She follows the news closely. She knows people are still struggling to rebuild their lives after the long war. So many have died, so many lives have been devastated. Everybody has lost someone, a child, a parent, a spouse, a relative, a friend. Food is scarce, bombsites are still being cleared and everyone has suffered through the coldest winter anyone can remember.

And yet, still these brave, stoical people have come to show that they are happy for her and that they wish her well.

Elizabeth smiles and waves, wishing she could show what their good wishes mean to her. Perhaps she would not have chosen to be a princess, but that is what she is, and buoyed up by the cheerful, cheering crowd, Elizabeth renews the vow of duty she made on her twenty-first birthday. It is the price of her happiness, to serve these people who have suffered so much and who are looking to her to bring some joy to the nation’s life.

With Philip beside her, she can do it.

Chapter 41

London, July 1947

‘Why do we always have to shout at each other across the room?’ Philip demands. He has just driven up from Corsham and has flopped into one of the armchairs in Elizabeth’s sitting room. Margaret is sitting sideways in another, her legs slung languidly over the arm, one shoe dangling from the toe of her foot. Elizabeth herself is perched on the sofa, gently pulling Susan’s ears. The dog’s eyes are closed in bliss.

‘We’re not shouting,’ Margaret says. ‘You’re the only one who barks at us as if we’re ratings.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘There you are. You’ve just proved my point.’

Philip scowls at her before turning pointedly to Elizabeth. ‘I’m just saying, it’s not exactly cosy in here.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Puzzled, Elizabeth looks around the room. It looks fine to her: pale pink and cream fabrics, a fitted fawn carpet, but then she’s never been particularly interested in interior design. She’d rather be outside.

‘It’s so formal. Look at these two chairs, facing off across the fireplace. Anyone would think you were expecting an audience with the Pope. Why don’t you move the sofa up in front of the fire, then we could sit cosily together?

‘Well, all right,’ Elizabeth says with a placatory smile. ‘I suppose we could try that.’

She means at some stage but Philip is full of restless energy tonight and leaps to his feet.

‘Let’s do it now. Come on, Margaret, up you get!’

‘What for?’

‘We’re going to move the sofa. You take one end,’ Philip says, pointing. ‘It’s not that heavy.’

Margaret gives him a flat-eyed look. ‘I don’t move furniture.’

‘Why not? You’ve got two arms and two legs, haven’t you?’

‘We also have footmen to do that kind of thing for us.’

‘Why call a servant when we can do it ourselves?’ Frustrated, Philip swings round to Elizabeth. ‘Please tell me you’re not too grand to move a sofa a few yards!’