There Were Three Princes Read online

  There Were Three Princes by Joyce Dingwell

  `Once upon a time there were three princes — a gracious prince, a charming prince, and a prince who was in-between.' Verity — just out in Sydney from England — remembered the old fairy tale, when Mrs. Prince told her about her three sons. 'Matthew is a wonderful person, Peter is a fascinating fellow, and Bart — is just Bart. If you can see your way to fall in love with any of them and marry him while I'm away, Miss Tyler, I'll be very pleased indeed.' And in fact Verity soon found herself complying with the 'falling in love' bit. However, the `marrying' part did rather depend on whether her chosen Prince felt the same way — and in fact on whether she had chosen the right Prince anyway!

  Printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual

  known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  First published 1972

  This edition 1972

  © Joyce Dingwell 1972

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN 0 263 7140

  CHAPTER I

  . "ONCE upon a time there were three princes, a gracious prince, a charming prince, and a prince who was in-between."

  Verity smiled nostalgically to herself as the old fairytale came back down the years to her. What favourite book of hers, or Robin's, had it been in? Not Hans Andersen, she knew. Certainly not Grimm.

  She put the thought aside to listen attentively to Mrs. Prince who had prompted the childhood memory with her recounting of her trio of sons.

  "Matthew is a wonderful person," she had told Verity, "Peter is a fascinating fellow, and Bart —"

  "Yes, Mrs. Prince?"

  "Is just Bart," his mother had related.

  "Bart comes in the middle?"

  "Matthew was our first, Bartley our second and Peter was our baby. Though none of them are babies now." Mrs. Prince had laughed ruefully. "In fact well into that stage of life when they should be providing me with grandbabies. If you can see your way to fall in love with any of them and marry him while I'm away, Miss Tyler, I'll be very pleased indeed."

  "Do you say that to all your employees ?" Verity had laughed.

  "Only you and Priscilla. Oh, no, I'm a very discerning person." She had smiled warmly on Verity, and Verity who had liked her at once had smiled back.

  "Priscilla is your secretary?"

  "The firm's secretary for some years now. I don't know what holds up Bart."

  "Then it's Bart and Priscilla ?" As Mrs. Prince had broached the subject, Verity did not mind adding her bit to the cosy chat.

  "Not officially, as I just said." Mrs. Prince had glanced down at the references that Verity had given her. "They do seem very promising," she praised . . . then she had paused. "There is just one thing —"

  "Yes, Mrs. Prince ?"

  "Do you think you'll stay on with us, or is this just a temporary fill-in for you? Oh, I'm sorry, my dear, and you don't have to answer, but so many of you English girls come to Australia just to look around. Not that I blame you, but —"

  "You mightn't want me to stop after you've sampled me," Verity had laughed back. Then seriously she had promised: "I will stay." For she had to stay. Now.

  It hadn't been the money, though certainly her fare out from England had depleted her savings, it had been her half-brother Robin. Robin was her junior, and the sole inheritor of her stepfather's very comfortable estate . . . at least it had been that. A slight biting of Verity's bottom lip. For so long as he had been grown up, Robin had fallen in and out of affairs, from everywhere his restless feet had taken him he had written back to Verity that he was in love. He was reckless, scatterbrained, completely irresponsible, but endearingly vulnerable — anyway, Verity found him that. Possibly, she conceded, she felt like this since he had been so delicate as an infant. Her mother, seeing the adoration her young daughter of her first marriage had had for the baby of her second marriage, had declared him Verity's child.

  There were only four years between them, but Robin had

  used those years abominably, Verity often thought ruefully, with his calls and demands, his S.O.S.'s for help. Mature beside his immaturity, she had been at his beck and call.

  But it had been when he had written to England that he would need her no longer, that Adele would take over the "child" now, that Verity had made the longest journey of all. She had come from England to Australia to see Adele, assess her, because if Adele was marrying Robin with that inheritance in view, that comfortable estate that was to eventuate in several years' time on his twenty-fifth birthday, she had to tell her that circumstances had suddenly altered, that the Ramsay assets had dwindled, that Robin no longer was the favourable proposition he had previously been. It was interference, she was aware of that, but she was painfully aware, too, of the type of girl Robin had previously selected.

  Of course, she had known intrinsically, if she had looked at Adele and seen love there, she would not have spoken, because it would not have mattered, love needs no reward. And as it had happened she had not spoken. But not because of any love, that had been apparent, but because Robin was not going to live long enough for any words to be needed to be said.

  "A few months," the doctor had told Verity sympathetically when she had gone to him after one of Robin's frightening attacks that had occurred soon after her arrival. "But you would have suspected that, of course."

  "Well, he was a delicate child."

  "You knew him even then?'

  "I'm his sister . . . at least a half-sister."

  "I'm sorry — I thought you were his wife."

  No, Adele was his wife. By the time Verity had arrived in Sydney, the girl had seen to that. She had also seen to it that Verity knew what she now intended.

  "I have been in touch with a solicitor," she had said quite

  coolly, "and he has told me that even if Robin doesn't reach the prescribed age, which by the way he seems to be going could happen, the money still comes to me."

