The Goulds were forgiven for their impudence and treachery, while she had been cast out.

The new house gave her fortification and substance. A grand home for a great woman. She deserved it.

When the removal men arranged the furniture from Nottingham Cottage into the new rooms, they were lost, their size diminished. But she made certain that all the pieces from Queen Mary and gifts from the Princesses were placed where the few visitors couldn’t help but see them. Her CVO was still in pride of place on the marble mantelpiece, but her joy in it was soured.

George and she were just rubbing along. The horror and pain of her shame had damaged the little pleasure they had had in their relationship, and they found that they had nothing much to say to each other. They had become a tiny, contemptible footnote in history. The adventure had come to an end.

George’s alcohol consumption had escalated very quickly on his return to Scotland, with new pubs and new drinking pals. His health was unsteady, his fits of drunken anger more regular.

George had honed his insults so that each one pierced her to the core.

‘You don’t think I married you for your looks, do you?’ he said one day. ‘Face it, you’re no oil painting. Imagine if we had had a child – what an ugly little brat that would be. I am glad you couldn’t have children. Barren and frigid. You are a miserable old woman. A nasty, spiky old woman. You have no friends – and no wonder. Your arrogance and assumed airs and graces push them all away.’

On and on, every day, drunk or sober, she faced his barrage of verbal abuse.

Marion was ashamed of him. But no more ashamed of him than she was of herself. While shopping in Ballater, she’d had bread rolls thrown at her by two women. They’d called her a traitor and a money grabber. ‘No better than a common tart,’ one had shouted.

Marion had left the shop with her head down and disgrace following her.

She soon found she could ignore the things that were muttered around her, the stares and pointing fingers. She held her head up high. What did these people know of her life? She had been at the centre of the universe for seventeen years. Two little girls had loved her. She had made them the women they were. And she could bet that any one of the people who followed her, whispering snide remarks, would have loved to have seen the things she had seen, met the people she had met.

She had her biscuit tin still and another larger box, both full of the lovingly drawn cards, photos, notes and letters the Princesses had given to her: the photos of them on the royal train; the small reels of cine film with precious images of her, the Queen and the girls dancing the Lambeth Walk aboard the royal yacht; the coronation menu signed by Bobo and Alah; the small vase from Queen Mary in which she had kept the sprig of heather George had given her in Windsor until it became dust.