Before the Crown
FLORA HARDING

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Flora Harding 2020

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Flora Harding asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This is a work of fiction. Every reasonable attempt to verify the facts against available documentation has been made.

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Ebook ISBN: 9780008387532

UK B Format Paperback ISBN: 9780008387549

Canada Trade Paperback ISBN: 9780008411701

UK Audiobook ISBN: 9780008406448

US Audiobook ISBN: 9780008412074

Version: 2020-06-15

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1: Windsor Castle, December 1943

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12: Cairo, April 1944

Chapter 13

Chapter 14: London, 8 May 1945

Chapter 15

Chapter 16: Buckingham Palace, January 1946

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21: Germany, Schloss Salem, April 1946

Chapter 22

Chapter 23: Café de Paris, Monte Carlo, April 1946

Chapter 24: Buckingham Palace, May 1946

Chapter 25: Balmoral Castle, August 1946

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29: London, October 1946

Chapter 30: Portsmouth, 1 February 1947

Chapter 31: South Africa, February 1947

Chapter 32

Chapter 33: London, May 1947

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37: London, June 1947

Chapter 38

Chapter 39: London, July 1947

Chapter 40: Buckingham Palace, July 1947

Chapter 41: London, July 1947

Chapter 42: Balmoral Castle, August 1947

Chapter 43: London, October 1947

Chapter 44

Chapter 45: Buckingham Palace, November 1947

Chapter 46

Chapter 47: London, November 1947

Chapter 48: Buckingham Palace, November 1947

Chapter 49: Buckingham Palace, November 1947

Chapter 50: Kensington Palace, 20th November 1947

Chapter 51: Buckingham Palace, 20th November 1947

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1
Windsor Castle, December 1943

He’s not there.

Elizabeth has her eye pressed to the chink in the curtains. The velvet is worn and smells musty. It reeks of mothballs and greasepaint, of old productions carefully rehearsed, suppressed giggles, and first night nerves.

In front of the stage, she can see the audience beginning to fill up the rows of chairs. Some are taking their seats in deferential silence, others look around, defiantly casual about finding themselves in the castle. The splendid gilt of the Waterloo Chamber is dulled now by neglect, its walls stripped of famous portraits, but it retains plenty of its original grandeur. The carpets had been rolled up and stored at the beginning of the war, and now the great hall echoes with the scraping of chairs, the subdued burble of conversation, and the clearing of throats.

The front row is empty still.

‘Is he here?’ Margaret whispers, crowding at her shoulder.

‘Not yet.’ Elizabeth steps back from the curtains, disappointment a leaden weight in her stomach which is already rolling queasily with anticipation and stage fright. This will be the fifth performance of Aladdin, and though she knows all her lines, still there is that moment when the curtains are hauled back and the terror of failure clutches at her throat.

‘Let me see.’ Margaret elbows her sister aside and takes her place at the curtain as if she can conjure Prince Philip of Greece into space by the sheer force of her will.

Sometimes Margaret’s will is so strong, Elizabeth almost believes she could succeed but on this occasion her sister’s drooping shoulders indicate failure. She lets the curtains drop back into place and turns back to the stage, kicking at her satin skirts.

‘Papa said Philip would come,’ she pouts.

‘For Christmas,’ Elizabeth reminds her, trying to disguise the dullness in her voice. ‘He didn’t promise to come for the pantomime. Something may have come up.’

Margaret stares. ‘Something more important than joining the King and Queen to watch their two daughters perform?’

‘Philip’s a prince. He’s not going to be impressed by a couple of princesses.’ It is Elizabeth’s secret worry. She has spent her whole life being special, and now, the one time it matters, she may not be – at least, not for Philip.

It’s been two years since Philip of Greece took tea with the King and Queen. Elizabeth and Margaret sat enthralled as he entertained them with his wartime experiences at sea, deliberately making light of his own part and playing up the funny side of things. For Elizabeth, whose only memory of Philip up to that point had been of a bumptious cadet who had showed off terribly, it had been a revelation. The swaggering boy had been replaced by a young man who was everything a prince should be: brave, witty, charming.

And handsome. The memory of those penetrating blue eyes has been a tiny, insistent throb inside her ever since.

Not long afterwards, the royal family were invited to a party at Coppins, where Philip was staying with his cousin, Marina, Duchess of Kent. Philip asked Elizabeth to dance, either out of kindness or out of duty. She knew that much. She was fifteen and tongue-tied, burningly aware of his hand at her waist, his palm pressed against hers.

She is seventeen now. She longs for him to see that she has grown up.

‘He ought to want to come and see us,’ says Margaret stubbornly. She’s been looking forward to impressing him with her acting skills. ‘Especially you,’ she adds, uncharacteristically ceding centre stage to Elizabeth. ‘He’s been writing to you.’

‘Sometimes.’ Ever cautious, Elizabeth won’t even admit to her sister how she has pounced on Philip’s rare letters, how many times she has read and reread them, smoothing out the creases in the paper. They have told her nothing because what could they say? That he has remembered her, that’s all. But it has been enough. ‘He probably writes to lots of people.’

‘Lilibet, you’re going to be Queen of England one day. You are not “lots of people”.’ Exasperated, Margaret stalks across the stage, her heels clacking on the wooden boards.

‘Margaret!’ There is a hiss from the back of the stage where Crawfie, their governess, is beckoning. ‘You too, Lilibet. The King and Queen are just coming in now. You need to take your places for the show.’

Elizabeth draws a breath. It doesn’t matter that Philip isn’t here. She will not be disappointed. He is coming for Christmas. She will see him soon.

Beyond the curtains she can hear the rumble and scrape of chairs being pushed back as the audience stands for her parents.

‘Quick, into the basket!’ Cyril Woods scampers across the stage. Elizabeth likes him. He is jaunty and bright-eyed, and he dances and sings nearly as well as Margaret. The two of them carry her scenes, Elizabeth knows. She learns her lines and moves when she is supposed to, but she doesn’t have Margaret’s dazzle. Next to her sister, she is muted, dull. That is how she feels, anyway.

But she is the elder; she will be Queen. So she has the starring role. It is Elizabeth who is playing Aladdin, in a shockingly short jacket and tights that make her feel very exposed. Margaret is Princess Roxana, which she doesn’t mind as she gets to wear a gorgeously embroidered silk robe and a tiara.

For the opening scene, they are to jump out of a huge laundry basket. The back has been cut out so they can crouch behind it. There isn’t much room and Cyril keeps touching her leg by accident. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘Sorry.’

Elizabeth’s heart is thudding. Oh, how she hates this moment before the curtain goes up! Her mind has gone blank. Her costume is too tight and she can’t remember a single line. The wicker basket is tickling her cheek and her legs are already stiffening. As the Guards’ orchestra strikes up the fanfare, she is gripped by the longing to leap up and bolt from the stage, to run out into the Upper Ward and down to the stables. To ride far, ride fast, to a place where there is no one to fail and no one to please and no duty to be done.

But she cannot do that. The show is one of the few contributions she can make to the war effort. Proceeds will go to the Royal Household Knitting Wool Fund to provide comforts for the troops who are fighting for their country, Elizabeth reminds herself sternly. They aren’t allowed to run away. All that is being asked of her is to sing and dance. What kind of example would she set if she were to refuse even that?

It is too late now in any case. The orchestra is reaching a crescendo, the drums are rolling and there is a swishing of velvet and a creaking of ropes as the curtains are hauled back.

‘You’re on!’ Cyril jabs Elizabeth in the side and she springs up, tossing the lid of the basket aside. Her sudden appearance provokes laughter, which increases as Margaret pops up beside her, but Elizabeth doesn’t even notice.

Philip is in the front row, sitting next to her mother, and he is looking right at her. His expression is astounded and a smile is just starting to curve his cool mouth.

Elizabeth’s heart swells. Her doubts are forgotten. All at once she can sparkle like Margaret. Her feet are lighter, her smile brighter. She can dance, she can sing. She can arch a brow and cast a knowing look at the audience.

She can make Philip laugh.

He is there. That is all that matters.

Chapter 2

Next to the Queen, Philip is trying not to make it obvious that he is nursing the hangover from hell. Why in God’s name did he drink so much last night? But it was his last chance to see Osla before Christmas.

It was fun, at least what Philip remembered of it. They danced at The 400 and then somehow a party congregated in Osla’s flat where they ate the Russian salad she made with powdered egg. Last night it hadn’t seemed disgusting, but the liquid paraffin dressing is still roiling in his stomach. He slept on the sofa and he should have stayed there instead of making the fatal error of returning to the flat in Chester Street where he found a letter from Mountbatten urging him to present himself at Windsor Castle as soon as possible.

Letters from Uncle Dickie are hard to ignore.

‘Your grandfather was a king,’ Mountbatten said the last time Philip had seen him. ‘You’re a prince, connected to most of the royal houses of Europe. But what have you got to call your own? Barely more than the clothes you stand up in.’

‘And that sweetheart of a car you gave me for my twenty-first birthday.’ Philip loves his MG.

Mountbatten was not to be diverted. ‘You know what I mean, Philip. You’re a personable fellow, and Lilibet will be Queen one day. Make yourself agreeable to her, as I hear you’re more than capable of doing. Dammit, you owe it to your family and to yourself. The war won’t last forever, and then what will you do? You’re not a British citizen and you won’t be able to stay in the Navy.’

Philip can’t imagine the war being over. It seems to have been going on forever. If Philip is as honest with himself as he tries to be, he has been enjoying the war.

There are flashes of terror, of course, but more of adrenalin and anticipation. In unguarded moments, the screams of injured men echo, and memories of flames and thrashing limbs and the vicious rat-tat-tatting of machine guns surge and spin in his head, leaving him stranded on the edge of an abyss, temporarily unable to catch his breath, but when that happens he simply pushes them away. It is war, that is all, and he hasn’t suffered so much as a scratch.

Philip prefers to think of the pitch of the ship and the dazzling Mediterranean light. The sense of liberation as they ease away from the quay. The stomach-clenching excitement when the order for battle stations crackles out of the speakers.

It is harder here, he thinks. The country is exhausted, its cities bombed, its people grey-faced and worn down by rationing and blackouts. In London, Philip walks past ruined buildings without noticing them anymore. Once, he was with a party heading for the Café Royal only to discover that it had been bombed barely minutes before. Dust still hung in the air. There were bodies lying on the pavement, men in evening dress, women in furs and diamonds that glittered in the moonlight. The looters were already there, stripping away jewels from the dead and dying, pulling up satin dresses to rip off nylon stockings.

