‘What?’

‘I have it on pretty high authority that the Queen herself will write a preface to these articles in her own handwriting.’

This made Crawfie brighten. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, honey.’ Beatrice turned to Dorothy. ‘OK, Bruce and I will leave you two together now. We have meetings in London and then Paris before we head back to New York. We’ll be back in four weeks to pick up the manuscript.’

Bruce kissed Marion, then shook George’s hand. ‘We will have the contract ready to sign, with your amendments included. You drive a hard bargain, sir.’

‘Have you not heard about the canniness of the Scots?’ George slapped Bruce’s shoulder. ‘See you soon.’

Every day for the next four weeks, Dorothy coaxed reminiscence after reminiscence out of Marion, constantly asking her for more ‘colour’, as she put it.

‘Describe the Queen’s bedroom.’

‘What perfume does she wear?’

‘How handsome is the Duke of Windsor?

‘What was Mrs Simpson wearing? Describe her jewellery.’

‘What presents were exchanged at Christmas?

‘What colour was your bedroom?’

‘Tell me about the scent of the flowers in summer?’

‘Chronicle the war years.’

‘Recount tales of life in the nursery and the schoolroom.’

In her mind, Marion had to believe that what she was telling Dorothy was good for the family. She trod as carefully as she could around the most personal questions (‘What lingerie does the Queen favour? Do she and the King still share a bed?’), telling the truth but drawing a line where she felt it should be drawn.

Dorothy encouraged and provoked, and at the end of each day congratulated her on her recall and charming stories.

George was completely supportive, always praising her. ‘Darling, you are doing the right thing. This will earn you the DCVO that you deserve.’

He was still drinking, but not as much. He stayed sober enough to make the endless cups of tea and coffee for Marion and Dorothy throughout the long days, and then produce simple suppers for Marion in the evenings.

Eventually, Dorothy pulled the last sheet of paper from the typewriter and announced, ‘We are done! What you have here is a love letter to Great Britain and its royal family. It has been my privilege to commit your words to paper.’

‘Thank you. May I read it now?’

‘Oh, no. I told you at the beginning, no peeking. Wait until you see it tidied up. Beatrice and Bruce are terrific editors. I promise that when you see the final work, you will be so proud.’

Marion tried to smile. ‘I hope so.’

‘I know so.’ Dorothy began to pack up her small office. The many pages she typed each day were put into a black box file that she took away with her each evening. ‘Bruce and Beatrice will come over from New York very soon to pick this up. I will call them tonight from the hotel.’

‘How soon is soon?’ Marion asked.

‘I’d say forty-eight hours. They will want to see this as soon as possible.’ She tucked the box file under her arm and picked up her coat. ‘I’ll send for the typewriter later.’