Her head is aching with the tension of waiting for Philip to explode with some new irritation, and it is a relief to get to the end of the display. She needs some time on her own. It’s a mild autumn day. She’ll take Susan for a walk and clear her head, she decides, and for the first time ever even finds herself hoping Philip won’t want to join her. Not that he would, she tells herself. He’s probably longing to jump into his MG and drive off somewhere he can let off steam.

In the event, the King asks Philip for a word in a way that clearly brooks no refusal, and glad that she is not being asked to witness her fiancé’s dressing down over the smoke-bomb incident, Elizabeth takes the opportunity to change into an old tweed skirt, a coat, and a scarf. Whistling for a delighted Susan, she waves off offers of company and heads off into the gardens.

The air smells of tumbled leaves and wood smoke and faint melancholy. Perhaps Margaret was right, and they should have waited until spring. Then perhaps there wouldn’t have been such a rush and things could have been sorted out in a calmer way. But it is too late to change their minds now.

Beyond the walls Elizabeth can hear the ceaseless grumble of traffic. The grounds are spacious enough but tired and brown and wherever she walks, she comes across the high brick wall that surrounds the garden. It’s not a prison, of course it isn’t, but sometimes, sometimes it feels like one. She wishes she could be spirited away to Balmoral or Sandringham or even Windsor, somewhere there is space to breathe. There have been so many problems associated with wedding, so many decisions to be made, that it feels as if there has been little time to enjoy the engagement and she is left feeling tense and jagged around the edges. If only she could be sure she has done the right thing. It hurts to see Philip so unhappy.

As if the thought of him has conjured Philip up, Elizabeth hears his voice calling her name and she stops and turns to see him striding along the lake path towards her. He doesn’t look unhappy now.

He looks furious.

His face is white, his brows an angry slash across his nose, his mouth thin with rage.

‘Your father and Tommy Lascelles …’ He can barely speak, he is so angry. ‘I’ve just been dressed down like a damned schoolboy!’

Elizabeth opens her mouth to mediate as usual, to say something soothing. Instead, something quite different comes out.

‘It sounds to me like you’ve been behaving like one.’

Philip’s head snaps back as if she has slapped him; it feels as if she has. His eyes narrow. ‘Oh, so you’ve been party to the let’s-find-something-else-to-tick-Philip-off-for sessions too, have you?’

‘If you mean have I been told that you and David made exhibitions of yourselves by throwing smoke bombs around, then yes, I have.’