Philip remembers stepping past and going on to The 400 instead.

That’s how it is during a war. Nobody knows when the next bomb will drop, when the torpedo will hit, when that Messerschmitt will slide out from behind a cloud and shoot you down. There’s a febrile edge to socialising. The knowledge that each night might be the last time you dance, or laugh over cocktails, or kiss a girl, makes it hard to be sensible and go home early to bed. So they stay up, determinedly dancing and drinking and laughing, squeezing every last drop of enjoyment out of an evening.

It is a world away from Windsor Castle. Here, in the Waterloo Chamber, there is little sign of the chaos and destruction elsewhere. The famous Lawrence portraits have been taken down and in their place – Philip squints to make sure he hasn’t imagined this – are bizarre cartoon characters. But otherwise little seems to have changed since the previous century. The King even leant across the Queen to tell Philip that the stage and curtains are the very same ones used by Queen Victoria’s children for their theatricals.

Philip’s head is aching, a ferocious grinding that jabs every time anyone shifts in a chair, sending it scraping across the floor. He feels fuzzy and stale. Perhaps he really is coming down with the flu that was his excuse for not arriving until last night?

‘Go and help with the pantomime,’ Mountbatten urged.

‘I’m not prancing around on stage making a fool of myself in front of the King!’

‘Make yourself useful backstage, then. There must be something you could do. It’d go down very well. The King and Queen like that kind of thing.’

The more Mountbatten pushes, the more Philip digs in his heels. He’s like a dog being dragged to a bath.

‘Philip, you’re halfway there.’ Uncle Dickie can’t understand why Philip is so reluctant to press his case. ‘The King said Lilibet was very taken with you when you saw them in ’41. She’s been writing to you, hasn’t she?’

‘Occasionally.’ Philip knows he’s being contrary but he can’t help himself. Elizabeth’s letters have been more than occasional. Written seriously in a childish hand, he has found them obscurely touching, though he will never admit as much to his ambitious uncle. He is deliberately keeping things light. He is grateful that she hasn’t embarrassed him by asking for his photograph, and he has been careful never to suggest that he would welcome one from her. That would be taking things a step too far. ‘She’s just a young girl, Uncle Dickie. She hasn’t got much to say.’

Mountbatten waved that away. ‘I hope you’re writing back?’

‘When I can. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a war on.’

‘You seem to have time to go drinking and dancing on shore leave,’ his uncle had pointed out.

‘I do write.’ Not that he had much to say either.

The truth is that he has struggled to remember much about Elizabeth. A quiet girl, sturdy and sensible, she has always been there at various family events like his cousin Marina’s wedding to the Duke of Kent and naturally she had been at her father’s coronation, which Philip remembered clearly. They had played croquet together at the Naval College in 1939 when Uncle Dickie, that old intriguer, had somehow arranged for Philip to look after the two princesses while the King and Queen attended chapel. There had been mumps, or measles, or some medical reason why Elizabeth and Margaret hadn’t gone too.

Philip wouldn’t be surprised if Mountbatten had engineered the whole outbreak just to put his nephew in front of the King’s oldest daughter. Not that Philip thought it had done much good. Elizabeth was painfully shy, he seems to remember, and rather chunky. He had hardly been able to get a word out of her. There had been a good tea on the royal yacht, though. He remembers that.

Good Lord, his head hurts. If only he’d been able to find an aspirin but it wasn’t the kind of thing you asked for the moment you were ushered into the Crimson Drawing Room where the King and Queen were greeting their guests for the pantomime.

The last thing Philip wants to do right now is to sit through a pantomime. The Waterloo Chamber is so big it must be impossible to heat at the best of times but with the royal family anxious to share in the country’s wartime privations there isn’t so much as an electric bar to warm the air and the cold is penetrating. He envies the Queen her fur coat.

In spite of the cold, he’s very tired. Osla’s sofa isn’t the most comfortable of beds. The effort of suppressing a yawn leaves the muscles in his cheek aching. Surreptitiously he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The last thing he can afford to do is nod off. For all his recalcitrance, he knows Mountbatten is right and he needs to make a good impression on the King.

‘And the Queen,’ his uncle warned. ‘You’ll have to work harder with her. It’s not at all helpful of your grandmother and great aunts to keep referring to her as a common Scottish girl!’

So far the Queen has been charm itself, but Philip is aware that her sweet smile is at variance with her sharp blue eyes.

At last, the main lights go out and the orchestra gets going. There’s some rousing music and just as Philip is seizing the opportunity to slide down in his seat, the curtains are dragged open. The drum roll bangs a conclusion, the lid of the laundry basket on stage is tossed aside and up pops none other than Princess Elizabeth, heiress presumptive to the English throne.

There’s a tiny moment of silence when she seems to be looking straight at him, and he’s so taken aback that at first he can only stare back, his headache forgotten, before he starts to grin at the sheer absurdity of it.

Then she smiles – another shock, as he doesn’t remember her smiling like that – and starts to sing as she comes out from behind the basket. She is wearing a red and gold Chinese jacket and filling it out very nicely indeed. The jacket reaches her thighs. Beneath it, she is wearing only a pair of satin shorts and silk stockings that reveal surprisingly shapely legs.

Philip whistles to himself and sits a little straighter.

He watches with new interest as Elizabeth tap dances across the stage. The show is better than he had expected, he has to admit, and he even finds himself laughing out loud at the more groan-worthy jokes. Princess Margaret is very pretty and undoubtedly the better performer. She has a better voice and is a better actor, but Philip’s eyes keep going back to Elizabeth. She is positively sparkling.

She must be seventeen by now, he calculates. He hasn’t realised what a difference two years can make. Uncle Dickie’s exhortations to fix his interest with her suddenly don’t seem quite as tiresome.

Chapter 3

Elizabeth feels as if she is smiling with every cell in her body as she joins hands with Margaret and the rest of the cast and bows. The curtains fall into place with a dull swish. Never has she danced so well, sung so well. Dressed as a washerwoman in a sackcloth dress and an apron, she sang ‘We’re Three Daily ’Elps’ with Margaret and Cyril and thrilled at the sight of Philip throwing his head back and laughing. No tight smiles or simpers for Philip of Greece.

She is trembling with excitement and anticipation as they leave the stage, but when Philip comes backstage to congratulate her, her confidence evaporates abruptly. After dreaming of him for so long, the reality of him is intimidating. He is taller than she remembers, the lines of his face harder, the icy eyes bluer. He seems to take up more than his fair share of air so that her breath shortens and she feels twitchy and exposed.

He comes in with the King and Queen and his intimidatingly elegant cousin, Marina, Duchess of Kent with her languid, tilted smile and exotic accent. Elizabeth remembers being a bridesmaid at Marina’s wedding to her uncle George. Philip was there, too, but he was just a boy then, an alien creature Elizabeth watched out of the corner of her eye. Uncle George was killed on active service last year, and Marina is facing her widowhood with courage. She is effortlessly beautiful and has a warmth, a kindness and an easy charm that Elizabeth admires and envies.

‘What fun that was!’ Marina kisses Elizabeth warmly. ‘You were marvellous, darling.’

Elizabeth smiles and thanks her, and kisses her parents, but all the time she can feel her gaze being dragged to Philip, who is standing a little behind them. She doesn’t want to look at him, she is determined not to, in fact, but it is as if her eyes are iron filings being sucked remorselessly towards a magnet. When the others move on, he lingers, and she doesn’t know whether to be delighted or terrified.

‘I say, that was terrific,’ he says warmly. ‘Very funny indeed.’

‘Thank you.’ The old terrible shyness clamps around her throat. She is still wearing the costume with the jacket and tights and she turns the saucy cap she has worn on stage between her hands, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on it. ‘Mr Tannar, the headmaster of the Royal School, wrote the script, so it’s nothing to do with me really.’

‘I don’t agree. A script isn’t any good without good actors. I enjoyed it. The laundry scene was very funny. Especially with the iron burning through all those “unmentionables”.’

His eyes drop to her legs. Elizabeth orders herself not to fidget but she feels ridiculously exposed and her smile is stiff.

‘Yes, Margaret and Cyril are very good.’

What has happened to the sparkle she felt on stage, she wonders miserably. She had been so determined to show him that she was no longer the gauche fifteen-year-old he had met before, but look at her: her tongue feels thick and unwieldy, any hope of witty repartee shrivelling in her throat. It was hopeless.

‘I thought you were very good, too,’ says Philip, but Elizabeth can’t help wondering if he would think she was good if she weren’t the King’s eldest daughter.

‘That’s kind of you,’ she says with a stiff smile, ‘but it’s Margaret who is the performer.’

‘You’re determined to turn aside any compliments, aren’t you?’ he says. He’s not exactly smiling but when Elizabeth risks a glance at him, she sees that the crease in his cheek has deepened. The sight sets warmth trembling inside her. She can feel it spreading outwards, blotching her throat and staining her cheeks beneath the greasepaint.

‘I don’t like being complimented when I don’t deserve it.’

Philip seems amused rather than daunted by her priggish voice. ‘What do you deserve to be complimented for?’ he asks, as if he’s really interested.

Being dutiful, that’s what her parents would say.

‘I have a good appetite,’ she says and remarkably, he laughs.

‘We have something in common then. I still think of the tea on the royal yacht when you came to the Royal Naval College in ’39. I had two banana splits.’

‘And platefuls of shrimps, if I remember right,’ says Elizabeth, encouraged by his laugh. ‘I’m surprised you weren’t sick.’

Philip grins at her. ‘It would have been worth it.’

His smile burns behind her eyelids and she looks away.

‘It’s hard to imagine a banana split now,’ she says after a moment. ‘I haven’t seen a banana since the start of the war.’

‘I’ve got friends who say that they dream of fresh fruit now.’

‘For me it’s soap,’ Elizabeth says and he raises his brows.

‘Soap?’

‘Before the war, when the soap got thin, we’d have a new bar to unwrap. It always smelt lovely, of roses or lavender. But now we have to use it down to the last tiny sliver, when it’s all cracked and grimy, and then it gets put together with other slivers so we can keep on using it. It makes us feel that we’re doing our bit, though it’s little enough compared with what most people have to do. So I always feel guilty about longing for a new bar all to myself. It’s a dream for when the war is over!’