  What money? Verity had thought.

  She had not told the girl, though, for she had known that she must keep her by Robin's side. Either this last love was a true love or Robin was too tired to change, but this time his infatuation was persisting. Verity had not dared risk Adele leaving her brother because of what that shock could mean. Because her own money was gone and she must refurbish it, because if by some means Adele found out the truth and left Robin she had to be here to pick up the pieces, finally but tellingly because she simply loved him for the little vulnerable boy he had been, she had refused to listen to Adele's pointed suggestions that she return to England . . . Robin's suggestions, too, when Adele prompted him, because Robin was pitifully weak.

  "If you're waiting for a handout —" Adele had said baldly.

  "I have a wife now, Verity," Robin had hinted more kindly.

  But she had still remained. And she would remain. She must.

  "I'll be staying, Mrs. Prince," she repeated. Repeated it definitely.

  The business was a superior antique and furnishing business in a very superior Sydney suburb. Verity had worked in such a business in Chelsea, but the moment she had crossed the threshold of "Woman's Castle", she had known that this was an even more encompassing concern. The displays were beautiful, everything was elegant, in perfect taste.

  "The woman in this Woman's Castle," she had praised Mrs. Prince, for that was the establishment's name, "knows what

  goes to make a home." She had quoted : "A home is a woman's
castle."

  "Only," Mrs. Prince had smiled, "it's a man."

  "One of the three sons ?"

  "Originally my husband, he had the unerring touch. I'm afraid" . . . ruefully . . . "all I know is not to match pink and yellow. Oh, I got by after Grant died, and the boys were still young, but only with the help of his books and sketches. Then Bart took over."

  "Then he is the inspiration?" For, Verity thought, looking around again, inspiration was the only word.

  "Well . . . at present."

  "Only at present ?"

  "Bart always considers it strictly that."

  "He doesn't want the business?"

  "Bart," said Mrs. Prince unhappily, "just wants his health." "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean I didn't want to intrude."

  "You're not intruding, and anyway, you'll see."

  "See ?" she queried.

  "Bart suffered an accident. He was badly injured. He has undergone several superficial operations, and he faces the real thing now." A troubled sigh. "When he agrees."

  "Will there be complete recovery ?'

  "We hope so, and Matthew is very confident." Before Verity could ask, Mrs. Prince had explained, "Matthew is my doctor son. He's the eldest."

  The mother had sat silent for a while, and Verity had not liked to break in on her thoughts.

  "Perhaps Bart would have been, too," she had shrugged at

  length, "if it hadn't happened. I mean, there was that time

  lapse in his medical studies, and a man loses his enthusiasm."

  "And Peter? Your youngest? Medically inclined as well ?"

  "Oh, no, though doubtless he could have skated through.

  Everything comes much too easy to our Peter. Just now he's a dabbler, in anything and everything, profitably dabbling, or he wouldn't do it. Well, there are my three sons."

  "But only the in-between concerned with Woman's Castle."

  . . . "Once upon a time there were three princes, a gracious

  prince, a charming prince, and a prince who was in-between." "Until he finds himself," Mrs. Prince nodded.

  "Can't Priscilla help ? I mean" . . . apologetically . . . "you did tell me that she and Bart —"

  "I don't know, my dear. Really, I don't know much about any of my sons. Does any mother these days ?" Mrs. Prince had finished with a laughing note before she repeated the business information she had given Verity upon her arrival.

  "If you're agreeable you can start as promptly as tomorrow. Priscilla looks after the secretarial side. The buying, selling and display will be entirely yours."

  "And Mr. Bartley Prince's ?"

  A little cloud as Mrs. Prince warned, "He never actually attaches himself here. I told you."

  "Yet he is attached?"

  "Yes, though not at the moment. He has been having a series of exploratory examinations in St. Martin's. When he does come back . . ." a rueful little laugh.

  "He won't like me ?"

  "It's hard to say. My last effort when Bart was away was a bathroom setting, and all he said was 'Oh, Mother ! ' "

  Now Verity laughed, too.

  "One thing," Mrs. Prince went on, "I won't be here to hear 'Oh, Mother ! ' when he sees you. I'm leaving at once." "Canada, wasn't it ?"

  "Yes, my sister's daughter is being married. I don't know how these mothers marry off their children. Don't forget, Miss Tyler, what I told you about that."

  "I won't," smiled Verity.

  She left soon afterwards, left for the little flat in Balmain that Robin had rather unhappily suggested.

  "We can't have you here with us, you understand that, as Adele said we're married now."

  "Of course, Robin. I understand perfectly. But I'd like to remain in Sydney a little longer. I won't get in your hair."

  "You're a good scout, Verity. You always were," Robin had said awkwardly. "It's just that Adele thinks —"

  "Adele is perfectly right. You must always think of her as right," Verity had urged with an ache in her heart. At the very least, she thought, let Robin not know Adele, the real Adele.

