Marion felt his loving eyes watching as she walked away to Royal Lodge.

She was in love, she knew, and in his thrall. His order not to turn back made her feel safe and cared for. But she had hurt him, she knew. Of course he must feel that she had neglected him – and she believed she had. How could she have got into such a difficult situation? She should have told him that she loved him, that she wanted to be with him. But what then?

She twisted the sprig of heather between finger and thumb, certain that he would be thinking of her.

What a fool she had been, expecting that something so parochial as The Highlands would have suited him. He must think her an absolute dolt. Unsophisticated and unworldly.

She would have to pay better attention to his likes and dislikes, so that when – if – they married, their home would be exactly how he liked it. She would focus on the subtleties of what was considered socially correct: the right colour of crockery, the correct weight of cutlery, how to decorate a house.

From now on she would do her best to please George. She would have to make more time for him, write more often, find ways to see him whenever he was down in London. She must find more space in her life for George. For the man she now knew she wanted to marry – should he ever ask her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

145 Piccadilly, October 1936

Crawfie was on an outing to the Tower of London with the Princesses when first she saw a photograph of Mrs Simpson on the front page of a newspaper. The car in which they were travelling stopped at traffic lights along the Embankment, and on the pavement a newsboy was doing good business, waving the early edition of the London Evening News. ‘King and Mrs Simpson. Read all about it!’

Crawfie was horrified. Thankfully the lights changed and the car moved off before the Princesses could become aware of the unpleasant sight.

The driver, however, young Jackson, caught her eye in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows knowingly. Flustered, she looked away. Gossiping between servants must be discouraged, now more than ever.

As they pulled up to the Tower, she decided not to think about the unsettling incident and concentrate on the job in hand.

‘Come along, girls.’

Stepping out of the car, they were met by a Yeoman of the Guard in full scarlet and black regalia. He swept off his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’

‘I know who you are,’ Lilibet said.

‘So do I,’ chirped Margaret. ‘You’re a Beefeater. Is that all you eat?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Lilibet admonished her. ‘I expect he eats all sorts of things. Don’t you?’ She looked at the yeoman.

‘Yes, Your Royal Highness, that is correct. Beefeaters get a ration of beef every day, thanks to old King Henry VIII. But I eat all my greens as well.’