Why had she told him that? Elizabeth cringes inwardly. Philip has been fighting. He has seen the reality of war. He is hardly going to be impressed by a silly girl yearning for soap.

But he doesn’t sneer, which is kind of him. ‘We all need a dream for when the war is over,’ he says.

Realising that she is still fidgeting with the cap, Elizabeth drops it onto the table behind her. ‘I’m awfully glad that you’ll be joining us for Christmas,’ she says bravely.

‘Not as glad as I am,’ Philip says. ‘Dickie and Edwina are away and I have nowhere else to go. It would have been a very sad Christmas for me otherwise.’

Elizabeth doubts that. She is not a fool. She is sure Philip has lots of girlfriends who would be delighted to invite him to share Christmas with them. She knows he is only here at Mountbatten’s bidding. His uncle’s plans for an alliance with the House of Windsor are common knowledge but what Philip thinks of the idea is less clear.

Elizabeth knows what she wants.

‘Well, we’ll be a very small party so it’s lucky for us that you’re not at sea,’ she says, willing the stiffness from her voice.

‘My ship’s being refitted so I’m on shore duty for a couple of months.’

So he has been around for several weeks without coming to see her, Elizabeth notes dully. But then, what was she expecting? Yes, he writes sometimes, but they are not friends. They hardly know each other. He has filled a large space in her life, but whatever he may plan for the future, for now she occupies only a very small space in his.

Elizabeth may not know how to flirt but she has not been hosting lunches for the Guards officers at the castle without learning how to make conversation, and she has her pride, after all.

‘How do they keep you busy?’ she asks Philip.

‘Instructional courses mostly.’ If Philip notices the coolness in her voice, he gives no sign of it. ‘Deadly dull, to tell you the truth. I can’t wait to get back to sea. It feels all wrong to be kicking my heels here when other chaps are still out there fighting.’ He stops. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded rude and ungrateful. I didn’t mean that I’m not glad to be here,’ he says. ‘Here at Windsor, I mean. With you.’

There is a tiny moment of silence. With you. Elizabeth is very conscious of the stickiness of the greasepaint on her face. The satin tights have become crumpled and twisted at one ankle and the collar of the jacket is chafing her neck.

‘I understand,’ she says, achieving a stiff little smile. Crawfie is hovering and the babble of overexcited voices from the cast behind them is growing louder and more boisterous. Her parents must have left.

She gestures down at her costume. ‘I’d better change,’ she says, hardly knowing whether she is glad or sorry to bring the conversation to a close. There is something about Philip that makes her nervous. She is drawn to him almost against her will. He reminds her of a stallion, alluring and dangerous at the same time, a horse she longs to ride but one which might easily bolt.

‘Of course.’ Philip steps back. ‘I’ll see you later, I hope?’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth stretches into an artificial smile. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it.’

Chapter 4

Uncle Dickie must have got it wrong, Philip thinks as Elizabeth turns away. He’s seen little evidence that the princess is ‘very taken’ with him. She strikes him as stiff and serious … and yet … and yet, he is sure that he caught an intriguing flash or two of warmth and humour, quickly buttoned down.

It might be pleasing to try and coax out that side of her, he muses as he strides along the dark, frigid corridors.

Elizabeth has grown up, that is for sure, but she is still very young. She isn’t a beauty like Osla, Philip thinks, but she has a curvaceous figure, wonderful skin and her eyes are extraordinary – a clear, true blue. And when she was on stage, her smile lit up the Waterloo Chamber. Philip finds himself hoping he can make her smile like that again.

He stops at the end of the corridor. Left or right? The corridors in this part of the castle seem to go on forever, firmly closed doors on either side. Windsor Castle is subject to blackout regulations as much as anyone else and there is only the occasional, dim bulb to light his way after he has brushed aside the offer of an elderly footman to carry his bag.

‘I’ve got a pair of hands,’ he said shortly.

The footman looked offended, but he must have been over seventy by Philip’s reckoning. Is he supposed to walk empty-handed along miles of corridors while an old man struggles with his bag?

Only sheer stiff-necked pride prevents Philip retracing his steps to ask the footman for help after all.

When he eventually finds his room – HRH Prince Philip of Greece is printed by the door – he unpacks his bag and lays his meagre wardrobe out on the bed. Thank God for uniform, he thinks, picking up his much-darned socks with a grimace and tossing them onto the chest of drawers with his underwear. His dinner jacket is shiny with age and the trousers patched. Whichever footman has the dubious pleasure of looking after him will not be impressed.

Shifting the clothes aside, he throws himself down onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

Well, the country is at war, he reasons as he blows a circle of smoke into the chilly air. They can’t expect him to turn up in an immaculate outfit. There is no way he can afford new clothes even if he could get the clothing coupons. The royal family will have to take him as he is.

It’s not as if Windsor Castle is the lap of luxury either. It might be imposing from the outside but its thick stone walls make it unforgivingly cold inside and with its treasures in storage it feels more like a grim fortress than a royal palace. The chandeliers have been taken down along with the great paintings. The state rooms are shrouded in dustsheets or converted into offices. No fires are allowed in the castle bedrooms, he’s been told, and all he has for light is a single, flickering electric lightbulb. Between the blackout and rationing and the need to set an example of sharing the country’s misery, the conditions are far less comfortable than at the Mountbattens’ flat.

But he’s not here to be comfortable, Philip reminds himself. He’s here to make himself appealing to a princess.

He smokes for a while to distract himself from the cold. The truth, Philip can acknowledge to himself, is that he is slightly miffed that Elizabeth didn’t seem more delighted to see him. After all those painstakingly written letters, he has assumed she would fall over herself to welcome him. That may have been a mistake.

It’s galling to think his uncle may have been right about the need to come to an understanding with Elizabeth sooner rather than later. There’s a coolness to her, a reserve Philip recognises but didn’t expect. He may have to work harder to charm her than he thought.

He doesn’t need to commit himself yet. Philip stubs out his cigarette and links his hands behind his head on the pillow. Nothing is going to happen until the war is over, in any case, and he is far from ready to settle down. He is only twenty-two.

On the other hand, he is a prince. Elizabeth is a princess. He will need to marry one day, as will she. There might be worse fates.

He thinks of his father in Monte Carlo, with his fraying collars and cuffs. Of his mother living in that bare flat in Athens, pawning her jewels to buy food for those even poorer than herself. Philip has known since he was nine that he would have to look after himself. He will come into no vast inheritance. He has his title and that is it.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, will succeed to the throne of England and all the lands, wealth, and treasures that go along with it. If he marries her, he will have all the security he has never known.

At a cost.

The cost is marriage to a girl he barely knows. A lifetime of behaving well, of playing second fiddle.

Philip doesn’t know if he can bear the thought of that.

And then, of course, Elizabeth might not want him.

He scratches his chin while he thinks about how that prospect makes him feel.

She will need to marry and give the Crown an heir. How many eligible princes can there be? Why wouldn’t she choose him?

With a sigh, Philip swings his feet to the floor. It is time to get changed.

He knows what he needs to do. He just doesn’t want to do it.

Chapter 5

A fire has been lit in the drawing room where the King and Queen’s guests are gathering for drinks before dinner. By unspoken consent they all huddle in front of the mantelpiece to make the most of the meagre warmth from the flames.

Elizabeth is talking to Porchey, one of her oldest friends and as passionate about horses and racing as she is. Porchey is easy company. She never has any trouble talking to him. Her tongue doesn’t tie itself into knots when she is with him. Her smile doesn’t stiffen and her stomach doesn’t churn.

Not like when Philip is there.

She refuses to let herself watch the door for his arrival and deliberately turns a shoulder away from it, adjusting the fur stole she wears against the chill. It is only recently that she has been included in evening engagements and she still feels a little as if she is dressing up in her mother’s clothes.

She is laughing with Porchey when a prickle in her spine makes her look over her shoulder in spite of herself to see Philip walk in. He’s wearing his naval uniform and brings an energy with him, almost as if he is charging the air by standing there. The sight of him clogs the breath in Elizabeth’s throat and her heart starts to slam uncomfortably against her ribs.

Instinctively everyone turns to look at him. Philip seems quite unfazed by the short silence that greets his arrival. It is broken by her father who goes over to welcome him and introduce him to his private secretary, Tommy Lascelles. Tommy has a stern gaze and a quelling manner but Philip gives no sign of being intimidated, chatting easily as he accepts a glass proffered by one of the elderly footmen who have been persuaded out of retirement for the duration of the war.

The King stands with them but he looks tired and diminished next to Philip’s vigour, Elizabeth can’t help noticing.

‘Who’s that?’ Porchey asks, following her gaze.

‘Oh, that’s Philip.’ She is proud of how steady her voice sounds.

‘One of the Mountbattens, isn’t he?’

‘His mother is. He’s part of the Greek royal family. His cousin, George, is King of Greece but they’re all in exile at the moment.’

Porchey studied Philip’s fair hair. ‘He doesn’t look very Greek,’ he commented dubiously. ‘He looks like a bally Viking!’

‘I think they’re connected to the Danish royal family too. And the Russian one.’

Porchey doesn’t look impressed. He is an aristocrat, heir to the Earl of Carnarvon, and sturdily British.

‘Come and meet him,’ Elizabeth says, just as Philip turns away from Tommy and the King and heads determinedly towards her. The slam of her heart picks up and she pins on a bright smile.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘You look very nice,’ says Philip and his pale eyes rake her from head to toe. ‘Blue becomes you, ma’am,’ he adds with a small smile that drives the colour into her cheeks. She feels Porchey stiffen beside her.

‘Thank you,’ she says nervously. ‘Honestly, I’d rather be in jodhpurs and a jumper.’

Philip’s brows rise in amusement as she clears her throat. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Henry, Lord Porchester? Everybody calls him Porchey. Porchey, this is Philip.’

When the two men shake hands, they put Elizabeth in mind of two dogs circling each other, bristles up.

‘In the Guards?’ Philip asks, nodding at Porchey’s uniform.

‘Yes.’

‘Seen any action yet?’

There is a touch of gritted teeth in Porchey’s reply. ‘Not yet, no. I’m with a training battalion of the Grenadiers. My first stint is here, guarding the sovereign.’

‘And the sovereign’s daughter,’ says Philip, looking from one to the other.

‘Porchey’s a terrific horseman,’ Elizabeth puts in quickly in an attempt to defuse the antagonism.

‘Is he?’

‘Do you ride?’ Porchey asks Philip.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m more of a speed man. I like fast cars and fast boats.’

