracelet on the path, we knew that you had been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped – ” Mimosa said slowly. “I – was kidnapped!”

  “Yes, mademoiselle and it must have been terrible, for you. They must have made you sleep on the floor or perhaps – ”

  She stopped as if she thought it would be a mistake to suggest that any indignities or cruelties had taken place.

  Instead she said,

  “At least you have forgotten your unhappiness over Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Why – was I – unhappy?” Mimosa asked.

  “Because he had to go back to France,” Suzette replied. “It was terrible for you and we were all very sorry. We all lost our hearts to him, but I expect his wife insisted on his return.”

  She gave a little sniff of indignation before she said,

  “Women are all the same and they can be very cruel when something affects their hearts.”

  Mimosa did not answer.

  She thought that it sounded as if her cousin had been infatuated with this Monsieur le Comte, whoever he was.

  Although it seemed impossible, she must have been living with him here.

  And he was a married man!

  ‘How could Minerva do anything so wrong and so wicked?’ she wondered.

  Then she asked herself whether, if she had fallen in love with a man as her mother had, she would have been able to resist eloping with him, whether he had a wife or not.

  It all seemed so improbable and difficult to understand.

  She could only listen to Suzette now.

  She was obviously a chatterbox who had found it boring to be alone with no one to talk to.

  “Of course you were miserable and upset,” Suzette carried on, “and we were all so sorry for you. But because you are so lovely we were quite certain somebody else would come along.”

  She paused a moment and then continued,

  “After all it’s very easy to fall in love in such beautiful surroundings as here at L’Astre Bleu”

  “But – why are – you here?” Mimosa asked, hoping she did not sound too eager to know the answer.

  “I am here because Monsieur le Comte asked me to come with you when you both left Paris. He wanted somebody sensible like myself to look after you.”

  “Paris!” Mimosa exclaimed, as if she fastened on the one word. “Where is – Paris?”

  “It’s the Capital of France!” Suzette replied. “You must remember that. You were there with your father and mother when they were killed in that tragic train crash.”

  Mimosa shut her eyes.

  So that was what had happened to Aunt Emily and Clint – a train crash!

  Now the story was beginning to unfold before her eyes.

  Minerva had been alone and the Comte had swept her away to where she could forget her unhappiness.

  He had brought her to Tunis.

  She had the idea that he might in some way be connected with the administration of Tunis under the French.

  Then he had been recalled to France because his wife, being jealous, had put pressure on the authorities.

  Trying to avoid asking too intelligent questions, Mimosa said after what seemed a long silence,

  “The – Comte – who is the Comte?”

  “Now you are beginning to remember him,” Suzette said with satisfaction. “You called him André, but he is Le Comte de Boussens. Surely you remember him? He was so handsome, so charming and always laughing. Tiens, but I miss his laughter as much as you must have done.”

  Mimosa shut her eyes again and Suzette said,

  “I don’t want to tire you, but if we talk about things Monsieur Beaton is certain that your memory will come back.”

  She smiled before continuing,

  “He told me before he left that he had had another case where a man was so cruelly beaten up by the ruffians who assaulted him that it was a month before he could think clearly or even remember his name.”

  Mimosa did not answer and after a moment Suzette said,

  “Think of André, think of how happy you were together and how much he made you laugh.”

  Mimosa did not speak.

  She merely lay with her eyes closed and after a moment Suzette went on as if speaking to herself ,

  “You poor little thing! You have been through so much! You lost your parents in that terrible rail disaster, you lost your cher ami and they say that there is no chance of his coming back.”

  She sniffed before she added,

  “You have suffered at the hands of the kidnappers, who perhaps we shall never bring to justice. It’s not fair! It’s wicked that one small person should suffer so much!”

  She gave an involuntary little sob and then, as if to hide her feelings, left the room.

  Mimosa opened her eyes.

  She was certainly learning some strange things about her cousin.

  At the same time she thought how awful it must have been for Minerva when her father and mother had been killed and she had been left all alone in Paris.

&nbs
p; It was just as she was, alone without her mother or father.

  The difference was that Minerva was very rich.

  She owned this beautiful villa and, if her father was dead, his great fortune.

  Mimosa knew that Clint Tison had become during the past years very very rich and she had known long ago that he had discovered huge reserves of oil on his land in Texas.

  Because it had made no difference to her affection for Minerva, she had not really thought much about it.

  Nor had she realised that such a vast fortune could bring not only pleasure but also danger.

  Of course it had been impossible for the tales of Minerva’s riches not to precede her to Tunis.

  There were criminals everywhere, willing for payment to abduct or kidnap rich men and women and even children. Their employers could then extort a huge ransom for their release.

  Mimosa could only fear that what the French had assumed was true.

  Minerva, instead of just being held to ransom, had been killed, perhaps inadvertently. Otherwise they would have demanded ransom in the usual way.

  It would have been better to pay it rather than let her suffer at the cruel hands of those who had abducted her.

  Whatever the explanation Mimosa knew that Minerva’s coming to Tunis had rescued her from being penniless in a strange country.

  She would otherwise have found it exceedingly difficult to return to England.

  She realised that when her father died that the only people who would really welcome her in their home, and with whom she could live happily, would have been Minerva’s father and mother.

  She had thought at first that it would be difficult to find them if they had gone back to America.

  But at least their house in England would be available and she would have been able to stay there as a guest until she could communicate with them and tell them what had happened to her father.

  Now everything was topsy-turvy.

  She had insinuated herself into Minerva’s place and now she must work out what she should do next.

  She wondered how long it would be possible to go on pretending to be her cousin.

  Because it all seemed so improbable and at the same time frightening, Mimosa shrank from making decisions.

  She felt that it would be best, at least for the time being, to stay where she was and it was important that she should find out a little more about her cousin’s secret life.