“Before I make my entrance in this absurd outfit, I’m not out. After I’ve minced my way along the Presence Chamber and been kissed by Her Majesty, I am out,” Margaret said, in a futile attempt to quell her nerves with sarcasm. “Does the queen have some magical powers that I am as yet unaware of?”

“Don’t be so absurd. It’s a rite of passage, marking your transition from carefree girl to young lady of substance. The carte-de-visite with your photograph from this morning is quite literally your passport into society. I thought you understood that.”

“I do, all too horribly well.” If she made some sort of faux pas, would it make the ceremony null and void? As she waited for one of the many lords in waiting to summon her into the royal presence, the rebellious little voice in her head that forever accompanied her, urged Margaret to do just that. But that would reflect badly on Mama, and in any case, she didn’t really believe that failing to curtsy low enough or stepping on her train would damage her as a matrimonial prize.

A ripple of excitement coursed through the waiting throng as the two doors to the Presence Chamber were opened. The proceedings were about to commence. It was too late for anything now, save to steel herself to get through it without a hitch.

One of the lords in waiting began to organise the queue according to the list he carried. “Your Grace, you have the honour of being first, at Her Majesty’s behest,” he said, and Margaret and Mama were ushered forward.

Despite the fact that she had been in the queen’s presence countless times, Margaret felt a sheen of cold perspiration break out at the back of her neck. Her heart began to thump. At Mama’s urging, she let down the train, which she had been holding carefully over her left arm, and another lord in waiting used his ceremonial wand to spread it out behind her, while another intoned her name.

“Remember what you have been practicing, and all will be well,” Mama whispered.

Margaret took her first step forward onto the red carpet. The large feathers on her head nodded, her veil threatened to unravel her coiffure, and her crinoline swayed from side to side. Though she had practiced walking with a starched tablecloth around her shoulders many times, she still felt like a very ungainly ship in the grip of a gathering storm.