‘I like speed too,’ says Porchey, ‘but I like fast horses.’

‘So do I,’ Elizabeth says quickly. ‘I remember my grandfather taking me to his stud at Sandringham and being allowed to pat Limelight, who was one of his favourites. And it was only last year that I went with Papa to the Beckhampton stables and said hello to Big Game. I promise you, I didn’t wash my hand for the rest of the day.’

‘What about you?’ Porchey looks at Philip with a trace of hostility. ‘You’re a long way from the sea for a naval man, aren’t you?’

‘I’m on shore leave. I’ve been on convoy duty, escorting merchant ships from Rosyth and Sheerness.

‘Isn’t that route the one they call E-boat Alley?’ she asks.

Philip’s brows rise in surprise. ‘You’re well-informed.’

For a girl, or for a seventeen-year-old? Elizabeth is both those things, but she is more, too.

‘I feel I must be.’ She doesn’t want to tell him how carefully she has followed his movements with every letter. She has a map of the world with pins marking his route. It has felt like the only way she can connect with him.

Two years ago, when Philip came for tea at Windsor, she and Margaret had been enthralled by his devil-may-care attitude and the entertaining way he talked about his experiences. Afterwards, she shyly offered to write to him, and of course was thrilled when he said he would be delighted to get a letter from her. But then, what else could he say? He had even replied occasionally. It was kind of him to find the time to write at all, Elizabeth always told herself as she read and reread his letters in vain for any indication he thought of her as anything other than a remote member of his extended family.

‘I try to keep up with what is happening in the war everywhere,’ she adds, wincing inside at how pompous she sounds.

It is true, though. All round the world, people are fighting in her father’s name, and one day they will fight in hers. The least she owes them is to know what is going on.

It is almost a relief when her mother, arriving late as usual, beckons Porchey over. He is a favourite with the Queen. Elizabeth is not supposed to know, but her mother has a ‘first eleven’ list of potential husbands in mind for her, and Porchey is on it. It’s no secret that she wants Elizabeth to marry an aristocrat from a background similar to her own.

Elizabeth is very fond of Porchey but she can’t imagine marrying him. He’s a friend. He would be safe. He would be kind. Those are good qualities to have in a husband, she can see that, but marrying Porchey would mean that everything in her life would carry on exactly as it has always done. Elizabeth is ready for a change.

She doesn’t want safe, but she’s not sure she is brave enough for danger either.

Philip isn’t safe.

He’s not doing anything threatening. He’s just standing there with a glass of whisky in his hand but still she feels as if she is teetering on the edge of some precipice, half fearful, half tempted to step out into the unknown.

It’s not like her to be fanciful, but something about Philip leaves her feeling spooked, edgy as a young colt, beneath that icy blue gaze.

And more alive than she has ever felt before.

‘Have you known Porchey a long time?’ he asks and she could almost swear that he is jealous.

‘Since we were children. We both love riding, and racing. We can talk about bloodstock lines for hours. We’d both rather be in the stables than at a party.’

‘Maybe the parties you’ve been to haven’t been enough fun.’

Elizabeth’s eyes slide from his. ‘Maybe.’

‘I was glad of your letters,’ Philip says abruptly.

‘Oh … good. I’m afraid they must have been very boring.’

‘Not at all.’

He’s being polite, Elizabeth thinks and when she risks a glance at his face again, she is sure of it. His expression is carefully neutral. What else can he say, after all? How could he possibly have been interested in anything she had to say?

‘We don’t have a very exciting life here so there’s not much to talk about,’ she says to show him that she understands. ‘Lessons. Riding. Walking the dogs. Sometimes we invite the officers to lunch, and Papa and Mummy come back at weekends, which is nice but … well, it’s very tame compared to what you’ve been doing.’

Chapter 6

Tame? It sounds unbelievably tedious to Philip. Her letters have indeed been very bland, but for the first time he thinks about what life must be like for her, trapped in the castle for the duration of the war, surrounded by over-protective servants determined to keep her safe and stop her from having any fun at all. Entertaining officers for lunch seems to be the social highlight. If they are all as stuffy as the young Lord Porchester, it must be deadly, Philip thinks.

He hasn’t taken to Porchey. There was something damned proprietorial about the way the younger man had been standing next to Elizabeth. Philip doesn’t care for the easy way she and Porchey were talking when he came in. The first thing he saw was her unshadowed smile and it gave him, not a shock exactly … Philip struggles to explain it to himself. It had been the tiniest of checks, an unexpected jump in his breath, that was all.

Her smile dropped when she saw him. He didn’t like that either.

He wants Elizabeth to smile at him the way she smiles at Porchey.

It occurs to Philip that he may have to work a little harder than he thought. ‘I was very glad to hear from you, whatever you wrote about,’ he says. ‘And your parcels were always welcome.’

‘I hoped it would be nice for you to have a word from home,’ Elizabeth says.

Home. That word always settles like a stone in the pit of Philip’s stomach. Everyone uses it so easily. Home. It has so many connotations of comfort and security, of familiarity and belonging. Somewhere you can be yourself, where you do not have to sing for your supper or watch what you say. At least, that is how Philip imagines a home. He hasn’t had one since he was a small boy in Paris.

Not that he will tell Elizabeth that. He wants her to think of him as strong and steadfast, not as a little boy longing for somewhere to belong.

‘It was indeed,’ he says instead, and she flushes a little with pleasure.

‘I’m glad. It’s good to feel that something I can do makes a difference. I feel so frustrated sometimes that I’m not allowed to do more for the war effort. I’ve asked Papa if I can volunteer for the ATS, but he thinks it’s safer for me to stay here, where all I can do is knit for the Wool Fund.’ She makes a face. ‘And I hate knitting! I do try, but I am very bad at it.’

Philip laughs. ‘All I can say is that the comforts we get – the socks and scarves and things – are all very welcome.’

‘Still, I wish I could do more. Other girls my age are out there, doing their bit.’

Philip thinks of the ruined streets, the houses where wallpaper flutters sadly from exposed walls. Of the grime and the grind of daily life and the looters lurking in the shadows. Of groping through the dark or tensing at the stutter of sirens breaking into their inhuman wail. Listening to the desperate fire of the anti-aircraft guns as the searchlights rake across the night sky. Worse, hearing the fiendish whistle of bombs falling and the eerie second of silence before the air explodes.

Once, he and his cousin David were weaving their way carelessly back from a nightclub when they came across a house that had suffered a direct hit only minutes before. They had gone to help but they had been drinking and had probably got in the way. Philip doesn’t remember much about it, only the sight of a disembodied hand lying as if discarded in the smoking rubble. One finger pointed right at him as if accusing him, though of what Philip couldn’t tell. For a moment he can almost smell the stink of smoke and terror.

He is not stumbling around a bombsite now, Philip reminds himself. He blinks himself back to the present – Windsor Castle, a drink in his hand, a princess to court – to find Elizabeth looking at him. Her eyes are very clear, very blue. They seem to see far more than they should.

He musters a smile. ‘Don’t wish to be out there. It isn’t safe.’

‘You’re out there.’

‘I’m not as precious as you.’

Elizabeth sighs and pushes a wisp of hair away from her face. ‘I just wish I could do something.’

‘You are doing something,’ Philip surprises himself by saying. ‘You’re representing hope for the future. We all need you more than you know.’

‘Thank you,’ she says softly after a moment. ‘That makes me feel less useless.’

‘Besides, it’s not as if you’re completely out of danger here, are you? I was given my instructions on how to find the bomb shelter. Although I doubt I’d be able to find it again – it was hard enough finding my bedroom,’ he goes on, coaxing a smile out of her at last.

‘It’s not an easy place to find your way around, is it? Especially not in the blackout. In the early years of the war we used to practise what would happen if there was an invasion and we had to escape,’ she tells him. ‘We had to run down to the armoured cars in the darkness. There’s only enough room for Margaret and me and Crawfie and some luggage. They told us we’d only be allowed to take one corgi.’

‘It must have been a dilemma wondering which dog to take.’ Philip tries to lighten the conversation, and Elizabeth smiles back at him.

‘Well, it was!’

He feels like punching the air. Her smiles are rare, but worth waiting for.

By unspoken consent, they turn the conversation away from the war.

‘Where are the dogs, anyway?’ Philip asks. ‘You talk about them so much in your letters, I was expecting to have to fight my way through them to get at you.’

Get at you. That wasn’t the right way to talk to Princess Elizabeth, Philip berates himself mentally. Uncle Dickie would have his hide if he could hear him!

Subtlety, my dear boy, subtlety. Philip can practically hear Mountbatten’s voice.

Fortunately, Elizabeth seems to realise he is teasing, though the faint colour that tinges her cheeks suggests she might have been a little taken aback at his forthright reference to why he was there.

‘They’re cattle dogs,’ she says, shifting her stole up onto one shoulder. It promptly slithers down her other arm. ‘They like to herd people up and nip at ankles, and they can be a bit naughty. Consider yourself fortunate that they’re shut away tonight.’

‘Lucky for me,’ Philip murmurs, but he is distracted by the slippery stole that is dragging his attention to her bare arms. He wonders what it would be like to draw the stole up into place for her. Her skin would be warm, the fur would be soft. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch and his mouth dries so abruptly that he takes a slug of his whisky.

It is unexpectedly intriguing, the way she swings between shyness and sensible conversation, the way she turns aside compliments and talks of dogs and knitting, apparently unaware of the lures at her disposal: the creamy skin, the enticing figure, the curve of her mouth.

‘I’m glad you’re coming back for Christmas,’ she says abruptly and Philip smiles.

‘So am I.’

Chapter 7

They eat in the State Dining Room. With the velvet curtains drawn against the winter night, it could almost be as it was before the war, Elizabeth thinks. The log fire may be meagre in the magnificent fireplace and the elaborate gilding on the walls and ceiling dulled, but the light is so dim one can hardly tell. The great mirrors on either side of the fireplace are warm with the wavering candlelight; the silver gilt gleams, while the mahogany table is polished to such a high shine that one can see the immaculately set crystal glasses reflected in it.

The meal itself is hardly a match for the setting, but her parents pride themselves on being rationed like everyone else, and at least they have access to game from the royal estates. Some pheasants have been sent down from Sandringham and are served roasted with vegetables grown in the castle gardens. Like everyone else in the country, the cook does his best with what he can get.

