She could have been a child psychologist, invisible to history, no matter what good she had done.

She was Miss Marion Crawford CVO, governess to the Royal Princesses of the United Kingdom. Keeper of secrets. Her loyalty remained intact, no matter how they tried to rub her out.

She was a part of history, and nobody – not the King and Queen, not her parents, not the public, not even George – could ever take that from her.

EPILOGUE

Rubislaw Den South, Aberdeen, August 1978

It was a damp and rather chilly day, unlike other Augusts when she had had to wear a panama hat to protect her from the sun. Never mind – Crawfie always had the right clothes for the right occasion. She pulled out a warm dress and a cardigan. With her good shoes and her large umbrella, the pink one with roses on, she would look all right.

She rose slowly from her chair. It was harder work these days. She was seventy-five years old.

She was not quite sure where all the time had gone. George had been dead a year now – the drink had finally killed him – and her mother and stepfather were long gone, too. It was just her now.

She had made her will. Everything was to go towards the education of the underprivileged children of Scotland. Finally, after all this time, she would achieve her early ambition.

There was one other bequest. The large biscuit tin and cardboard box that she had kept near her at all times was to go to Windsor Castle, to be kept in the royal archives. She wanted it to go back to the Castle, so that Lilibet and Margaret would know she had not betrayed them. If she were really a traitor, she would have sold the lot for a great deal of money long ago. But she never had, and she never would.

It was time.

She went to the window and looked out.

Maybe this year, Lilibet would spot her. She had already checked that the train from London had left on time and would be arriving in Ballater as scheduled. She knew exactly how long it would take for the royal cars to reach her house.

With fifteen minutes to spare, she left her front door and walked slowly down the short drive to the road to Balmoral at the bottom.

The rain had stopped, so she wouldn’t be needing her umbrella. She shook it. Maybe she would put it up – they would definitely see her if she did.

She checked her watch, shifted her position. Seven more minutes. Seven minutes was 420 seconds. She began to count.

At 395 seconds, the police motorcycle outriders came by, blue lights flashing, and then there were the royal cars. Crawfie stood erect and proud. A Range Rover with detectives was leading, followed by Lilibet’s Rolls Royce. Crawfie lifted her right arm and waved as Lilibet, now Queen Elizabeth II, swept by without sign any recognition.