Cassandra's colouring was magnificent — bright copper hair, the white skin that sometimes goes with it, a naturally scarlet mouth. Verity looked at her in admiration, thinking how mousy her own acorn top and acorn eyes must seem in comparison.
However, there was a debit side to the beauty. Cassandra had none of Priscilla's quietude and composure, that trait that Verity had told the secretary in her opinion won through. Also, there was a certain discontent in the lovely eyes, a frustration, a restlessness. She seemed vaguely unhappy, and perhaps because of that unhappiness there was a slight challenge, a touch of recklessness there.
But the smile now was genuine; there was an obvious anxiety to be friendly. This girl, for all her beauty, is lonely, Verity thought. She smiled back.
"Cassandra, I think."
"Now why would you think that?"
"I was told you were a beautiful girl."
"Oh, please !" There was no coyness in Cassandra's appeal, she meant it. Verity could see that often her beauty set her back.
"I'm the new girl," Verity introduced herself, "name of Verity Tyler."
"I'm glad to meet you, Verity. Thank you for greeting me. Priscilla" ... a little troublously ... "does, but doesn't, if you understand."
Verity fully understood, but she doubted if Cassandra did, Cassandra would never remotely understand how Priscilla would feel about her man, or her man she one day hoped, saying, "She's beautiful."
She cleared a chair and invited Cassandra to sit down. For a few minutes they talked shop, though not very astutely. Cassandra, Verity could see, was pleased but by no means enchanted with rare things. Why should she be? she thought wryly. She was a rare thing herself.
"All very lovely," agreed the lovely girl, "but I must admit I'm a realist. I'm like that American I read about, who remarked of the vanishing wildlife in the American Everglades that he didn't think about alligators, he thought about people." She looked moodily out of the shop door at snippets of harbour dancing between the leaves of the trees. "I like people," she said. As Verity waited, she went on, "I'm a nurse, but not a brilliant one, I'm afraid. I didn't join out of dedication but because . . . again . . . I like people."
"Surely reason enough. Are you still nursing?"
"I graduated," said Cassandra but without pride, "and I
take on relief jobs. You see I did hope to . .." Her voice trailed off.
Now another one, thought Verity, another girl emotionally tied to a Prince and Prince doing nothing about it. Bart and Priscilla. Matthew and Cassandra. In Bart's case, it was his health. In Matthew's case, it was his career. How much of a fool can a man be?
"I met Matthew nursing," said Cassandra. "Have you met Matthew?"
"I've only met Bart," Verity told her.
"Bart is sweet." Cassandra took out and lit a cigarette. "Yet as stubborn as Matthew," Verity dared.
"Bart? No, I wouldn't think so."
He must be, decided Verity for herself, otherwise he would not be holding out from Priscilla as Matthew is holding out from you.
"It's Matthew who's the stubborn one," Cassandra told Verity. "He must be established before he . . . well, before . ." She got up restlessly to pace the room, take things up, put them down again.
"I'm going away," she said abruptly. "I have had the offer of a temporary post in Melbourne. I have accepted it. I think it might do good."
Do good for you or Matthew? wondered Verity, but aloud she murmured that a change was always advisable.
"Well, we'll see." Cassandra did not sound very hopeful. She looked at Priscilla, now standing at the door and offering coffee. She smiled at her, and Verity could see the distinct effort it cost Priscilla to smile back. Bart was a fool, she thought angrily, to worry this sweet girl like he did. Why didn't he . . . Then why didn't Matthew...
It seemed that only Peter Prince stood outside the tangle. "You can tell Bart I've gone," Cassandra said in the office.
"You can tell — Matthew if you see him."
"How long will you be away, Cassandra ?" It was Priscilla. "I don't know." Cassandra's voice seemed tired.
She went soon after that, and the rooms filled with beauty were less beautiful without her.
"Well ?" asked Priscilla.
"Yes," agreed Verity, "she's the loveliest girl I've ever seen."