For Elizabeth, it is a change from the usual nursery suppers. She is content to sit and let the conversation flow around her. She wants to think about Philip. What was it he had said about the dogs? I was expecting to fight my way through them to get at you. She still doesn’t know quite what to think of that. A part of her is affronted: Philip sounded as if he assumed he could just walk into a room and claim her like a parcel. Elizabeth is not someone who can be ‘got at’. She expects to be treated with the deference due to her as heir to the throne.

Another part of her, she reluctantly admits to herself, felt an unwilling thrill at his arrogance.

Philip isn’t like the other men. Listen to him now, telling Papa about his ship being dive-bombed somewhere off Sicily.

‘There were three of the blighters coming for Wallace,’ he is saying, and she is not the only one listening. His expression is alert, amused, his gestures expansive. Compared to the deferential courtiers whose every movement is discreet, he is overwhelming, but her father doesn’t seem to mind.

‘We all dived for cover at first,’ Philip goes on, ‘but the first Stuka missed us completely. We thought that was a lucky escape and we kept our heads down as the second one came in low.’ His hand swoops over his plate in demonstration. His smile glimmers. ‘But he missed, too, and then blow me down if the third pilot didn’t strike out as well! They were at it for about half an hour and they didn’t get a single hit!’

The King is laughing. He likes Philip, Elizabeth notes with relief.

‘We ended up standing on the deck jeering at them,’ says Philip. ‘Eventually they gave up or ran out of ammunition. I don’t think they can have been the Luftwaffe’s finest. I can only think they must have been flying with shocking hangovers.’

‘No one was hurt?’ Elizabeth asks and Philip turns to her.

‘Not a scratch on any of us. I can’t say the same about the pilots’ feelings! They must have had a boll— A dressing down,’ he amends, ‘when they got back to base.’

‘You didn’t have such an easy time of it later, I hear,’ her father says.

Philip picks up his knife and fork. ‘No, there were some hairy moments.’

‘Dickie was telling me some story about a raft,’ the King prompts.

‘Oh, that … Just a lucky ruse.’

Elizabeth can see he is trying to shrug off any attempt to cast himself in a heroic light. ‘What happened?’ she asks.

Philip hesitates, but at her father’s urging he tells the story. ‘Wallace was covering the Canadian landings on Sicily,’ he begins. ‘As you can imagine, the Germans weren’t very happy with that, and their Stukas were on us the whole time, so we were at action stations pretty continuously.

‘That particular night, it was still and very bright. A beautiful night at any other time, but the worst possible conditions for us then. The moon lit up our wake and turned it into one long, shimmering trail. We might as well have had a flaming sign pointing towards us for a pilot to follow. A German bomber found us, of course – he could hardly miss us! – and we took a hit to the side of the ship. He took off then, but we knew it was only a matter of time before he came back with reinforcements. At that point we’d be sitting ducks.

‘There was no way of knowing where they would come from. In the dark, they could see us on the water, but we couldn’t see them. It’s like being blindfolded and knowing someone is coming to get you.’

Elizabeth lays down her knife and fork. She is picturing the men silent on the ship, their shoulders hunched in anticipation of the next attack, straining their eyes at the night sky, listening for the sound of aircraft while the sea slaps unperturbed against the hull.

Conversation around the rest of the table has fallen silent and they are all listening to Philip’s story. ‘What did you do?’ the Queen asks.

‘We got the men to knock up a wooden raft,’ Philip goes on. ‘We knew we didn’t have long. It took them a matter of minutes until we could haul it over the side and set fire to it. Then we hightailed it out of there, full steam for a good five minutes before we felt safe enough to cut the engines.’

‘So that the wake subsided?’ The King nods. He was a naval officer in his time, too.

‘Yes, sir. Or we might as well have taken out a sign saying “Look, we’re over here”.’ Philip takes a sip of wine. ‘We lay there in the darkness. I remember the ship rocking gently, and the silence. Nobody said a word. We were all waiting for the Germans to come back. I don’t know how we long waited,’ he says. ‘It felt like hours and hours but it can’t have been. And then we heard the aircraft.’

He pauses and Elizabeth realises she is holding her breath.

‘I don’t mind telling you I was terrified to breathe in case the pilot noticed us,’ he says with a ghost of a grin, almost as if he had read her mind. ‘Not that it would have made any difference! The next thing we knew a bomb was screaming down … but it wasn’t anywhere near us, thank God. The pilot must have seen the flaming debris and thought he had done for us the first time, so he was finishing off all that was left of Wallace.’

‘Exactly what you wanted him to think, in fact,’ Elizabeth says.

Philip sends her a glimmering smile. ‘Quite. We were lucky he fell for it. We lived to fight another day.’

‘T-thanks to you,’ says the King, whose stammer still surfaces occasionally even when he is relaxed.

Philip holds up a self-deprecating hand. ‘You don’t want to listen to Uncle Dickie, sir. You know yourself how it works on a ship. It’s never just one man’s idea, especially not under circumstances like that. You don’t have time to think, just to act.’

‘Well, we’re very grateful to you for doing both. What’s next for you, Philip?’

‘I’m heading up to Newcastle, of all places, I believe. They’re commissioning a new destroyer, Whelp, and I’m to oversee the finishing touches before she’s ready for active service. After that, I hope I’ll see some action again.’

Chapter 8

Philip’s footsteps echo along the stone corridors as he gropes his way back to his room later that night. Kicking off his shoes, he yawns hugely and wrenches at his collar so he can fall backwards onto the bed. Whatever other changes the war has foisted on Windsor Castle, it hasn’t affected the excellent wine cellar.

The evening has gone off quite well, he decides, pleased. The King seems disposed to like him, although he may have to put in a bit more effort with the Queen, just as Uncle Dickie warned.

More importantly, he has made some progress with Elizabeth. He didn’t miss the admiring way she looked at him when he was talking about that nerve-wracking night on Wallace. Uncle Dickie will be pleased with him.

Best not to push it, Philip muses. He will go back to London tomorrow. There are still a few days to go until Christmas and he doesn’t fancy spending them on his best behaviour at Windsor. He and his cousin, David Milford Haven, are invited for Christmas itself, so they can come back together on Christmas Eve. In the meantime, there will be parties and maybe a chance to catch up with Osla, although he senses a certain cooling there.

He will need to go carefully with Elizabeth. Isolated at Windsor, she is unlikely to pick up on any gossip, but still it behoves him to be discreet, Philip realises. He has seen how quickly she withdraws, like a snail shrinking into its shell at the slightest brush of familiarity, but he is sure he can coax her out, given time.

Philip thinks about the fur slipping down her arm, the blood running warm beneath her skin. How tempting it had been to reach out and adjust the stole for her, to take the opportunity to trail his fingers over her shoulder.

Just as well he hadn’t tried it, he reflects wryly. She might be disposed to admire him, but she would need to feel a lot more than that before he would be allowed any closer.

Courting Elizabeth may turn out to be harder task than Philip thought, but then, he has always liked a challenge.

***

‘It’s bloody freezing,’ Philip tells David, raising his voice above the sound of the engine. They’re in his beloved MG, heading back to Windsor Castle. It’s Christmas Eve and a hard frost has left the countryside edged in glittering white. Philip settles his sunglasses one-handed on his nose. The sky is a thin, washed blue, the light low and glaring.

‘Everywhere’s bloody freezing at the moment,’ David grumbles. His cousin likes his comforts.

‘But Windsor Castle takes cold to a whole new level. It’s probably freezing in a heatwave. Something to do with all that stone.’

In spite of his complaints about the cold, Philip is in a cheerful mood. The last few days have been fun: plenty of socialising, plenty of drinking and solitude when he needs it at Chester Street, where he sleeps happily on a camp bed in the dining room and Mrs Cable, the rough-tongued cook, spoils him.

The Mountbattens’ home is a haven, and so much more comfortable than staying in Kensington Palace with his cousin and their grandmother, the formidable Dowager Duchess of Milford Haven, who is grand enough not to care what anyone else thinks but has plenty to say about what she thinks of her grandsons. She has ears like a bat, David claims, and no matter how quietly they try to tiptoe past her apartment, she always calls them in with her harsh smoker’s voice to berate them for their lateness or lack of consideration while the ash trembles on the end of her inevitable cigarette only to fall onto her skirts and be brushed impatiently away.

‘I don’t care how cold it is, anywhere would be better than staying with Grandmama,’ says David, following his own train of thought. ‘I tried to sneak Robyn in the other night. I thought there was no way Grandmama would be awake, but I swear she took up the carpets deliberately to listen out for that creaking floorboard.’

‘You should know where it is by now.’

‘I ended up shoving poor old Robyn into the broom cupboard.’ David sighs. ‘I wish we could get Lynden Manor back. You wouldn’t catch Mama making a fuss about bringing a girl home.’

Philip gives a crack of laughter. David’s mother, Nada Milford Haven, is notorious for her affairs with men and women. She is exotically beautiful and glamorous and generous, one of the most interesting and intriguing people Philip knows. It was Nada and her husband, his uncle George, who first gave him a home when he was a small boy in need of one and Philip adores her.

Lynden Manor has been requisitioned like so many other stately homes for the duration of the war, but at least David will be able to claim it again when the war is over. Philip will have nowhere to go home to.

‘Then you should enjoy Windsor Castle. The wine is good too.’

‘And what about the company?’ David swivels in the passenger seat to study Philip’s profile. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Who?’ As if he doesn’t know who David means.

‘Elizabeth. She was just a little girl the last time I saw her. All tweedy skirts and sensible shoes with socks. Has she grown up?’

Philip changes down a gear as they come up to a sharp bend. ‘She has,’ he confirms with a sidelong grin.

‘And?’

‘And … she’s nice.’

‘Nice?’ David scoffs. ‘I didn’t think you liked nice girls.’

‘I like Elizabeth. I do,’ he insists when his cousin rolls his eyes. ‘She’s not like other girls. She’s serious. She holds herself back. I don’t think she lets many people close.’

‘Should be a good match for you then,’ says David with a wry look.

‘Quite.’ A long, straight stretch of road comes up and Philip puts his food down, enjoying the feel of the little car beneath his hands. The hedgerows flicker past and the road is striped by the low winter sun. ‘She’s still very young, though.’

‘Is she a looker? It’s hard to tell in photographs.’

‘She is when she smiles. She’s got lovely skin. A nice figure. Very blue eyes.’

‘Sounds promising. I might have a crack at her myself. Cut you out.’

