Love in the Ruins

by Barbara Cartland

He was doubtless right when he said that the hotels in Tunis were not yet ‘Frenchified’, but they soon would be.

  The French, when they took over a country did it with an admirable expertise.

  The Duke knew that in a very short time the food would be superb and the service in the hotels excellent and the good manners of the French were one of their strongest exports.

  ‘I shall certainly try to win my way into the Villa that the Comte recommended,’ he decided.

  The sea was calm, the sun was shining and the white houses of Tunis looked very attractive as the ship came into Port.

  The Duke knew that the famous City of Carthage had been utterly destroyed by the Romans. He had been told there was nothing left of it to see except traces of the old harbour.

  But the Roman provincial town of Thuburbo Maius, which had only just started to be excavated, would certainly have a place in his book.

  As the ship docked soon after he had had breakfast he told himself that he would certainly try first the Villa L’Astre Bleu.

  Should that fail, he would go into the town and try to find something that was at least habitable.

  There was the usual crowd of natives offering to act as guides to the passengers as they stepped down the gangplank.

  They offered for sale coins that they claimed had come from ancient Carthage and there were pieces of stone that no one in their right mind could possibly wish to possess.

  The Duke brushed them aside.

  Jenkins, having found a porter to carry their baggage, hurriedly secured a hired carriage.

  It was certainly not a vehicle that would have passed muster in Paris.

  The carriage itself looked as if it was a hundred years old and the horse was obviously tired and had no wish to hurry from the harbour.

  Jenkins climbed up on the box and by some miraculous means of his own, alerted the driver to move a little more quickly.

  He, however, started to grumble when they reached Sidi Bou Said and began the long haul up the winding road.

  The Duke thought that, because it was steep, he would doubtless be expected to pay more than if his destination had been nearer sea level.

  He was intent on noticing the fragrance of syringa, the bushes and the trees brilliant with blossom.

  Then there was the shining whiteness of the few Villas at the foot of the hill.

  It seemed a strange place for a young American woman like Miss Tison to live, especially now she was alone since the death of her father and mother in the train accident.

  He had questioned the Vicomte before he had left Paris.

  “It was a tragedy!” the Vicomte told him. “Tison was brilliant! He had a creative brain and everyone wanted not only his money but also his advice. He was a visionary and so shrewd that everything he touched turned to gold.”

  “I wish I had met him,” the Duke commented.

  “He was a handsome man and his wife was lovely, in fact one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”

  “She was American?” the Duke asked.

  “I suppose so,” the Vicomte answered. “She was very retiring and seldom appeared in public.”

  Now, as the conversation came back to him, he realised that the wretched horse was sweating as the hill became steeper and steeper.

  Then suddenly they came to a halt.

  They were outside some imposing gates.

  Through them the Duke could see the Villa surrounded by a blaze of colour.

  Jenkins climbed down from the box to open the gate for him.

  “Keep the carriage,” the Duke said, “and wait for me here. I have first to find out whether we will be welcome or if we have to return at once to the City.”

  “I’m keepin’ me fingers crossed, Your Grace,” Jenkins replied.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mimosa awoke early and the femme de chamber, who came to call her, said,

  “Madame Blanc is not well this morning. She is staying in bed with a migraine.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Mimosa exclaimed.

  Actually she was rather glad as she found Suzette’s incessant chatter exhausting.

  When she had breakfasted, she felt for the first time that she was free and on her own.

  She therefore went to the cupboard where she had placed the manuscript of her father’s book, which had arrived at the Villa the day after she had.

  She had fortunately been alone when the manservant brought it to her.

  And as she had no wish to make long explanations to Suzette, she had put it hastily away in a cupboard in the sitting room.

  Now she took the parcel out and opened it.

  The moment she saw her father’s handwriting, she felt the tears come into her eyes.

  It was with difficulty that she read what he had written about Thuburbo Maius.

  It was certainly very interesting and he had already done a great deal of work on it, before he died from the snakebite.

  She spread out the pages on a table and started to read how Thuburbo Maius had developed first as a Numidion City and had sided with Carthage in the final Punic war against the Romans.

  Her father had learnt all that was known about it before they had visited the actual site and he was certain that, when the ruins were finally unearthed, there would be a new chapter in the archaeologists’ knowledge of the Romans and their civilisation.

  She was sorting out his notes, which she had not yet been written up for him in her clear handwriting, when the door opened.

  “Il y a un monsieur pour vous voir, m’mselle,” a servant announced.

  Mimosa looked up in surprise, as a man she had never seen before came into the room.

  She was aware that he was very smartly dressed.

  He was young, good-looking and she was sure even before he spoke that he was an Englishman.

  The Duke was staring at her in astonishment.

  He had been told by Comte André that her mother was beautiful.

  But the girl facing him was indisputably one of the loveliest women he had ever seen.

  The sun was turning her hair to gold and, as she looked at him, he saw that her eyes were the pale blue of a summer sky.