She was busy for the rest of the day. No time for display altering, even for dusting. Customers came and bought. She was there long after Priscilla had gone, having assured the secretary that she should leave, that there was nothing here for her to do, that this was what an attendant expected, and, when sales were being won, really enjoyed.
Verity had wrapped up an etching, her final transaction, and accompanied the buyer to the door with the intention of closing up at last, when one more customer, or customer she thought, came in. Well, it didn't matter, there was only the empty flat to go home to. She turned to the man ... and gave a half step forward. Bart.
Then she saw it wasn't Bart, though a strong family resemblance was still there. Yet with a difference. This man was infinitely more sophisticated, more carefully tailored; there was none of Bart's whipcord strength, that strength that always seemed so carefully, so jealously guarded, as though it was all he had left. Peter. She supposed it must be Peter, for he was obviously younger, not older, than Bart. He was also better looking. There was no slight scar. As he moved forward, she noted no hesitancy. He was what Bart might have been and wasn't. — He was the charming prince.
Peter Prince for his part saw a girl in a pastel overall, pale brown hair, pastel colouring to match. A cool pretty girl.
"Cassandra," he claimed. "They told me you were a beauty, but they didn't tell me enough."
"They?" she queried.
"Matthew. Old Bart."
She did not say she did not believe that of Bart, she simply corrected : "Then they told you about someone else. I'm not Cassandra."
"Then —?"
"Verity Tyler," she introduced, "I work here."
"Verity." At once he discarded the Tyler. "Meet Peter, the third Prince." He bowed.
Once upon a time there were three princes . . . Verity was thinking this as she put her hand into his. He enfolded it with his other hand, kept her hand there. She did not try to withdraw it. She stood smiling back at him. The fairytale was true, she thought a little headily, trying not to be carried away, but — being carried.
He was the most charming man she had ever met.
NEVER had Verity been so late leaving Woman's Castle. She had sat talking with Peter Prince until the lengthening shadows had told her it was time . . . and more than time . . . to lock the doors. When she had done so, she had come back to Peter now in Priscilla's office, and brewing coffee with the air of someone who knew his way about.
"Oh, yes," he said breezily, "I always help myself here, Verity." His bright blue eyes flicked across at hers.
She found biscuits, and they sat and talked again. Talked and talked. He was the easiest man to talk to she had ever met.
When he said in a pause of the conversation that it was after eight, she looked at him in amazement.
When he said also, "You're having dinner with me," she did not protest.
Verity went into the washroom and took off her overall, wishing she had something smarter to wear than her utilitarian navy suit. She had a scarf, though, and tucked it at her throat. She loosened her straight acorn hair, let it hang free. She put on more lipstick than she usually wore. When she came out he was waiting for her, and he looked her up and down. He said in a voice that caught sharply and deliciously at her : "You're an English rose."
She flushed at the compliment, and in Priscilla's mirror saw that she was looking pretty — never a Cassandra, but appealing and nice to be with. He seemed to find her nice to be with, anyhow. He extended his hand and she went to him.
"Goodnight, old Prissie," he said to the office ... and it was the first discordant note.
"Why do you say that?" Verity asked, not
caring for the feeling his carefree words had given her.
"Oh, I know Pris isn't old, no older, my rose, than you, but she is a solemn stick, isn't she, and bless her for it. We must have a sobering touch. Now, where shall we go ?"
He chose an Italian restaurant, a very intimate place with red-checked tablecloths on secluded tables for two. He ordered heady wine, ravioli and a delicious salad. He also ordered a string of personal songs for the wandering musician. Verity, seeing the Booknote he took from his pocket, protested, but he silenced her with a finger on his lips.
"Quiet, rose."
She was quiet.
It was a delightful evening. After he had left her at the flat, not spoiling anything by hurrying the magic moment, being content merely to touch her cheek with light lips. Verity knew she had never had such a night.
