‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I’ll speak to Georgie and Paul. There’s little sign of the monarchy getting restored in Greece yet, but they’ll both be keen to keep the British connection. I’ve already told Killearn I wanted to talk to you about naturalisation with the idea that you would be in a better position to help the King with royal functions.’

Philip’s brows rise. ‘And he bought that?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he didn’t. The main thing is that we don’t spook the horses by mentioning anything about a possible marriage. These diplomats are a worse lot of gossips than your aunts!’

His uncle claps a hand on Philip’s shoulder. ‘Don’t look so glum! You don’t have to commit to anything yet. Nobody’s going to force you to the altar at gunpoint, Philip. I’m just asking you to think about what it would mean for you and for the family.’ He pauses. ‘The war’s not over. We may have the Germans on the run, but there’s still Japan to deal with, and that won’t be easy. A lot can happen between now and you being in any position to marry at all.’

That’s true, Philip thinks, his natural buoyancy of spirit returning. He watches the felucca drift out of sight. There is still action to be seen, fun to be had. He is still free.

‘In the meantime,’ Mountbatten goes on, as they turn back towards the embassy, ‘it might be an idea if you keep on writing to Lilibet, without, obviously, mentioning our conversation today. Can you do that?’

Philips imagines Elizabeth, safe at Windsor. April: it will be spring there, with its fickle sunshine and gusty showers. He pictures her walking those ridiculous little dogs in the Great Park, sensibly dressed in stout shoes and an old coat, unaware – or is she? – of the plans everyone else is making for her future.

‘Yes,’ he tells his uncle. ‘I can do that.’

Chapter 14

London, 8 May 1945

Outside the palace, a jubilant crowd is roaring and singing and cheering. ‘We want the King! We want the King!’ The chants rise and fall like waves.

Elizabeth smiles as she listens to the sound of a city euphoric that the long, bitter years of war are over.

Straightening her tie, she studies her reflection. ‘What do you think, Susan?’ she asks. ‘Will I do?’

Susan cocks her ears and tips her head, recognising a question even if she is unable to answer. A year old now, Susan was a gift from Elizabeth’s parents for her eighteenth birthday, a tiny bundle of the softest golden fur with bright black eyes and a long, pink tongue. Elizabeth picked her up that birthday morning, felt Susan’s warm, wriggly weight in the palm of her hand, and fell in love. When everything else has been grim, Susan can always make her smile. She scampers ahead of Elizabeth on their walks and collapses, legs splayed, on their return. She rolls over and demands to have her tummy tickled and nips when she doesn’t get enough attention. Susan is Elizabeth’s utterly, her first dog, always alert to Elizabeth’s voice.