Marion laid down her pen. It was late, and 145 Piccadilly was at rest. In the knowledge that all its inhabitants were sleeping, Marion reread her letter, folded it carefully in four, and walked to the grate with its still glowing ash.

Tearing the letter in half, she threw it onto the embers and watched as it slowly smoked, then caught. Its edges curled in the flame. She watched until it was unreadable, fragile, charred – irrevocably changed from the letter it had been minutes ago.

It was a letter she had needed to write, but a letter that could never be sent. It was the work of a traitor and she knew her mother could not be trusted to stay quiet.

She stirred the final remains with the small poker, feeling her emotions relax. There could be no abdication. Life would continue. She would never, ever tell a living soul what she had heard that day.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Windsor, late September 1936

‘Good morning, sir, ma’am.’ Crawfie brought the two little girls, in their Sunday best, down for breakfast.

‘Good morning, Crawfie.’ The Duchess was looking very beautiful in a soft apricot gown with chiffon sleeves and a row of pearls at her neck. ‘We shall leave for church at nine forty-five, if you would like to meet us at the door?’

‘Ma’am, I wonder if I may be excused? I would like to use the time to write up the lesson plans for next week. The wonderful trip to Southampton has given me some ideas for a history topic.’

The rehearsed lie was told – and believed. No objection was made to their governess, who they thanked for her diligence. Marion felt a small rush of guilt, but it was not strong enough to make her come clean.

The gardens of Royal Lodge were gently misted with an autumn dew as Marion slipped out of the back door. The sun was bright with a pleasant warmth and her walk into Windsor Great Park, heading for the Copper Horse, gave her a chance to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She took deep breaths of the sweet air and her long shadow, following beside her, comforted her.

The September sun was low in the sky and its rays bounced off the Copper Horse on the horizon. She shaded her eyes from the glare and squinted. Was George there already? As far as she could tell there was nobody there at all. But it was not quite ten o’clock.

She had been imagining this meeting for days. George had sent no reply to her letter, but she was certain he would come. She had no doubt that Mrs Bridie would have put the letter in George’s hands, and she trusted him. In a way, she was glad he hadn’t written; a letter delivered to her always brought with it some innocent curiosity from the downstairs staff. Ainslie, she felt sure, had begun to recognize George’s handwriting after the few letters he had sent in the spring.