P-T and Tommy looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. ‘P-T, call the guards. We have a red under the bed.’

‘I am not a red – and neither am I a blue!’ Crawfie said crossly.

‘I tell you what you are.’ Tommy uncrossed his elegant legs and stood up. ‘I’m still hungry. Come along – I am taking you two to dinner.’

They had a brisk ten-minute walk over to the Ritz, where Tommy effortlessly breezed in and was greeted by a welcoming waiter with, ‘Your usual table, sir?’

Crawfie had never been inside the Ritz before, and pulled herself up to her full height as she allowed her coat to be taken and her chair pulled out. Dining with the elegant Sir Alan and P-T meant she could observe how the privileged spent their time. It was quite different in style to that of the over-formal behaviour at the Palace. Here, around each table, were monied people gossiping and keeping their eyes open for faces they knew. This was fun, expensive and fascinating to Crawfie – a world between the simplicity of Dunfermline and the stuffiness of the royal household. And she realized, suddenly, how oddly comfortable she felt within it.

Over fillets of sole Veronique, Crawfie let slip about George, leaving out the disaster of New Year’s Eve. ‘And he says he might come down for the coronation,’ she finished.

‘Might he indeed.’ Tommy picked up his wine glass. ‘And do you want to see him?’

P-T replied, ‘Of course she does. He sounds very charming.’

Tommy hummed through a mouthful of rather good white burgundy. ‘Hmmm. I shall give him the once-over when I meet him. It will be good practice for those callow Lochinvars who will beat their way to my own front door in pursuit of my daughters.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

145 Piccadilly, 16^th February 1937

It was the last day at 145 Piccadilly, and Crawfie felt a fresh wave of relief break over the household. At last, the hinterland of the abdication, followed by the Christmas break, was bridged. Tomorrow the family and household would move to Buckingham Palace.

The press were once again focused on the outside of 145 Piccadilly and Lilibet was enjoying peeking through the windows at them.

‘There are so many, Crawfie.’

‘Come away, please,’ Crawfie said. ‘We don’t need a picture of you looking at them, thank you.’

Margaret was hopping about excitedly. She was wearing a new dress, a Christmas gift from her maternal grandmother, who was coming for tea shortly. She was swishing about in it. ‘I would like them to take my photograph.’

‘There will be plenty of time for that, but not today.’

Today there were no lessons. Crawfie was keeping the girls occupied while Alah and Bobo were at Buckingham Palace, putting the last of the laundry and bedlinen into ancient airing cupboards. The Duchess – no, Crawfie checked herself for the umpteenth time that day, the Queen – had invited her mother, and her friend Lady Cynthia Asquith, to tea, and Crawfie was getting the girls dressed in their prettiest dresses, ready to meet her.