The heralds and equerries, marshals and chamberlains were first to lead the procession to the chapel. Then followed the senior royals from both families, including Louise, looking very pale, but as stylishly dressed as ever. Margaret readied herself for her friend to wink surreptitiously at her, or at the very least raise a suggestive eyebrow, but she was very much her royal highness today, and gave no sign that she had even noticed her. Louise’s letters from Balmoral had been so mundane that it was obvious her correspondence was being monitored. Today would be their last chance to speak face-to-face, perhaps for many years. Margaret prayed that her friend had better news to deliver than she did.

The foreign dignitaries were now summoned, including the King and Queen of Belgium, followed by yet more ladies and gentlemen of the bedchamber in a bewildering array. Next were the gentlemen of the queen’s household, including Louise’s precious Lieutenant Stirling, resplendent in his dress uniform, so upstanding and correct it was nigh on impossible to imagine him behaving scandalously. Could the affaire simply have been a figment of her friend’s overactive imagination, an elaborate joke generated by her admittedly quirky sense of humour? But Louise’s despair in that one, frank letter had seemed so real.

The bridegroom had his own procession of notables to precede him. Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg was shorter than his name. Middle-aged, balding, and bewhiskered, he was a very unlikely beau for the energetic Lenchen, but according to Louise, the princess was very happy with her mother’s choice of future husband. The couple were to make their home at Frogmore Cottage, right on Her Majesty’s doorstep, which would allow Helena to continue to serve as the queen’s scribe, so Louise was also very happy to welcome Prince Christian into the family.

Finally, when Margaret wondered if the little chapel could possibly hold any more people, Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales stepped forward to lead Lenchen to the altar, and Margaret and the other bridesmaids, followed by stragglers of minor royal household members, finally filed into the chapel to the strains of Handel’s march from Scipio.

The pews of the quirky, oddly shaped chapel were crammed full, with yet more guests and dignitaries packed into the small balcony above, and standing in the porch by the doorway. Sun streamed in through the tall blue and gold stained-glass windows above the altar, adding to the already stifling heat. Margaret’s nose twitched at warring scents of perfume, sweat, dust, beeswax, and orange blossoms, but with a heroic effort she managed to suppress a sneeze.