  She had opened the attic window of the small apartment in the old terrace; Balmain was full of these charming nineteenth-century remnants of sandstock and iron lace. She had looked down on the shining green waterway of Johnston's Bay. Once, a century ago, the agent who had leased her the flat had told her, the bay had been full of American sail, for they had been allotted this portion of the harbour. In their ballast had come American earth and in some of the earth sprinklings of American seed. Houses had sprung up later on exotic flowers, stifling them, but there were still occasional strangers among the freesias and marigolds. Strangers. And that was what she was now, knew Verity, looking down on the bay, now that Robin was accounted for by Adele. She belonged to no one here, she was a stranger.

  She smiled slightly at Mrs. Prince's fervent hope for a daughter-in-law and in time a grandchild. With Bart reserved for Priscilla, and from the difficult sound of him Verity did not envy Priscilla, there remained Matthew and Peter. A gracious prince. A charming prince. Which, she said flippantly to the green water, to choose?

  She turned back to the small but adequate room and cooked

  a small but adequate meal. After which she went to bed early as befitted the night before a new job.

  But after she had switched off, and before she climbed into bed, she stood again at the attic window, looking down at lights now, hundreds of city lights reflected in the darkling water, for Balmain was wedded both to the harbour and to Sydney, golden ladders from soaring buildings, rainbow streamers from their neon lights.

  For some absurd reason she was thinking of that old fairytale again. "Once upon a time there were three princes, a gracious prince, a charming prince, and a prince who was in-between."

  Matthew, the gracious, she tagged. Peter, the charming. She finished rather drowsily : "Bart, the in-between," as she pulled up the rugs.

  Though there had been no nine-to-five rule laid down . . . "In a place like Woman's Castle customers never come at nine but frequently linger after five," Mrs. Prince had smiled ... Verity saw to it the next morning that she was on time.

  The shop was one of a leisurely row of tasteful salons and boutiques, set in a small courtyard with its own miniature fountain. The street in which it stood was leafy and quiet and there were glimpses between the ornamental trees of, Sydney Harbour. Apart from a tasteful sign in the form of artistically in-beckoning arms reading "Woman's Castle", there was no announcement and no display. Verity knew now that one had to enter for these.

  The business was not actually opened, but the door was unlocked, so Verity went in. She could hear the tap of a typewriter, so crossed to the room from where the sound came. Here, too, the door was unlocked, on this occasion also ajar.

  At her quiet knock, a girl got up at once, but in those few

  moments Verity had time to look at Priscilla ... for it would be Priscilla . . . and she liked what she saw. A serene girl. Could anyone ask' for more? Brown-haired, brown-eyed, rather self-effacing, Verity judged. But if you received a first impression of plainness, the sweet smile that slowly took over the gentle face soon altered that impression. Verity found herself thinking with Mrs. Prince that Bart was certainly wasting time.

  "Miss Tyler?" Priscilla asked pleasantly.

  "Verity."

  "And I'm Priscilla Burnett — Priscilla or Cilla or Prissie, I get them all. There was no need for you to get here this early, Verity."

  "You're here," Verity pointed out.

  "Accounts are different, they require office hours. Also I leave at five, and I'm afraid if you've a customer . ." Priscilla looked apologetically at Verity.

  "Oh, I understand that perfectly. I worked in England in a business like this. But I must be honest : it wasn't as beautiful or expansive as this."

  "It is, isn't it? That's Bart for you." Priscilla's eyes were soft and loving, and once again Verity thought — what holds that man up?

  Already Priscilla was busy with teapot a
nd packet of biscuits. "We have lots of short breaks here," she smiled, "Mrs. Prince loves time off for a natter, and Bart ... well, Bart just has to have time off." Again the gentle look.

  "I'm looking forward to going through the shop," Verity proffered. "It's much larger than you might think from the front. I see there's an annexe at the back."

  "Bart's collection of colonial and antique oil lamps. You'll love them. The trouble is they're not profitable."

  "But surely people are interested —"

  "Bart makes excuses not to let them go. Milk, Verity?"

  Over the companionable cup, Verity learned more of the Princes. Matthew, the eldest, was just starting out in his first G.P. Woman's Castle did not see him very often, Priscilla confided, for you know how called-upon doctors always are . . .

  Bart would account for himself when he came in, Priscilla said next, but when Verity suggested that that might also be some time away since he was in hospital, she corrected, no, it was a brief exploratory stay only, and he could arrive at any moment.

  "That leaves Peter," said Verity. The charming prince, she thought to herself.

  "Yes. Peter." Now there was something in Priscilla's voice that Verity could not pigeonhole for herself. She looked at the girl, but her expression remained as calm and gentle, there was simply nothing there to read.

  "Will Peter come in?" she asked.

  "You ask Peter and he won't be able to tell you," laughed Priscilla. But as she laughed with her, Verity wondered why she heard somewhere a bleak note in that laughter.

  She learned that Priscilla was always busy on mail orders.

  "Yet we don't advertise. It's just that once you buy from Woman's Castle it seems you always buy there. Customers move to the country, they go interstate, but they, don't buy elsewhere. Then, of course, friends see their treasures and become customers, too. And so it builds up and up."

  "Yet it has no one to keep it on,— I mean not personally." Verity explained how Mrs. Prince had said several times that Bart, who was its present manager, had no real heart for the business, that he always considered himself as only on loan to it.