‘Crawfie! Whatever is the matter? David, get some water. Our governess is unwell.’

‘I am fine,’ she whispered, still keeping her eyes tight shut. ‘Just a headache. So silly.’

Another flash of lightning came, but the thunder was not as close this time.

‘I’m not surprised with all this racket going on,’ said the Duke.

She felt a glass being pressed into her hand.

A man’s voice, similar to the Duke’s, spoke next. ‘Sip this. Slowly now.’ A cool, soft hand took hers and wrapped her fingers carefully around it.

‘Thank you.’ She took a sip but kept her eyes closed and her head down. ‘I will be all right in a minute.’

Now the Duchess’s voice, flustered. ‘Bertie, shouldn’t we call the doctor?’

Marion shook her head. ‘I am fine. Thank you. Really, I am. I don’t mean to be a bother.’ She half opened her eyes and saw three familiar faces. Two she knew in person – the other only from her scrapbook of cut-out photographs. The Prince of Wales, whose blue eyes were watching her anxiously. A lopsided smile dazzled her as she looked at him. He was more handsome than any photo she had ever seen, and she had seen hundreds.

She made herself stand and gave a wobbly curtsey. In the flesh, the Prince was so close that she had to shut her eyes again.

‘I came to take Dookie to the Princesses,’ she said. ‘They wanted to say goodnight to him. And then …’

Almost from nowhere, Ainslie the butler appeared, with Dookie in his arms. ‘I shall help Miss Crawford to her room.’ Ainslie offered her his arm. ‘Come along.’

‘I hope you feel better soon,’ said the Duke.

The Prince, his brother and sister-in-law returned to the drawing room, and Marion heard the door click shut behind them.

‘I am so sorry, Mr Ainslie. I have made a fool of myself. I get these awful headaches sometimes.’

‘No harm done. You need to rest. I will let their Royal Highnesses know that all is well.’

Another flash of lightning, softer this time, lit the stairs as Marion gratefully leant on Ainslie’s arm. ‘That was the Prince of Wales?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And I have grass stains on my skirt.’

Ainslie grunted and murmured something which Marion thought afterwards sounded like: ‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen a lady with grass stains on her clothing.’

Chapter Seven

145 Piccadilly, London, August 1932

Marion had spent the last two days worrying about her university place. She wanted it – and the future it would bring her – more than anything in the world but … her work here with the Princesses was of importance too. Without her, Lilibet and Margaret would never get to experience the normalities of life. She could teach them so much about the world beyond their front door. If she left, who knew what kind of governess would replace her? Perhaps someone from the upper classes, who knew as little of real life as them. But Marion could show them how real working people lived, in ordinary average homes where children did not have cupboards of lovely clothes and mothers who wore tiaras. She could mould them into women with social conscience, able to use their privileged platform for humanity.