‘Ha! You wouldn’t stand a chance, David,’ says Philip, grinning.

‘Why not, pray? I have plenty of charm and address when I choose to use it.’ Which was, of course, all too true.

‘Forget it. You’re not a prince.’

‘I would be if George V hadn’t made my grandfather renounce his royal title.’ David settles back into his seat, unfazed by the speed at which they were travelling. ‘What a fuss that must have caused, the transformation of the princes of Battenberg into mere Mountbattens. No wonder Grandmama never got over it. Mind you, I’m damned glad not to be saddled with a Jerry name now we’re at war again.’

‘You don’t do too badly as Marquess of Milford Haven,’ Philip pointed out and David gave a smug smile.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Anyway, you’re not Elizabeth’s type.’

‘And you are?’

‘I could be.’

David stares at him. ‘Good God, Philip, you’re not serious are you? I thought that was just one of Dickie’s barmy ideas to restore the Mountbatten fortunes.’

‘Well, as he’s always pointing out, I don’t have a lot of options. I’m a prince without a country. I’ve barely been to Greece even if the monarchy were welcome there, which it isn’t. Uncle George is still in exile and likely to remain there. I feel British, but I’m not, so I can’t stay in the Navy. All I’ve got is a title and a lieutenant’s salary for the duration of the war. You’ve got to admit that marrying the greatest heiress in the world would solve some of these problems.’

‘And create a whole lot more,’ says David. ‘I can’t imagine you settling down, especially not as a Prince Consort. You’re too restless. And you’re an awkward bugger. You’ll rub everyone up the wrong way!’

David knows him well, it has to be said, but Philip only laughs as he swings the car onto the Long Walk. The trees in Windsor Great Park stand stark and rigid in the frosty air, and the avenue undulates, reminding him of the sea with the castle perched on the highest wave.

Swathes of the park have been dug up for vegetable growing but it is still an imposing entrance. Philip, though, has spent his life visiting magnificent palaces and castles across Europe and he barely notices the soldiers on guard as the little car buzzes through the George IV Gate. The tyres kick up a spurt of gravel as Philip stops the car in the Upper Ward and pulls on the handbrake.

‘Don’t worry, David. I’m not going to commit myself yet, but there’s no harm in keeping my options open, is there?’

Chapter 9

There are only nine of them for Christmas lunch. They are served venison and a Christmas pudding bulked out with breadcrumbs which is flaming as a footman carries it into the dining room to oohs and aahs all round. The pudding is decorated with a sprig of frosted holly that sparkles in the candlelight.

‘Apparently it’s done by dipping the holly in Epsom salts,’ the Queen tells them. ‘Isn’t it clever?’

Elizabeth can’t help feeling guilty. She has been reading about the lengths ordinary housewives are going to in order to make Christmas lunch special. Few families will have access to venison, she knows. The lucky ones who live in the country may celebrate with a rabbit or even a chicken, but others will be making do with mock goose, which is apparently some kind of potato casserole, and a Christmas pudding based on grated potato and carrot.

Their lunch is a feast in comparison.

The food makes a nice change from nursery suppers but Elizabeth has unaccountably lost her appetite. Something in her jumped when she saw Philip arrive with his cousin and there has been a jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach ever since.

David is darkly handsome and glossily self-assured but Elizabeth prefers Philip’s rougher-edged charm. He made a beeline for her when he came into the drawing room and his assumption that they are friends has sent warmth simmering along her veins.

Both men are on terrific form and between them keep everyone laughing. That evening Margaret insists on playing charades. She has a flair for acting and loves to stand up and show off, while Elizabeth prefers to be the one guessing, but Philip makes sure that they are in the same team, and under his encouragement she can feel herself blossoming. Once or twice she sees the Queen watching him with an indecipherable expression.

Philip himself is funny as a fit when it is his turn to act out an outraged dowager being caught in the bathroom and Elizabeth laughs until she is weak. Wiping her eyes, she lifts her head to find her mother looking at her closely but the moment Elizabeth meets her gaze, the Queen puts on a bright smile and leads the applause.

‘Bravo!’

Afterwards, they turn out the lights, extinguish the candles and sit around the fire to tell each other ghost stories. Elizabeth is aware that Philip is manoeuvring to sit next to her in the shadows. Having got himself into position, he moves his chair closer until his knee brushes hers.

‘You can hold my hand if you get scared,’ he says, his smile glimmering in the firelight.

‘I’m not easily frightened,’ Elizabeth says, but she doesn’t move her chair away. She can feel his knee pressing against hers. Her insides are tangling themselves into a trembling knot and she is preternaturally aware of her own body. It is as if she has never felt the slow slam of her heart before, never been aware of the silkiness of her stockings or the way her satin dress shifts over her skin. The fire has a crisper spit and crackle than she has realised before, while the wind pokes and rattles at the windows behind the blackout curtain.

Luckily the stories are not very scary. When it is David’s turn, Philip keeps interjecting comments to make everyone laugh until Margaret gets cross. ‘You’re spoiling it, Philip!’ she complains. ‘Ghost stories are supposed to be frightening and these are just not!’

Boxing Day is a disappointingly wet, grey day but Philip agrees with alacrity to Elizabeth’s suggestion of a walk that morning. She has been thinking, and there is something she wants to say to him, although she is not entirely sure how she will find the words.

Her parents are resting, Margaret wants to play the piano, and David excuses himself, whether by prior arrangement with Philip or not, Elizabeth is never sure.

‘I’m not much of a walker,’ he says.

‘David’s like a cat,’ Philip scoffs. ‘He can’t bear getting his feet wet.’

Elizabeth looks out of the window. ‘It doesn’t look very nice,’ she says dubiously, dragging on an old coat and some rubber boots. ‘But the dogs could do with a proper walk.’

And the conversation she wants to have will be easier outside.

‘Let’s go,’ says Philip. ‘If I get wet, I get wet.’

Outside, a raw wind snatches at the scarf she has tied over her hair and throws petulant handfuls of icy rain into their faces. They walk with their heads down to avoid the worst of it but Elizabeth is very aware of Philip beside her, matching his long stride to her shorter steps, while the dogs bustle around them, snuffling through the longer grass or circling each other skittishly.

It’s hard to talk at first but they pause at last in the shelter of an oak standing doughtily atop a rise and look back at the castle through the murky light. It looms massive and austere in the distance, the Round Tower skimmed by the lowering clouds.

‘There’s something reassuring about that building,’ Philip comments after a moment. ‘It’s seen so many wars, so many changes, and it’s still there.’

Elizabeth nods, her eyes on the grey walls. ‘Even though it feels now as if this war will never end, one day it will be over and it will be part of history, just something children learn at school. It’s good to remember that.’

‘Except that means remembering one day we’ll just be notes in a history book too,’ says Philip with a grimace.

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘You’ll have a rather bigger note than me.’

There is an edge of something Elizabeth can’t quite identify in his voice. She glances at him and then away. That, too, is true. There is no point in denying it. Does it bother him that her inheritance is so much greater than his could ever be?

‘Do you ever wonder what it’s like not to be royal?’ he asks abruptly.

‘Sometimes.’ Elizabeth pulls the collar of her old coat closer against the chill as they start walking again. ‘When Uncle David abdicated, we moved to Buckingham Palace. We were horrified at first. We loved our cosy house in Piccadilly. That felt like an ordinary way to live, although I don’t suppose it is. The palace isn’t the most comfortable of places but it has a lovely garden with a hillock in it. Margaret and I used to climb it so we could look over the wall at the people walking past. We liked watching the children especially and wondering where they were going, where they lived, what they would have for their supper.’

‘Did you envy them?’

‘Not really. We were just curious. It’s hard to imagine what life is like for other people, isn’t it? Probably those children were walking past and wondering what it was like to live in a palace, but for us it was just the way things were. How they are.’

‘You’re lucky,’ Philip says, and she smiles faintly.

‘It doesn’t always feel that way. I know how privileged I am, but it does come at a price. I don’t have a choice about the life I get to lead.’

He looks down at her. ‘What would you choose if you could?’

‘Oh … nothing exciting. Just to live in the country with dogs and horses.’ She sighs a little. ‘I suppose you think that’s very dull,’ she adds, flushing a little.

A smile twitches the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, it’s not what I would choose, I have to admit. But if it’s what you want …’

‘I might want it but I’m not going to get it,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I might have been able to if Uncle David had done his duty, but he chose to put his personal feelings above that. Papa has had to pay the price for that decision, and I will too. Of course there are worse fates, but no, I don’t always feel lucky.’

Philip has his hands jammed into the pockets of his tweed jacket. ‘Actually, I was thinking about your family,’ he says. ‘About how close you are. Your parents, your sister. It’s been very nice for me to see that. I do envy you that.’

‘Yes, I am lucky in my family,’ she acknowledges, her face softening as she thinks of her beloved father, her bright, charming mother, and Margaret, so quick and so talented, so funny and spirited. Too spirited, sometimes. ‘Of course, Margaret and I have our moments, but I suppose all sisters have those.’

One of the dogs has dropped behind as it determinedly investigates some scent. Elizabeth turns and whistles for it, and after a moment, the dog grudgingly leaves the smell and trots towards them.

‘Jane,’ Elizabeth says fondly. ‘She’s getting on now and she likes to do what she wants. She’s the matriarch,’ she explains, glancing around at the corgis. ‘That’s her daughter and granddaughter … and over there is her great-granddaughter.’

Why is she talking about dogs? Philip can’t possibly be interested. She is just putting off the moment.

The water is dripping from the peak of his cap and the shoulders of his jacket are spangled with rain. She has been enjoying the walk but he must be soaked, she realises with a guilty look. ‘Shall we turn back?’ she asks.

Chapter 10

Philip is glad to agree. There is rain trickling down beneath his collar and his hands are frozen. He has never thought that he would remember with nostalgia those sweltering days aboard Valiant after the Chinese stokers jumped ship in Puerto Rico. Stripped to their shorts, stinking and sweating, he and his fellow midshipmen had to shovel coal into the ship’s furnaces all the way to Virginia and he had dreamt of a cold, wet winter day.

No longer.

‘You have sisters, don’t you?’ Elizabeth asks after a moment. ‘Are you close to them?’

She doesn’t ask about his parents. She must know that they have lived separate lives for many years.

‘I wouldn’t say close. I’m the baby of the family and my sisters are all much older than I am. They’re very … boisterous.’