  He also noted that she was frightened.

  He thought it strange that she should be afraid of him and he began quickly,

  “Good morning. Miss Tison. May I apologise for intruding on you like this and introduce myself? I am the Duke of Alrock and I have come to Tunis to inspect the Roman ruins, recently uncovered, of Thuburbo Maius.”

  As he was speaking, Mimosa had risen to her feet and the Duke went on,

  “I have come from Paris on my way here and I bring messages to you from Comte André de Boussens.”

  He expected from what the Comte had told him that this statement would be received enthusiastically.

  Again to his surprise Mimosa’s eyes flickered and he saw the colour rising in her cheeks.

  Her skin was exquisitely white and he thought the blush that was like the first sign of the sun at dawn and quite as beautiful.

  With what he was aware was an effort she said politely,

  “Will you not – sit down, and perhaps – you would – like some refreshment?”

  “I have just had a very nasty breakfast on the ship that brought me here,” the Duke replied, “and, if it is no trouble, I would greatly appreciate some coffee.”

  “Of course,” Mimosa said.

  She rang the bell and, as the manservant appeared almost immediately, she guessed he must have been waiting for her summons in the hall.

  “Voulez-vous servir du café, s’il vous plait,” she ordered.

  She went nearer to the Duke and sat down on a chair facing him.

  “So you have come to see the ruins at Thuburbo Maius,” she said. “I believe that you will find them fascinating.”

  “You have seen them?” he asked in surprise.

  Without thinking Mimosa replied,

  “Oh, yes.”

  Then she remem
bered that it was very unlikely that her cousin would have gone there.

  She looked apprehensively at her father’s book, which lay on the table.

  The Duke followed the direction of her eyes.

  He could not help seeing the words ‘THUBURBO MAIUS’ written in large capital letters on the top sheet of a pile of paper.

  He rose to his feet saying,

  “You actually have some notes on the City! Who has written them?”

  There was a pause before Mimosa managed to reply,

  “M-my – uncle – Sir Richard Shenson.”

  She spoke unsteadily and the Duke stared at her.

  “Richard Shenson is your uncle?” he enquired. “I had no idea of it. I knew your father was American and I had the idea that your mother was American too.”

  “Oh, no,” Mimosa replied. “She was English.”

  She did not explain any further, but the Duke was intent on looking at her father’s manuscript.

  “You may think I am presuming,” he said after a moment, “but I would be exceedingly grateful if you, or rather your uncle, would allow me to read what he has written.”

  “My – my uncle is – dead,” Mimosa informed him hesitantly.

  “Dead?” the Duke exclaimed. “I am sorry to hear that. But he wrote all this before he died?”

  “Yes,” Mimosa agreed.

  She was thinking to herself that she had to be very careful not to say too much or to make him in the least suspicious as to who she really was.

  Then she told herself that she was being ridiculous. He knew her as ‘Miss Tison’ and why should he suspect that she was anything else?

  Anyway he was only a stranger.

  The Duke was staring down at the papers spread out on the table.

  Then he said,

  “When I was in Paris, Miss Tison, I met the Comte André de Boussens whom I had met once before. He told me that you were a friend of his and that he had stayed with you while he was here in Tunis.”

  He paused a moment, but, when she remained silent, he continued,

  “I was wondering, although it may seem presumptuous, if you would accept me as your lodger as I understand that he was.”

  It was the last thing Mimosa had expected him to say and for a moment she could only stare at him.

  Then, before she could speak, he smiled.

  “I have taken you by surprise,” he said, “and I am sure that you think it is extraordinary of me to barge my way in here without a proper introduction.”

  She did not answer and he went on,

  “I have never been in Tunis before and I have the suspicion that the hotels will be very uncomfortable and the food appalling.”

  As if she could not help it, Mimosa laughed.

  “I am – sure that is – true.”

  “Then you will understand why I am pleading with you to be kind to an alien in a foreign country.”

  “I-I suppose,” Mimosa said falteringly, “you could – stay here.”

  Even as she spoke she thought that it would somehow be a relief to have an English person with her.

  He would be someone to talk to as a change from Suzette’s endless chatter and she could speak to him in her own language.

  As if the Duke understood her hesitation, he said,

  “I promise I will be no trouble and, of course, as soon as I can arrange it, I want to go to Thuburbo Maius which I understand is some distance from Tunis.”

  “You will need to hire camel drivers to take you,” Mimosa said, “with a tent for you to sleep in.”

  “I can organise that,” the Duke smiled, “but it would be of inestimable help, Miss Tison, if you could recommend who I should engage. I believe many of the camel drivers are thieves and, when one sets off into the uninhabited part of the country, there is always the chance that one will never return.”

  Mimosa did not answer.

  She was thinking that her father would never return, although it was through no fault of the camel drivers.

