‘Crawfie?’ a familiar voice called from the corridor. ‘Are you awake?’

It was Lilibet, fresh off the train from her honeymoon in Hampshire at Broadlands, the home of the Duke’s uncle, Earl Mountbatten of Burma.

‘Lilibet.’ Crawfie embraced her. ‘You look so well. How was Broadlands?’

‘Glorious, thank you. Lots of space, fresh air and fun. Philip has made it all so wonderful.’

‘And are you happy?’

‘Well, I was very happy until I discovered that my horrid sister seems to have lost all the dog leads. Puppy Susan is adorable, but she needs a lead before we go to Balmoral for the rest of the honeymoon. We are on the night train, so I only have twenty minutes before Philip will be shouting for me. Are there any up here?’

The search proved fruitless until a footman found a rather chewed lead with a ragged collar at the back of a cupboard.

‘Oh, that’s marvellous. Thank you.’

Lilibet gave Crawfie a quick hug, and then she gaily jogged down the long corridor to find her husband. Happiness poured from her. She was so young and she and Philip had so much to look forward to – their new home, Clarence House, was ready to move into and was already creaking with the mountain of wedding presents which they had no idea what to do with.

Getting into her single bed, Crawfie compared her life with that of her ex-pupil. Living apart from her husband, who she knew was not happy staying in the hotel alone, with a home she could never furnish the way she wished. And no word on her retirement or what she might expect as a pension.

All in all, this was not how she had expected things to be.

She reached up to her bedside lamp and turned it off. Come on, Marion, she told herself, this is just a bad patch. It won’t be long before George and I will be back together. The garden will bloom in the spring, and maybe we will be blessed with a baby, too. Nice curtains and carpets are not important. Count your blessings and go to sleep.

She rolled over on to her left side, closed her eyes and drifted off.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Buckingham Palace, December 1947

P-T, in her outer office, rang through to the intercom on Tommy’s desk.

‘Mr Dermot Morrah from The Times on the line, sir.’

‘Put him through.’

Tommy sighed. What did Morrah want this time?

‘Tommy?’ the cultured voice asked.

‘Yes indeed. Good morning. How can I help?’

‘Don’t get on the defensive.’ Morrah chuckled. ‘I am writing a piece about Princess Elizabeth and her new home – or should I say homes? My editor requires a colourful domestic picture of the newlyweds.’

‘You know that is something I would never advise.’

‘Oh, come on, old man. They are doing awfully well. Clarence House for town, Windlesham for the country and I hear Malta for the Commonwealth?’

Tommy rubbed his index finger over his clipped moustache. ‘What are you getting at?’