Love in the Ruins Read online

  Despite every effort not to feel shocked, she was shocked.

  That Minerva should have been living in Tunis with the Comte, who was a married man, was to her very shocking.

  Ever since they had been aware that there was something called ‘love’, they had talked about it together.

  They had been certain that there would be somebody handsome and charming, like their fathers, who would come along and sweep them off their feet.

  Then they would be as happy and content as their mothers were.

  “Can you imagine what it would be like,” Mimosa remembered saying, “if your Papa and mine were like Grandpapa, determined to marry us off to some stuffy aristocrat simply because he had a title?”

  “I would rather die,” Mimosa had declared, “than let anyone I did not love touch me.”

  Mimosa had paused before she went on,

  “Mama said that she was terrified of Grandpapa when she was our age and, if Papa had not taken her away, she would eventually have had to marry whoever Grandpapa chose for her.”

  “Mama said the same thing to me,” Minerva answered. “I would have refused – I know I would have refused!”

  “We are very very lucky,” Mimosa said, “because neither your parents nor mine would ever make us marry somebody we did not love.”

  “I know that,” Minerva agreed. “I am sure that I shall marry a Prince Charming, who I will know is the right person for me the first moment I see him.”

  They had both laughed at the idea.

  Now it seemed to Mimosa tragic that Minerva’s Prince Charming had turned out to be the Comte André, who already had a wife.

  He might also have a family, Mimosa reflected.

  ‘It was wrong and wicked of him to ask Minerva to go away with him,’ she told herself sternly.

  She also thought in her heart that it was wrong of Minerva to have listened to him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mimosa was sitting in the garden and feeling that the flowers were soothing and comforting her.

  More than that she thought that they were telling her that she had done the right thing.

  There was nothing so very wrong in pretending to be her cousin and there was no doubt that everybody had accepted her without question.

  She found that Minerva had certainly made herself comfortable.

  There was an excellent chef who provided the most delicious meals and a boy to help him in the kitchen.

  There were two femmes de chambre, middle-aged women who appeared to be cleaning and polishing every minute of the day.

  There was a butler who was able also to drive the carriage if it was required.

  Besides the servants in the house, Monsieur Beaton had placed two guards on duty at night and one in the daytime.

  Anyone who came to the gates was interrogated and no one could go to the house without being authorised by them.

  It appeared to Mimosa to be ‘shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted’.

  Whoever had spirited Minerva away had never been heard of again and neither had she.

  Sometimes Mimosa felt guilty when she moved about the beautifully furnished house and thought of what Minerva had suffered or was still suffering.

  She could not help feeling that, as they had heard nothing from the kidnappers, Minerva must be dead.

  She had learned a great deal about her cousin from Suzette Blanc, who was an inveterate gossip.

  She had been cooped up in the villa with nobody to talk to for so long that she now could not stop droning on.

  And Mimosa was willing to listen.

  The more Mimosa heard, the more she was able to put together a picture of Minerva’s recent life.

  It was not, she knew, anything that her mother would have approved of.

  According to Suzette, the Comte had been the most fascinating and alluring man who had ever existed.

  She eulogised about him and repeated herself over and over again as she described his charm, his good manners and his various attractions.

  Mimosa felt that she could almost see him standing in front of her.

  It only surprised her that there were no pictures of him in the Villa.

  She could understand, however, that, as he was apparently a married man, he had tried to keep his liaison with Minerva as secret as possible.

  It was something she could not ask, but she thought perhaps he had deliberately returned to Paris because he was no longer interested in her cousin.

  It was a complicated story and she found it difficult to fit everything Suzette said into a coherent pattern.

  Now she was considering how soon she could suggest going back to England.

  *

  She had been at the Villa for nearly a week.

  On the third day after her arrival the Manager of the Bank in Tunis had called to see her.

  She knew that Suzette Blanc had already told him that her memory had still not returned and that she was in a weak state.

  He had insisted on seeing her alone.

  Mimosa suspected, however, that Suzette was listening at the keyhole.

  “I know that you have been through a terrible ordeal, mademoiselle,” he said politely, “but I am afraid I must ask you now that you have returned to allow me to inform your Bank in London that you are able to sign cheques, so that we can put the position right where your money is concerned.”

  Mimosa was listening attentively and he went on,

  “As soon as we knew that you were missing, I communicated with your Bank and asked them to agree that, until you returned or the Police learnt what had happened to you, I could continue to pay the staff here and, of course, Madame Blanc.”

  Mimosa noted that, as she had expected, Suzette Blanc was an employee and not just a friend of the Comte, who had been invited to chaperone her cousin.

  “I am sure I can – sign cheques,” she said slowly, “but – I am still – rather feeble.”

  The Bank Manager produced a number of forms, which she signed laboriously.

  She knew of course, exactly what her cousin’s signature looked like.