  The Duke was silent for a moment before he said,

  “My luggage and my valet are waiting outside your gates. I feel that the driver of the dilapidated Hackney carriage that brought me here from the dock will be impatient to be paid. ”

  The way he spoke sounded so amusing that Mimosa gave a little chuckle before she said,

  “Then, of course, you must pay him, and the servants will bring in your luggage.”

  “Then I may stay?” the Duke asked.

  “At least until you set off for Thuburbo Maius,” Mimosa agreed.

  “Before I do that,” the Duke answered, “I must naturally read your uncle’s book.”

  He smiled at her again and walked to the door just as the manservant appeared with the coffee.

  “You had better let my servant, Jacques, pay the driver for you,” Mimosa suggested, “and he will tell your valet that you are staying here. Then you can drink your coffee while it is still hot.”

  “I think that is a very sensible idea,” the Duke said.

  He took some money out of his pocket and gave it to Jacques.

  He also told him in French to arrange with his valet to bring in the luggage.

  Mimosa was pouring out the coffee and, when the Duke took his cup from her, he sat down in an armchair.

  It was near the open window and he looked at the garden, appreciating the beauty of the flowers.

  “This is the most charming Villa I have ever seen!” he said. “And your garden is perfection!”

  Mimosa said nothing.

  She felt guilty at accepting a compliment about the Villa that she did not own and a garden that owed nothing to her effort and care.

  She began wondering nervously if she had been wise in accepting the Duke as a guest.

  At the same time he gave her a sense of security she had not felt since she first arrived.

  He was English and perhaps, in some way she could not yet fathom, he would help her to decide the best way she could return to England.

  “I understand that Comte André was helping the French in their usual efficient way to administer the City of Tunis,” the Duke said conversationally.

  To his surprise Mimosa blushed and said hastily,

  “We were t-talking about my – uncle’s book, which I think you will – find very helpful when you visit – Thuburbo Maius.”

  “I am sure I shall,” the Duke replied. “But I am saddened to hear that he is dead. Did he die out here or was it back in England?”

  “O-out – here,” Mimosa replied.

  It obviously distressed her to speak about it and the Duke tactfully began to talk of other places he had visited and the Roman ruins he had found most interesting.

  As he did so, he saw the light come back into Mimosa’s eyes.

  There was no mistaking the interest she was taking in what he was telling her.

  It surprised him because he had never yet found a woman who was in the least concerned with his excavations, but only with himself.

  Those he had talked to about them listened politely and then, as quickly as they could, turned the conversation round to themselves or to something more intimate.

  Mimosa, however, plied him with questions about what he had found in Algeria and Libya.

  Her questions were not only intelligent, he thought, but showed that she had a knowledge of the subject that puzzled him.

  They talked about the Romans, their history and their enormous Empire until it was nearly time for luncheon.

  “I had no idea that it was so late!” Mimosa exclaimed. “Please forgive me if I have been a bore, but I found what you were telling me so absorbing.”

  Before the Duke could reply, she added,

  “I am sure that you would like a glass of champagne. I should have suggested it sooner.”

  “I drink very little as a rule,” the Duke admitted, “but today I feel that I should celebrate your hospitality and kindness to me and a glass of champagne would be very agreeable.”
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br />   Mimosa gave the order.

  As she did so, he rose to walk to the open window and look out into the garden.

  “This is exactly how I thought Tunis would look,” he said, “only to be disappointed when I drove from the Port through streets of dilapidated houses all in need of, if nothing else, a coat of paint.”

  “Some of them do look very disreputable,” Mimosa concurred, “but the centre of the City has been much improved since the French arrived.”

  “I don’t suppose that the natives enjoy being made to behave themselves,” the Duke remarked, “but I am sure that they find eventually that it is for their own good.”

  Mimosa laughed.

  “That sounds rather like the sort of thing my Nanny used to say to me.”

  “Now I come to think of it, my Nanny said the same!” the Duke replied. “So you were brought up in England?”

  He was surprised that Mimosa again looked shy and there was an obvious pause before she said,

  “Both in England – and A-America.”

  He found her difficult to understand.

  Considering that she had left Paris with Comte André, whose reputation was no secret, she seemed astonishingly unsophisticated.

  In fact, she was much younger than he had expected.

  “Surely you are not living here alone?” he asked.

  “No – no,” Mimosa replied. “A Madame Blanc, who is French, is with me, but today she has a very bad migraine and is staying in bed.”

  “It seemed strange that anyone as young and beautiful as yourself should not be chaperoned,” the Duke commented. “I understand that you came here after your father and mother died in that appalling train crash. I suppose you wanted to get away from everything that reminded you of them.”

  “Y-yes – that is why I – came,” Mimosa nodded.

  She found herself tumbling over her words because she was lying.

  It was bad enough pretending to be Minerva to Suzette and the servants.

  She had somehow found it easier because she was speaking in a foreign language.

  But to lie in English made what she said seem more of a lie and actually more difficult to articulate.

  If there was one thing that her father and mother had always abominated, it was lies of any sort.

  They had brought Mimosa up to be scrupulously truthful.