An involuntary gasp escaped as she fumbled for her handkerchief.

Tommy took her elbow gently, saying nothing, but lending support.

‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

The line shuffled forwards. At the sight of the flower-covered bier, the splendour of the royal standard draped over the casket, and the glimmering jewels of the imperial crown resting on top, Marion was overwhelmed again.

‘How will Lilibet manage this?’ she whispered to Tommy.

Tommy’s eyes were fixed on the crown above him. ‘Because she must.’

At each corner of the coffin stood members of the household troops and the yeoman of the guard, maintaining a constant, motionless vigil.

Tommy and Crawfie walked slowly around the exhibited King. As they got to the last corner, Tommy made a smart, respectful neck bow inviting Crawfie to do the same.

‘God save the King!’ shouted a woman behind them, before being shushed.

And suddenly they were outside again, blinking in the brightness of an overcast sky.

Tommy turned up the collar of his coat. ‘Right. I think a cup of tea is in order. Will Fortnum’s do you?’

Marion was surprised by the invitation, but grateful. ‘Thank you, yes.’

The twenty-minute walk to Fortnum & Mason Piccadilly was a quiet one. Tommy hummed to himself as he mulled over a choice between cucumber sandwiches or a cheese scone.

Marion could think of no conversation. She was still shaken by the power of witnessing a dead king lying in state for the world to see.

How would Lilibet react when she saw it all, the pomp and silence and sadness? And, more worrying, how would Alah cope? Lilibet’s youthful resilience would carry her through. But Alah? Marion made up her mind to clear the air with her that evening. As irritating as the older woman could be, Marion had become fond of her over the last four years, and she knew Alah deserved her respect. Marion had thought over what she had said, and while not agreeing with all of it, she accepted that maybe she did want to be closer to the family than any other servant. And that was wrong.

In Fortnum & Mason, Tommy, with his air of complete superiority, swept Marion through to the tearoom. The room was light and airy, painted in a subtle duck-egg blue with highlights of petal pink and primrose yellow – the utter antithesis to the solemnity of Westminster Hall. Marion took in all the grandeur.

‘Are you cold?’ Tommy asked her, his eyes scouring the busy room for a table.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘My wife, Joan, has made me perfect the art of finding a table without a draft. She feels the cold.’ He attracted the attention of a waiter. ‘Table for two.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter smiled and steered them towards a discreetly prominent table. ‘You like this one, sir.’

Tommy nodded.

Several of the surrounding tables couldn’t help but stare as the two of them walked past. Women dressed in fur stoles and hats peered round, and men, some like Tommy in wing collars, looked over. Tommy was quite obviously well-to-do – tall and handsome in the way privately schooled boys tended to develop. And his companion? Also tall, rather ungainly. No beauty. She was neatly dressed, which was acceptable, but she looked less than wealthy, which was not.