  But to make her story more convincing, she wrote her name slowly in large, rather childish handwriting.

  The Bank Manager seemed to be satisfied.

  He asked her if she wished him to continue to pay the servants’ wages and if she required any ready money.

  “I have brought you,” he said, “what is approximately, in Tunisian money, twenty-five pounds. But of course, mademoiselle, if you require any more, you have only to send a servant with your signed cheque and it will be cashed immediately.”

  “Thank you – thank you – very much,” Mimosa said.

  She would have liked to question him about Minerva’s finances, but thought it would be premature.

  She was sure that since her father and mother were both dead at least most of his large fortune must have come to her.

  Now, relaxing in the garden, she wondered how long she could keep up her pretence of being her cousin.

  Was it possible for her to continue for the rest of her life to draw on Minerva’s huge fortune?

  There might have been a number of other people who had benefitted under Clint Tison’s will besides his daughter.

  She thought that she would have to go back to England before she could see the will or even learn the terms of it.

  However, being still frightened by the whole situation, she reckoned that the less she communicated with England, until she felt brave enough to go there, the better.

  There was still the biggest problem of all – how and where she was to live once she arrived there.

  Her life had centred completely around her father and mother and apart from them there had only been her aunt Emily and Clint Tison.

  And, of course, Minerva.

  There had been other relatives, but the older ones had all sided with her grandfather in condemning her mother for running away.

  The same had applied to her Aunt Emily in h
er turn.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she asked herself.

  It was the same question over and over again, only now there was no hurry.

  She was being well looked after and she was safe, and what could be more comfortable than the Villa and this exquisitely beautiful garden?

  She had discovered there were three gardeners to look after it.

  She was thinking that the sun was growing hot and she would go under the porch, where there was a sunshade on a stand beside her.

  It shaded her from the direct rays of the sun, which had now risen well up in a cloudless sky.

  Suddenly she was aware that Suzette was beside her and looking agitated.

  “Mademoiselle,” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper, “Monsieur Charlot is here to see you.”

  Before Mimosa could ask who he was, Suzette glanced over her shoulder and said in a voice Mimosa could hardly hear,

  “Be careful of him! He is dangerous, very dangerous!”

  Mimosa felt alarmed.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why – is he – dangerous?”

  Her brain was racing, asking who this man might be.

  Why was he dangerous?

  Was it she or her cousin who should be afraid of him?

  Suzette did not say anything more.

  Mimosa was aware that the man in question had followed Suzette from the Villa and was standing beside her chair.

  One glance at him told her that he was French and what her father would have called a ‘gentleman’.

  At the same time there was something about him that made her feel that she must be on her guard.

  Without speaking he drew up a garden chair that was not far from the one in which she was reclining.

  He set it at her side.

  Then he glanced at Suzette and said in an educated voice,

  “Merci, Madame Blanc. That will be all.”

  It was an order of dismissal and Suzette was aware of it.

  She gave Mimosa what was a frantic glance and then reluctantly walked back into the Villa.

  Mimosa waited, deliberately making herself seem limp and not particularly interested in the new arrival.

  “So you are back!” Monsieur Charlot said. “You must have had a very unpleasant experience with those criminals who abducted you.”

  “I-I don’t – remember,” Mimosa replied faintly.

  His lips curved in what she thought was a somewhat unpleasant smile.

  “I doubt if that is entirely true, but it is a matter of no particular consequence. I have come to talk to you again about what we were discussing the day before you vanished.”

  Mimosa opened her eyes wide.

  “Have I – met you – before?” she asked.

  “You most certainly have!” Monsieur Charlot said. “Now try to think sensibly, Miss Tison, about what I said to you when I came to see you after Comte André had left.”

  Mimosa was suddenly aware that he was speaking to her in English.

  Suzette had, of course, talked to her only in French.

  When Monsieur Charlot had sat down beside her, she was wondering why Suzette had warned her that he was dangerous.

  She had not at first realised that he was speaking in her own language.

  He spoke English very well, but with an accent.

  Now she wondered if he was speaking English for a purpose.

  Was it in order to prevent Suzette from being able to overhear and understand what they were saying.

  “I don’t – remember talking – to you,” Mimosa stammered slowly.

  As this was true, there was a note of conviction in her voice that she felt Monsieur Charlot would not miss.

  “Very well,” he said, “then I will start again at the beginning. But I am quite certain, looking at you, that you are more intelligent than you appear to be. It is in fact very sensible of you not to remember what happened during your absence.”

  “Why – should you – say that?” Mimosa enquired.

  “Because,” he said, “if you do remember, you will be cross-examined continually by the Police. The French have no wish for these kidnappings and other acts of violence to continue to take place in Tunisia.”

  He paused for a moment and then went on,

  “The more criminals they can catch and convict, the easier it is for them to keep the peace.”

  That, Mimosa thought, was common sense.

