‘Ah yes. A bay. Well done,’ Crawfie said. ‘And she has a very short tail. Do you know why?’

Lilibet’s arm shot up but Margaret shouted out, ‘So that it doesn’t get caught up in the rigging of a carriage.’

Lilibet, not to be outdone said, ‘And it’s called docking. I know because Grandpa told us all about it when we were little.’

‘Very good. Now this painting is by a man called Mr Stubbs. George Stub—’ Crawfie stopped. She had successfully put George from her mind for just a few seconds but now, saying his name in another setting brought fresh anguish.

Margaret pulled a face at her sister and chattered on, ‘Mummy likes his paintings.’

‘She has two in her drawing room,’ Lilibet added. ‘And don’t stick your tongue out at me, Margaret, it’s rude.’

‘But I wanted to tell Crawfie that bit. You are showing off.’

‘I don’t show off.’

‘Did!’

‘Didn’t!’

Dookie ran out from under the desk and started barking, running in small circles from one girl to the other.

Crawfie banged the book shut. ‘QUIET.’

Lilibet blushed and said quietly, ‘Sorry, Crawfie.’

Margaret, in shock at the sudden noise, began to cry.

Crawfie grabbed Dookie, who immediately nipped her hand, and hauled him out of the room and into the corridor. A footman was approaching. ‘Take this dog away from my schoolroom,’ she ordered.

‘Where shall I take him?’ he asked, grabbing the dog by its scruff.

‘Anywhere but here.’ Crawfie was shaking. Two fingers of her left hand had deep teeth marks and were starting to bleed.

‘Are you all right?’ the footman asked. ‘You might need some iodine on that.’ He frowned, scooping Dookie into an armlock. ‘Oh and I’ve got a note for you, miss.’ He handed over a small white envelope, marked only with her name.

She knew the handwriting. Tears pricked her eyes.

The footman was wrestling with Dookie. ‘Stop your fighting or you’ll get my boot up your backside, you horrible little mutt.’

‘Thank you.’ Crawfie stood watching as dog and footman walked away. ‘And I am so sorry to be so snappy,’ she called after him. ‘I didn’t sleep very well.’

‘That’s all right, miss,’ he said over the head of the struggling Dookie. ‘I’ve had much worse from the boss.’

The unopened letter from George was still in her hand. He was alive, then. Where was he – down in the kitchen, charming Cook into making him a cup of tea? Or was he talking to Ainslie? The whole household would see him. Were they gossiping in the pantry about him … and her?

‘Crawfie?’ Lilibet’s voice startled her. She was peering around the doorway. ‘We are very sorry. Can we paint our pictures now, please?’

Crawfie stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her cardigan. She took a deep breath and, steadying herself, said with authority, ‘Yes, but no more Dookie in my lessons.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

145 Piccadilly, mid-September 1936

The letter burned in her pocket all morning. The lunch hour couldn’t come quickly enough. She delivered the Princesses to the dining room with haste, desperate to return to the privacy of her bedroom to read George’s message. But as she made to escape, the Duchess called her back.