In his memory, his ears ring with the noise his sisters create when they are all together. They’re all restless movement, jumping up and down, and swirling their skirts, a mass of swooping scented kisses and talking over each other and shrieks of laughter. Their conversation is a vibrant mixture of English, French, and German as forgetting a word in one language they would switch to another and then carry on in that until they went off at a tangent and into a new language that for some reason seemed better suited to it.

‘I’m very fond of all of them,’ he says. ‘Especially Cecile. She was killed in an air crash in 1937.’

‘What a tragedy,’ Elizabeth says.

‘Don, her husband, and my two nephews were with her. They were coming over here to a wedding. Cecile was heavily pregnant.’ A muscle jerks in Philip’s cheek. ‘She gave birth on the flight, perhaps even during the crash. The baby died with her. It never had a chance to live.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth’s voice is so quiet that Philip barely hears her. He is remembering the sound of the gun carriages laden with coffins trundling over the cobbled streets of Darmstadt. He was sixteen. He flew to Germany from Gordonstoun and followed the coffins with his brothers-in-law in their Nazi uniforms, Uncle Dickie a row behind. Philip’s memories are blurred but he remembers his uncle’s hand on his shoulder during the funeral. He remembers the heavy tread of feet, the silent crowds watching. The sullen sky spitting sleety pellets of ice. The occasional stiff-armed salute and murmurs of ‘Heil Hitler’.

The yawning disbelief and horror: that could not be Cecile with her dancing eyes and burble of laughter shut up in that box.

He swallows down the memories. What is the point of wallowing in them? What’s done is done.

‘Margarita, Dolla – that’s Theodora – and Sophie – we call her Tiny – are still in Germany.’ Philip’s voice is even. All three were married to senior German officers. ‘For obvious reasons, I haven’t seen them for a while.’

‘That must be difficult for you.’

Philip isn’t going to admit to finding anything difficult. Isn’t that what Gordonstoun and the war has taught him? You get on with what you have to do. You don’t wring your hands and complain about your lot.

‘The war is difficult for everyone,’ he says almost curtly. ‘We are not the only family divided by war.’

Elizabeth glances at him. ‘I know,’ she says coolly. ‘My grandfather and Kaiser Wilhelm were cousins.’

The Great War had taught the British royal family to be chary of their German relations. They had changed their name to Windsor and insisted that the Battenbergs, descended from Queen Victoria and British to the back teeth, forfeit their princely title.

‘Your sisters’ German husbands will be your biggest handicap,’ Uncle Dickie warned him. ‘Distance yourself from them as far as possible.’

Why should he distance himself even further from his own sisters? God knows he has little enough family life to look back on, Philip thinks bitterly. His father is in Monte Carlo, his mother in Athens.

‘I see now why you think I am lucky,’ says Elizabeth. The wind is slapping the ends of her scarf against her chin and she wrestles with the slippery material as she attempts to retie it. ‘And I am. I have a family and a home.’

‘I haven’t had a home since I was nine,’ Philip is appalled to hear himself say, and he scowls, hunching his shoulders against the cold. He can feel her clear eyes on his profile and cringes inwardly, sure she has heard the bitterness edging his voice.

‘Is that when you were sent to school?’

‘Yes,’ he says stiffly, still ashamed of what he let slip. He is supposed to be charming Elizabeth, not telling her sob stories of his childhood. ‘Until then, we were living in Paris but it was a somewhat hand-to-mouth existence. Pretty ramshackle, in fact.’

That was better. Make light of the whole business. Because he had been happy at Saint-Cloud. Why wouldn’t he be? He’d been just a boy, oblivious to any undercurrents. His pretty mother’s favourite, an adored autumn child. Indulged by his genial father and fussed over by his older sisters even as they accused him of being spoilt. Nanny Roose had been the only sensible figure in the household.

‘Then … my mother became ill,’ he goes on. He doesn’t want to brush his mother under the carpet. Elizabeth must surely be aware of the times Princess Alice spent in sanatoriums, in any case. Still, he has the sense of stepping onto quaking ground.

His adoring mother, who had grown vaguer and more withdrawn, her eccentricities losing their charm as Philip was abandoned for spirituality and she declared herself a saint and a bride of Christ. There had been that miserable Christmas at Saint-Cloud when Alice took herself off to a hotel in Grasse, leaving his father, his sisters, and Philip to fend for themselves.

But it was fine, Philip reminds himself hastily. He was an energetic child, easily distracted. He had a bicycle he had saved up to buy for himself and there was plenty of fun to be had at school and mischief to be got into with his best friends the Koo brothers. He still winces at memories of steeplechases organised at the Chinese embassy where they lived, shouting and tussling between the precious china artefacts. No wonder Madame Koo had been glad to see the back of him when he went home!

‘Everything happened about the same time,’ he tells Elizabeth carefully. ‘My mother was unwell, my father went to live in the South of France, and my sisters all married. So that was the end of family life, I suppose. I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.’

One thing about Elizabeth, he realises, is that she is not going to gush or probe or be excessively sympathetic. Her restraint is obscurely restful, and in a perverse way only makes him want to tell her more about his unsettled childhood.

‘My parents wanted me to have a British education so I was sent to Cheam and my Mountbatten uncles stood as guardians while I was over here. Uncle Georgie – David’s father – was the one who came to sports days and prizegivings. He and Nada had a pretty colourful and tempestuous life together,’ he says, thinking wryly how that must be the understatement of the year. A Russian princess, Nada shrugged off scandal and her unconventional outlook is just one of the reasons Philip loves her.

‘They were wonderful to me,’ is all he tells Elizabeth, whose knowledge of sex is, he guesses, limited, to say the least. ‘I spent most of my half-terms with them, which is why David and I are so close.’

‘You still saw your family, though?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve got relatives all over Europe, so we’d have big family meet ups with my sisters and my father, and various uncles and aunts and cousins. I never knew where I’d be spending the holidays. Someone would write and tell me to get myself to Wolfsgarten or Panker or Bucharest or wherever and I’d pack my trunk and catch a train.’

‘You must have been a very self-reliant child,’ Elizabeth comments.

He shrugs. ‘I thought it was normal, just like your childhood was normal for you. And those holidays were always fun, with everyone descending on a particular relative, and various cousins to play with. We had no shortage of places to stay and it’s not as if there wasn’t plenty of room. You know what those palaces and castles are like.’

‘No, I don’t.’ The sleet has eased at last and Elizabeth knuckles the wet from her cheeks. ‘I’ve never left the country. Balmoral is the furthest I’ve been.’

Philip is taken aback. He knew their experiences have been different, but not quite how different. ‘Oh … I suppose not,’ he says. He might envy Elizabeth her family, but how stultifyingly decorous and boring her childhood must have been, shuttling between Windsor, Buckingham Palace, Balmoral, and Sandringham, always surrounded by deferential courtiers.

‘So what are they like, these places?’ she asks.

‘Huge,’ says Philip briefly. ‘Most of them would make Buckingham Palace look cosy.’

‘Really?’ Elizabeth laughs in disbelief. ‘We always used to joke that you need a bicycle to get around BP.’

‘Wolfsgarten is the same. Some of the palaces are pretty dilapidated, too. I used to go and stay with my cousin Helen because Michael, her son, is more my age, and we had lots of good times there. He became King of Romania when he was five, though of course that didn’t mean much to us then. He was just a playmate. They had a crumbling palace near Bucharest but when it was very hot in the summer we used to like going up to Peles Castle at Sinaia in the Carpathian Mountains. It’s like something out of a fairy story, all turrets and towers and courtyards. Michael’s grandmother told the most marvellous stories in her bedroom. I always called her Aunt Missie, and if we were naughty, we weren’t allowed to go and say goodnight to her and hear a story. It was the worst punishment!’

He smiles at the memory and then breaks off, realising he has been running on. ‘Sorry. There’s nothing worse than someone rabbiting on about people and places you don’t know.’

‘I like hearing about your childhood,’ Elizabeth says. ‘It’s so different from mine. Go on. Where else did you go?’

‘Well, my sisters and I spent a few holidays near Le Touquet when I was younger with the Foufounis family. Like mine, they’re Greek émigrés and I was great friends with their children, Ria, Ianni and Hélène. They had a terrifying Scottish nanny they called Aunty.’ He smiles reminiscently. ‘Ianni and I used to get into all kinds of trouble.’

His memories of Berck Plage are muddled now, he finds. Dusty tracks. Sand between his toes. The weight of Madame Foufounis’s Persian rug on his shoulder when he and Ianni had the grand idea of pretending to be carpet salesmen like the Arabs on the beach. Poor Ria, up to her hips in plaster. The sinking feeling that followed the smash of a vase, knowing Aunty was rolling up her sleeves to deliver a sound spanking. Philip preferred his spankings from Nanny Roose, who was firm but fair.

‘And then there was Panker, the Hesses’s summer house on the Baltic Coast. There were always lots of us there too, a mass of children running around. We spent all day on the beach. I just remember miles of white sand and glittering water and a huge, windy sky and this marvellous light …’

He trails off. Without warning, his throat has snapped shut, clogged with a hard, complicated knot of memories.

Chapter 11

Elizabeth glances at him. For a time, he had been relaxed talking about his childhood, but clearly some memory has proved too much. A muscle is working in his clenched jaw. He looks furious and she suspects that it is with himself for sharing so much with her.

She is glad that he has. She wants to know more about him. She needs to know more if she is going to suggest marriage.

The thought makes Elizabeth’s heart thump once, painfully, against her ribs. She still isn’t sure that she dares, but seeing him again, talking to him properly, has changed things for her. Before, she can admit that she was infatuated with the idea of Philip. He was young, handsome, a hero. How could she not have been?

But now, now she has a better sense of him. She likes his quickness and his humour, likes his impatience with protocol. He is brusque at times, and arrogant, but he has a presence that Elizabeth feels she herself still lacks.

It is her duty to marry and to have a family. She wants that for herself, too, and why not Philip? He is a prince, after all, and he comes from a family used, like hers, to dynastic alliances. Mountbatten is keen on the idea, her parents less so, that is clear.

Elizabeth has the strong sense that if she wants him, she has to do something about it herself.

So she has decided to say something to Philip. She is desperately nervous about scaring him off altogether but she doesn’t need to make a big production out of it, she has reassured herself. It is not as if he can’t know that his uncle is pushing the idea of a marriage. Why else would he be here, after all?

