Crawfie knew exactly what the Queen was thinking: her precious elder daughter would never have the life she wanted. No house in the country with dogs and children and horses.

Her future would one day be as Queen herself.

Chapter Thirty

King’s Cross Station, 22^nd December 1936

The train hissed and squealed as it began to pull out of King’s Cross Station and Marion knew she would be using the long journey to process the last few days.

She had almost decided not to come home for Christmas. She had not wanted to leave the young Princesses at this critical and shocking time, but the Duke and Duchess – Their Majesties, she corrected herself – had persuaded her.

‘Darling Crawfie, you are an absolute brick, but you must have your holiday. We shall need you to be fit and strong in the New Year.’ The Queen had patted Crawfie’s arm and smiled warmly.

‘But you are still recovering from the flu, ma’am,’ Crawfie protested. ‘I am happy to look after the wee Princesses while you recover. You must rest.’

The Queen shook her head. ‘Alah and Bobo always come to Sandringham for Christmas with us. The girls shall be looked after very well. Besides which, your parents must be longing to see you. In the new year, there will be a lot of change. You will have to move the schoolroom into the Palace.’ The Queen sighed. ‘So much to do.’

‘If you are sure?’

‘Absolutely. And the King agrees with me, don’t you, Bertie?’

They had been in the drawing room at 145 Piccadilly, the King sitting in his armchair by the window, smoking. He had lost weight, Crawfie knew, and his skin was grey. ‘What am I agreeing to?’

‘Miss Crawford must go home for Christmas. We shall need her fit and rested for January.’

‘Oh, good Lord, yes.’ The King had tapped some ash from his cigarette. ‘Crawfie, we are depending on you to do your bit in keeping the family on an even keel. If the Princesses are happy, the Queen is happy. And if the Queen is happy, the King is happy. And if the King is happy, the Country is happy … You see what I mean?’

Marion’s train was full of people going north for Christmas. She could sense the joy of her fellow passengers as they came aboard, searching for spaces in the racks above the seats into which they could push their suitcases. She sat quietly by the window, her eyes tracking drips of condensation as they rolled down the glass.

Marion’s compartment was full. A young couple were sitting beside her, while an older couple with two children – a son of about seven she guessed and daughter a little older – sat opposite. Marion was in no mood to talk. The last week had been nothing but talk. The gossip amongst the household staff and servants’ quarters had taken on a life of its own.

All week photographers and reporters had been camped outside the front door of 145 Piccadilly, day and night. Flash lights popped, catching the startled expressions of cabinet ministers, clergy and the Prime Minister as they climbed from their official cars.