It seemed to Margaret to take only slightly less time to have her photograph taken than it would have to have her portrait painted. It was gone twelve when she and Mama were assisted into their coach for the short drive to Buckingham Palace, ridiculously premature for a reception that did not commence until three, especially since they were forbidden entry before half past one. But in this, as in every other aspect of the day, Mama was proved right. The carriages containing that day’s quota of debutantes and assorted female relatives who would present them were so numerous as to have almost stopped the traffic in the Mall. To add to the mayhem, crowds of onlookers, in a wonderful assortment of equipages from drover’s carts to sporting carriages, occupied the space on either side of the main procession, their passengers peering at the debutantes as if they were animals in a zoo. Several bold pedestrians even pressed their noses against the carriage windows to get a closer look.

Margaret’s relief when they finally arrived at Buckingham Palace was short-lived. Their progress through the series of hot, stifling antechambers towards the Presence Chamber was tortuous. The atmosphere was hushed, expectant, crackling with tension as mamas fussed over gowns and feathers and trains and veils, and daughters stood rigid and flushed but unable to use their fans for fear of disturbing their coiffure or dropping their wilting bouquets. When her tummy rumbled, the noise seemed like a thunder-clap, drawing the horrified attention of everyone around her.

“Margaret!” her mother hissed. “Have you no self-control?”

“It is precisely because I have exercised self-control that my tummy is complaining. I have eaten precisely nothing all day.”

“For a very good reason. There are no facilities of any sort here,” Mama said pointedly.

Was a debutante expected to have rigid control of her waterworks as well as her demeanour? Margaret thought better of inquiring. In truth, as the hour of her debut approached, she was fighting a very strong urge to flee. Casting a critical eye over the other debutantes confirmed that she did indeed look exactly like them. Were any of them feeling as she did? She tried to tell herself that it was simply a ceremony to be got through, but she knew it was much more significant than that.

“It is almost three,” Mama said, twitching at the lace of Margaret’s gown. “The Lord Chamberlain has informed me that we will be among the first to be called. I hope I don’t need to remind you of the need to deliver an impeccable performance.”

Like one of those dogs which jumped through burning hoops, Margaret thought. Only she was wearing her hoops. “All this effort, just so that I can curtsy to the queen, which I have done any number of times before.”

“You know perfectly well that it is about much more than that.”