  She was glad that she had been clever enough to appear to have lost her memory.

  As Monsieur Charlot had said, she would not be troubled with continual questioning. Only worse still, having to identify those who had taken Minerva away.

  “Your abduction does not concern me,” Monsieur Charlot continued, “but, if you have forgotten what treatment you received from your kidnappers, you will not have forgotten André de Boussens.”

  Mimosa did not speak.

  She was aware that he was looking at her penetratingly, expecting some reaction to the name if it was only a flicker of the eye.

  “As I told you before,” Monsieur Charlot continued, “you hold his future in your hands. If you don’t save him, his suffering will be far more severe than anything you have experienced.”

  “I-I don’t – understand,” Mimosa said again.

  She was, in fact, finding it impossible to make sense of what Monsieur Charlot was saying.

  “Then let me put it a little more bluntly,” Monsieur Charlot said. “You came to Paris with your father and mother because your father had business with the President and a number of Bankers and other influential people.”

  This did not surprise Mimosa.

  She had known in the last years before her mother died that, as Clint Tison was so rich, he had business interests in quite a number of European countries.

  She could remember Minerva going with him to Spain and finding it fascinating and she had spent a month in Italy also with her parents.

  “Was it fun?” Mimosa had asked.

  Minerva, who had been sixteen at the time, had made a little grimace.

  “It could have been,” she said. “The Galleries and the Churches were beautiful, but Papa’s friends – ”

  She threw out her hands in an expressive gesture.

  “ – were all old and very serious. There were no exciting young Italian men to ask me to dance.”

  Mimosa had laughed, but she knew exactly what her cousin was complaining about.

  She had seen many of the men who had called to see Clint Tison at their house and once she had said to her mother,

  “I wonder, Mama, why it is that people who are concerned with business always look so serious and most of them seem very old.”

  Her mother had laughed.

  “To them,” she replied, “money is a very compelling subject and not to be taken lightly.”

  “But Uncle Clint is not always serious,” Mimosa persisted.

  “That is because he does not have to worry about money,” her mother answered. “It is worry that makes people old and gives them lines on their faces and white hair on their heads.”

  She kissed Mimosa and added,

  “It will be a long time, my dearest, before you have to worry about money, so just enjoy yourself and forget all about it.”

  Monsieur Charlot was still talking,

  “I had the privilege,” he said, “of dining one night with your father and mother at the house which Mr. Tison had taken in the Rue St. Honoré. It was a large very elite party to which only the most prestigious people in Paris had been invited.”

  His voice became more impressive as he went on,

  “The Comte André was there and I saw when he looked at you that he was attracted, as a great many other men were. You are very beautiful, Miss Tison, and your beauty would turn the head of any man especially one like Comte André, who is a connoisseur of beautiful women.”

  Mimosa made a little murmur, but did not interrupt.

  “I was not surprised when my friends told me that the Comte
made every excuse to see your father and, of course, you. Then came disaster!”

  He paused dramatically before he went on,

  “It seems cruel that your father and mother should have perished in a railway accident in which only ten other people were killed and a large number escaped with minor injuries.”

  Because she could not contain her curiosity, Mimosa asked in what she hoped was a bewildered tone,

  “W-why had they – left Paris?”

  “I should have thought that you would have remembered that, if nothing else,” Monsieur Charlot answered. “They went to Lyon just for the night because your father had an important meeting there. But you stayed behind having promised to go to the opera in a party arranged by Comte André.”

  Mimosa shook her head.

  “I don’t – remember,” she whispered.

  At the same time she was fascinated by the story Monsieur Charlot was relating, because he was telling her all the things she wanted to know.

  She had thought it a mistake to ask too many questions of Suzette.

  “You went to the opera,” Monsieur Charlot said, “and it was Comte André who comforted you later when you learnt about what had happened to the two people you loved best in the world.”

  “But – was I – alone in – Paris?” Mimosa questioned.

  “Of course not,” Monsieur Charlot replied. “It had been arranged for a most respected and charming friend of the family, the Comtesse de Bizet, to stay with you in the house.”

  “Then – why did – the Comte – ?” Mimosa began.

  “Comfort you?” Monsieur Charlot finished. “Because you must be aware that he had fallen in love with you and, as usual, when he saw a beautiful woman he was determined to possess her.”

  He gave a short laugh and it was an unpleasant sound.

  “You were trapped, my beautiful Miss Tison, as a great many other women have been trapped by Comte André’s charm and found it impossible to escape. He is known in Paris as the ‘man who has broken a thousand hearts’ and yours was no exception.”

  With difficulty Mimosa bit back the questions that came to her lips.

  Then, as if he read her thoughts, Monsieur Charlot continued,

  “I do not know how soon you realised that he was a married man. It is something he keeps from his victim until they are helplessly enamoured and cannot escape from the magic which makes them so pliable in his hands.”