She stood at the window a long while, looking out on the glittering bay, for the first time in a long time not thinking of Robin, of Adele, of Woman's Castle and those who attended it, not even remembering the impact of the beautiful Cassandra ... Bart ... just thinking of Peter, the youngest ·Prince, the charming prince.
Well, she smiled, not far from enchantment, if nothing more ever happens to me, that's enough for dreams.
The next day she knew she had only just begun.
Peter was at Woman's Castle before she was. The first she saw of him was his swinging leg, swinging as he perched on Priscilla's desk and no doubt teased the secretary abominably. What had he said? "She's a solemn stick, and bless her for it." Verity wondered how Priscilla felt about that.
But when she entered, and Peter jumped off the desk and came across to greet her, bowing low in exaggerated chivalry as he kissed her hand but his upturned eyes telling her unmistakably that he was kissing her mouth, there was no question how Priscilla felt : she was not happy over the little scene.
Not understanding the secretary's cool attitude, for after all Peter was a free agent, Verity said weakly, "I didn't expect you here, Peter, or at least so early. Good morning, Priscilla. No need for you to introduce the third Prince. I met him last night."
"I see," said Priscilla drily.
Oddly uncomfortable, and why should she be, Verity hung up her coat and put on her smock. She was grateful that a customer entered, and, excusing herself, she went into the shop.
But Peter followed her. He not only followed her, he helped 'her with the sale. Verity was sure the customer bought more than she had intended. He was indeed the charming prince, she thought.
It was a busy morning. She had no time to talk to Peter. In the end their only interchange was over the midday snack, when Peter, still around, accepted one of the sandwiches that Priscilla had made, and said to Verity : "Tonight again? We'll try an Indonesian offering."
A little embarrassed, yet telling herself once more she had no need to be, that she was speaking to Bart's girl, even though Bart, according to his mother, and according to what she had seen, was doing very little about it, Verity said, "Perhaps Priscilla would like to come."
Priscilla's "No, thank you" and Peter's laugh came at the same time.
"I have an engagement," Priscilla said.
"Old sobersides," said Peter.
All the afternoon Peter stayed with Verity. They were busy, fortunately. Otherwise, Verity knew, Peter would have been doing more than help clinch a sale. There was no doubt about it that he had a talent for clinching sales. His mother had said that. Mrs. Prince had said that Peter, whatever he chose, would skate through.
Now he was skating through the afternoon hours, selling more with his easy charm than Verity knew she would with her knowledge and training. At half past five he called, "Down tools, Verity Tyler ! "
"I never go till after six," she told him.
"Tonight you go now. I hope you're not tired, for we're dancing as well as dining, my girl."
"At an Indonesian restaurant ?"
"Ever heard of the Tanka Bushi ?" he laughed.
There was no one at the door. Verity peeped out and saw that there was no one in the street. A little self-conscious .. . though heavens, why should she be? . . . she went into the office and told Priscilla, who had evidently decided to work late, that she was leaving.
"Yes," was all Priscilla said.
Just as last night, the night was pure enchantment. In Peter's arms, as they tried the national dance, Verity felt a throb she had never felt before. But then she had never met a man like this man before.
"And I thought you were Cassandra," he said once. "Cassandra is beautiful."
"You're a rose. You know" . a confiding smile . . . "I was always one for the glamour blooms — orchids, liliums, the rest. I never thought I'd lose my heart to a hedge rose."
"Oh, Peter ! " she protested.
"It's true, darling." — Darling?
"You hardly know me."
"It's long enough," he assured her.
"Things don't happen so quickly ... I mean not lasting things."
"This will."
Yes, she thought in her heart, this will. It must be going to last, her heart ran on, because everything else is pushed out of my mind. I think of no one but Peter. Even Robbie has receded. Adele. Priscilla — Bart. Bart, the prince who was in-between.
"Darling, what are you thinking?" Peter asked.
"Actually of your brother."
