Philip allows himself a wistful memory of the Mountbattens’ house, so comfortably equipped and convenient. What is it about the Windsors that makes them embrace frugality so eagerly? It’s almost as if they’re embarrassed by their own royalty.

Nothing appears to have changed at Balmoral since Queen Victoria’s day. On the way to his room, he was led down corridors crowded with gloomy landscapes – all too accurate judging by the view from Philip’s window – and moth-eaten antlers. The flocked wallpaper in his room is still marked with the old queen’s cypher, VRI. Philip traces it with his finger. Victoria Regina Imperatrix. Victoria, Queen and Empress.

And his great-grandmother, Philip reminds himself.

He may not be able to afford a new suit or plus fours, but he is as royal as Elizabeth. He has stayed at some of great palaces of Europe. He shouldn’t care what a footman thinks of his wardrobe.

But he still wishes the fellow would stop fussing around and go.

It is all worth it, though, when he goes along to the drawing room as commanded and Elizabeth comes towards him, holding out her hands. Her smile is so dazzling that Philip actually blinks. Recovering, he smiles back as he takes her hands and gives her fingers a meaningful squeeze. He even begins to lean down to kiss her on the cheek before he catches the King’s eye over her shoulder. The royal gaze is thunderous, and Philip, in a rare burst of discretion, straightens and steps back.

Still, he is glad that Elizabeth stays by his side as he goes to make his bow to the King, who is correctly dressed, unlike Philip. The buttons on his short jacket and waistcoat are bright, his kilt and sporran neat, his ghillie brogues polished to a shine. In person, though, the King is thin and prematurely stooped, and a muscle twitches under his eye.

‘What do you think you’re wearing?’ he barks. He can’t bear incorrect dress.

Philip looks down at his dinner jacket and trousers, annoyed to find he is glad Ewan polished up his old shoes without asking so at least they look respectable. ‘Sir?’

‘Papa, you can hardly expect Philip to have a kilt,’ Elizabeth puts in calmly.

‘I can expect him to be properly dressed,’ says the King, eying the bagginess around Philip’s shoulders with disfavour. ‘Where did you get that jacket from?’

‘I borrowed it from Uncle Dickie,’ Philip says cheerfully. He might as well be upfront about his lack of wardrobe. ‘He’s much broader than me, as you know, so it’s not a great fit.’ He plucks at the front of the jacket to demonstrate. ‘But it seemed a better option than my father’s old dinner jacket, which fits better but which is distinctly threadbare.’

The King snorts.

Elizabeth lays a hand on her father’s arm. ‘Papa, do you think we should tell Philip what the routine is at Balmoral?’

‘Haven’t you told him yet?’ The King is clearly still in a bad mood although Elizabeth’s touch seems to be calming.