But nothing has been said formally. Elizabeth is tired of being a dutiful girl, sitting at home in Windsor and waiting for something to happen. She wants to know what Philip thinks.

She is just going to mention the idea and see what he says.

Although … that is easier said than done.

Elizabeth opens her mouth to say that she’d like to talk to him about something, but immediately changes her mind. She cannot spring a discussion like that on Philip without warning.

‘You’re lucky to have such happy memories,’ she says instead, her voice trembling slightly with nerves. ‘But then, I don’t suppose it was all holidays and there must have been times when you would have liked a home of your own to go to.’

‘Sometimes,’ he admits with a grudging look. ‘But the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, isn’t it? It’s an alluring idea, but where would that home have been and what would have happened to it by now? And in any case, I’m a restless fellow. I’m like a dog that longs for a basket of its own but can’t settle. There’s a part of me that finds the idea of being tied to one place and one person utterly appalling.’

There’s a tiny pause. For Elizabeth, it is a moment of complete clarity. Well, there is her question answered before she has asked it. Perhaps it was as well to wait.

‘I see,’ she says in what she hopes is an expressionless voice, but Philip stops and swears under his breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, taking off his cap and dragging his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve a tendency to speak without thinking sometimes. It’s a bad habit of mine.’

‘What would you have said if you had been thinking?’

‘I don’t know … I hope I wouldn’t have made the idea of commitment sound so ghastly, for a start.’

‘Even if it is?’

‘It isn’t,’ he insists. ‘At least, not always. Of course I’d like to get married one day. It’s just … I’m not sure how good I would be at it. I haven’t seen many examples of a successful marriage – your parents excepted.’ He stares at Elizabeth. ‘How do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Say almost nothing and yet make me be more honest with you than I am with almost anyone else.’

‘I’d like to think we can be honest with each other,’ Elizabeth says, choosing her words with care. ‘I know why you’re here. I’m sure you had more exciting and enjoyable offers of where to spend Christmas.’

She holds up a hand as Philip opens his mouth to deny it. ‘It’s all right. We have a very quiet life here. It’s how we like it. At least,’ she amends with a wry smile, ‘Mummy, Papa, and I do. Margaret would probably like more excitement.’

Calling the dogs, Elizabeth sets off once more. Now that they have started, she feels more composed and the conversation they need to have will likely be easier if they are walking. ‘I know Uncle Dickie thinks a match between us would be good thing … one day. You’re a prince, I’m a princess. We would both expect to marry … one day. Neither of us has a vast pool of potential partners to choose from.’ She is rather proud of her steady voice. ‘Things are different for us. We need to be pragmatic when it comes to marriage, so I perfectly understand why you’d want to come and … look me over, as it were.’

‘You make it sound as if I’m some horse trainer inspecting a prize filly!’

‘It comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it?’ Elizabeth’s cheeks are pink. ‘Breeding, bloodlines, finding the right match.’

‘You don’t think it’s about finding someone to love?’

The colour in her cheeks deepens at the thread of amusement in his voice.

‘I think my options, frankly, are limited. Yours are much wider. If you don’t want to, you needn’t marry at all. I, on the other hand, won’t have a choice in the matter. But I do want to get married,’ she adds honestly.

‘One day?’

‘Yes, one day.’

‘If you can find the right prince.’

‘Yes,’ she agrees on a breath.

Philip is silent for a while, clearly thinking. Their footsteps make no sound on the wet grass but Elizabeth can hear the dogs trotting busily around them, a whirr of wings as one of them flushes a pheasant from cover. The slow, steady drip of damp from the trees.

‘All right, I’ll be honest,’ he says eventually. ‘I don’t know what I want. Uncle Dickie does think I should try and sweep you off your feet, but you’re not someone who can be swept away, are you?’

How little he knows about her, Elizabeth thinks. He has occupied her thoughts for two whole years. She is grateful for the stolid expression that makes her hard to read. Some things – many things, in fact – she prefers to keep to herself. She is only young, but she has her pride and she has no intention of letting Philip know how desperately she wants him.

Because what he says is only partly true. She can’t be swept away by emotion, but only because she won’t let herself. The strength of her own feelings frightens her at times, so she keeps them firmly locked down. She doesn’t dare let them go, not when she has seen the effect her father’s sudden outbursts of temper have on people around him. Not when she knows how her Uncle David was punished for giving in to his emotions.

‘It’s too hard to plan anything while we’re still at war,’ Philip goes on. ‘I never know if a torpedo has got my name on it, and I want to live. If this damnable war has taught us anything, surely it’s that we should make the most of our opportunities. There’s so much I’d like to see and do, so much to be discovered; the thought of being tied down makes me itchy.’

Elizabeth keeps her hands in her pockets and her eyes down. They haven’t all learnt the same thing from the war. It has taught her not about opportunity but the price of duty. The responsibility of leading a country at war has weighed heavily on her father. She has seen the hollow exhaustion in his eyes, the care carved into his face.

A lifetime of duty is not much to look forward to, but she has seen the cost of shirking duty too. Her Uncle David chose love over duty and was exiled not just from his country but from his family too. Elizabeth will not risk the same fate. She does not dare. Better by far to keep her feelings under tight control.

‘But one day,’ Philip says hesitantly, ‘after the war … if you’re still looking for a prince …’

‘I could keep you in mind, perhaps?’ she offers when he leaves the sentence dangling.

He looks at her seriously. ‘I hope you will,’ he says. ‘I hope, if nothing else, we can be friends.’

Elizabeth’s face relaxes into a smile. ‘I hope so too.’

‘Will you keep writing to me?’

‘If you’d like me to.’

‘I would. Real letters,’ he says. ‘Not polite ones. Let me know what you’re thinking and feeling.’

‘If you’ll do the same.’

‘I will,’ says Philip. ‘I’ll be a better correspondent, I promise, and after the war …’

‘We’ll see,’ Elizabeth finishes for him, and he grins at her.

‘Yes, let’s see.’

Surreptitiously, Elizabeth lets a long breath leak out of her. In the end, the conversation has gone better than she has dared hope. Philip was never going to make a dramatic declaration of love. He is too honest for that, and no vows have been made, but they have made a proper connection. He has not ruled out a future together one day. And in the meantime, she has something to hope for and her pride is intact.

That evening is an enchanted one for Elizabeth. In contrast to the quiet Christmas gathering, the King and Queen have invited a number of guests for an informal party. Normally, her shyness makes such events an ordeal, but tonight Elizabeth is shining with happiness.

‘You look very pretty, Lilibet,’ her father says fondly, and Elizabeth realises with a start that for once she feels pretty. It is because Philip is there, because they are friends.

The King is not the only one who notices. ‘You’re the belle of the ball tonight,’ says Margaret, a little miffed as she is usually the one everyone looks at, the one who makes everyone smile. ‘Is that a new dress?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Of course not. Honestly, Margaret, where would I get a new dress?’ Still, Elizabeth knows her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks becomingly flushed.

Even stern Tommy Lascelles unbends to compliment her on her looks, only to break off with a frown when he sees Philip and David moving furniture.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he addresses Philip, tight-lipped. ‘Is there a problem?’

Philip glances up at him. ‘It’s time the party got going. We’re just rolling up the carpet so we can dance.’

‘Have you asked the King?’

Philip actually rolls his eyes at Tommy. Elizabeth is both aghast and impressed at his daring. ‘I asked the Queen, who thought it was a very jolly idea. Is that all right with you?’ he asks, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Clearly it is not all right with Tommy, who likes gatherings to be as decorous as possible, but he can hardly counter the Queen’s agreement. His moustache bristles disapprovingly. ‘In that case, get the footmen to do that.’

‘For God’s sake man, the footmen are all decrepit! David and I can deal with the carpet. Though if you want to help, you could ask if someone can bring down the gramophone from the Queen’s sitting room.’

Margaret is standing beside Elizabeth. ‘Golly, I can’t believe Philip dares to speak to Tommy like that,’ she whispers as Tommy moves stiffly off. ‘I suppose because he’s a prince, he doesn’t need to be deferential.’

‘I think it’s more about the kind of person he is,’ says Elizabeth, but she worries. It’s not a good idea, she thinks, to make an enemy out of someone like Tommy who is not only steadfast in his support of the monarchy but also a man of considerable power and influence.

But she forgets her concerns when one of the elderly footmen staggers in with the gramophone and another carries a box of records. Margaret claps her hands in delight and David drops the arm on the first record: ‘That Old Black Magic’. The song could hardly be more appropriate, Elizabeth thinks as Philip grabs her hand to pull her out and start the dancing, swinging her round until she laughs giddily.

Their gaiety is infectious. In no time everyone seems to be dancing, apart from Tommy who glowers from the sidelines. David puts on all their favourite hit tunes from the year, and from ‘Take a Chance on Love’ to ‘There Will Never Be Another You’ it is as if every record has been specially written for Elizabeth. She dances with other men, but it is Philip she keeps coming back to, Philip who makes her fizz with happiness when he takes her hand in his. His clasp is warm and he holds her just a little too close.

Two years ago he asked her to dance, but then he was just being kind to a young girl. Now it feels different. Now he is dancing with her because he wants to and she lets herself relax, laughing up at him as they sing along to ‘As Long As You’re Not In Love With Anyone Else, Why Don’t You Fall In Love With Me’?

When at the end of evening the King leads the traditional conga in and out of the rooms, Philip positions himself behind Elizabeth and takes firm hold of her waist. She can feel his hard hands burning through the satin of her dress, through her corset and onto her skin. The state apartments are all converted to offices, but they dance, feet stomping, the whole way along the Grand Corridor and back, and are all breathless and laughing by the time they have finished.

‘That was a wonderful evening,’ Philip says. ‘I’ll be sorry to go back to London tomorrow.’

Her happiness gives Elizabeth the confidence to say, ‘Why don’t you stay?’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’ He is smiling still, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’ve promised to spend New Year in London with good friends.’

Friends? Which friends? Elizabeth longs to ask but knows she can’t.

‘Oh, I see …’ She swallows her disappointment. It is a salutary reminder that Philip has another life, one he has already admitted he is reluctant to give up. She is a new friend, that is all.

‘But I think Marina is inviting us all to a lunch at Coppins soon so I’ll see you then, I hope?’

She summons a bright smile. ‘Yes, of course.’ What else can she say, after all? Hasn’t she already decided not to embarrass him by making a fuss or demanding something he so clearly has no intention of giving? ‘That will be lovely.’

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