"Matthew or Bart?"
"I haven't met Matthew."
"Then you were thinking of Bart." Peter made an absurd gesture of nervousness.
"Why do you do that?"
"Can't say really. All I know is he's the only one who ever scared daylights out of me. Did as a kid. I was a forthright youngster. I stood my ground — stood it with my mother, Matthew, all my teachers. But never with Bart. Even after the accident and Bart less ... well, less than what he had been
. that boy still had the upper hand. I admire him to the ends of the earth, but let's not talk about him. He's safely out at the clinic, isn't he?"
"Yes, Peter," said Verity, a little puzzled.
The next night they tried a new restaurant. The music was soft, intimate. And soft and intimate was Peter's hand on Verity's hair.
"It's thistle silk," he said.
She did not pull away, she wanted his hand to stop there forever. She wanted Peter to stop beside her forever. She wanted to trap this moment and keep it forever. She felt as frail as gossamer, as insubstantial as the thistle silk he had called her hair. Time counted for nothing. The world around her didn't matter, nor Robin, nor Adele, no one in the world, save Peter.
She was aware of an elation she had never known before. It was enchantment, it was magic, it was unreality ... but after it she wanted no reality.
Across the table her acorn eyes met Peter's blue ones. For all the strong family resemblance Bart had brown eyes, not blue . . . but why had Bart occurred ?
"It is true, isn't it?" Peter was smiling.
"What is?"
"That you feel like I do."
Verity tried to say, "And what is that?" but found she couldn't.
Instead she listened to Peter, Peter the charming prince, Peter saying : "So short a time ... almost only hours ... but darling, Verity my darling, already I believe we care."
I know I care, Verity said that night to the glittering bay, for she knew she had never felt like this before in her life. There had been men friends between her gentle guarding of Robin, and for some she had felt more than companionship, but never had she felt the excitement, the sweet madness that she did with Peter. If a feeling of gay rapture meant caring, then she knew she cared very much.
She gazed long out on Johnston's Bay, and the silky stillness was almost tender.
Then a little tug busies itself across the water, only visible by its winking light. It was quite an unimportant tug, but it left behind it a widening circle of shining ripples. And into Verity's new uncaring happiness, like a pebble flung into a pond, came the widening circles of an odd disquiet, a Bart
disquiet
: unmistakably she knew it, for how could Bartley Prince keep out of this? How, she thought uneasily, would he react?
She stood on, telling herself it had nothing to do with Bart Prince, that love had nothing to do with anybody save the ones it concerned, but it was no use. There was something about Bart Prince .
She forgot all about it the next day, though, with Peter in attendance once more and Priscilla becoming more and more withdrawn.
They had dinner at an Indian restaurant this time, laughingly competing as to who could eat the hottest spices, then
sobering suddenly and sweetly as their eyes met and held .. . It continued, Priscilla still standing remote, all the week. Then —
Unannounced, unadvised, just as he had before, Bart came back. Verity was hand-rubbing a piece of rosewood and she knew who owned that slightly, very slightly shuffling step without looking up. But she did look up. It was Bart.
Guiltily, and hating herself for it, for what had she to be guilty about, she said, "How are you, Mr. Prince?"
"That can wait," he said abruptly. "Where's my brother?" "Peter ?"
"You know it isn't Matthew."
"He — he's not here."
"When do you expect him?"
"I expect him?" she echoed.
"You heard alright. When?"
". . . Well, he's been coming in around eleven."
"Why didn't you say so at once ?" Before she could answer, he went off.
Almost immediately Peter arrived, and with a wave, since a browser had entered with him, he crossed to the office before
Verity could warn him. At once voices were raised inside the office, and Verity discreetly closed the intervening door — but not before she heard the first fragments of a heated discussion. Mainly Bart's fragments, for Peter evidently found it hard to state his case.
. . . "Since when have you become so interested in Woman's Castle, Peter?"
There Were Three Princes Page 5
