Margaret pouts a little. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being dutiful, Lil? I’m sure it’s very terrible, but how would it change anything if we stayed in Buckingham Palace shivering along with everyone else? Besides, Papa says the government wants us to go to South Africa and bolster the Empire or whatever, so we’re just doing what we’re asked to do. And if we have to go, we might as well enjoy ourselves.’

She settles herself more comfortably against Elizabeth’s pillows. ‘You’re just sulking because you won’t see Philip for a while.’

‘More than a while. We’ll be gone three months!’

‘It’s not that long.’

‘It is when you’re in love,’ Elizabeth says.

Margaret raises her brows. ‘Are you in love with Philip?’

‘Of course I am!’

‘It’s just that it’s hard to tell sometimes. You seem so cool about him.’

Cool? Elizabeth thinks about the heat that trembles and flares inside her whenever she looks at Philip’s mouth, about the way the merest brush of his hand leaves warmth simmering long after his touch.

Margaret wants her to swing around lamp posts and scatter rose petals as she runs singing through a meadow. She wants her to hang around Philip’s neck and shower him with kisses to prove her love.

But Elizabeth can’t do that. Her feelings for Philip are so strong that the only way she can control them is to bank them down, to bury them beneath a layer of cool composure. As it is, she is afraid they will spill over and leave her vulnerable to embarrassment and jeering.

To prurient speculation and avid public interest.

To Philip’s rejection.

That would be worst of all. She has been so careful not to make him feel awkward. Elizabeth fears that if he knew just how deeply she feels about him, he would regret asking her to marry him. When it comes down to it, they have made an arrangement. They have been clear with each other. It is not a love match. She saw the relief in Philip’s face when she told him she would make no messy emotional demands of him.

Very carefully, she sets Philip’s photo on the chest of drawers where a raised ridge has been added to stop items falling off when the ship tilts. The sleet is rattling against the porthole in a blur of white.

‘Philip and I don’t need to make a big show of how we feel,’ she tells her sister.

‘Well, as long as you know,’ Margaret says doubtfully. ‘I like Philip, but he can be a bit off-hand with you, I think. I’m not the only one who has noticed either. He’s not exactly devoted, is he? I can’t imagine him whispering sweet nothings in your ear.’

Nor can Elizabeth.

‘I like that he doesn’t paw me in public,’ she says. ‘I would hate it if he hung over me. It would be embarrassing.’

‘I just hope he’s more attentive behind closed doors, that’s all.’

Elizabeth doesn’t meet her sister’s gaze. She straightens the photo and lets her gaze rest on Philip’s face, on his mouth. How could she possibly explain to Margaret the dark knot of emotions that tangle around her whenever Philip is near? Desire and anticipation, nervousness and fear, guilt and exultation, all tumbling together to leave her edgy and unsure of everything but the fact that she loves him.