She followed him through the station, where a car was waiting. He opened the front passenger door for her, before putting her bags in the back and hopping into the driving seat.

‘Thank you so much.’

‘All part of the service.’ He turned the ignition over and let the handbrake off. ‘Have you been to Windsor before, Miss Crawford?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been out of Scotland until now.’

‘Welcome, then, Miss Crawford.’

‘Please … call me Marion.’

‘And you can call me Peter, but to the rest of the household I’m known as Jackson the Chauffeur, just as you’ll be known as Miss Crawford the Governess – or something else. If I know anything about the family, you’ll get a nickname sooner rather than later. They love that sort of thing.’

‘Just Marion will do me fine,’ Marion replied. She was looking at all the shops lining both sides of the road, their lights shining onto a drizzled pavement. ‘This is a lovely street. I have never seen anything like it. Where are we?’

‘Peascod Street. Beautiful, isn’t it? Look up ahead.’ He pointed to the windscreen. ‘See the walls of the castle?’

Straight ahead of them, the fortress walls of the castle began to emerge, rounded and as solid as the day they were built, over eight hundred years before.

Marion’s mouth gaped for a second. ‘Is this where I am to live?’

Jackson laughed. ‘Not unless you’ve been bad; then you might be thrown into the dungeons.’

Marion laughed too. ‘Don’t say that!’

‘You won’t be working here. This is where the King and Queen spend their weekends. Not bad, is it?’

‘It’s unbelievable. Where shall I be, then?’

‘You’ll spend most weekends at Royal Lodge.’

‘That sounds a lot more cosy. Is it a sort of gate house to Windsor Castle?’

‘It’s bigger than that – very grand. You’ll see. It’s where I am taking you now, but during the week you’ll be holed up in 145 Piccadilly, the Duke and Duchess’s London home.’

After about ten minutes, Jackson slowed the car and turned left down a short drive, leading them between two gates. ‘Almost there.’

The drive snaked gently through the dark trees until Royal Lodge loomed ahead of them. It was white, pretty and huge. ‘It’s a palace,’ Marion said.

Jackson jogged round the car to open her door. ‘Royal Lodge has only thirty rooms. The palace has at least twenty times that. Mind you, the inside is all gold leaf, priceless rugs and crystal chandeliers, so it does feel like a palace.’

He took her cases from the boot and carried them to the porticoed front door. ‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said, with a mock bow. ‘And if you like a walk there’s ninety-eight acres for you to plod round.’

In moments the front door was opened, flooding the front steps with the glow from within.

‘Good evening, Miss Crawford. We have been expecting you.’ A man stood before her, in the black tailcoat and striped trousers of a butler. ‘Do come in. You must be tired after your journey. I am Ainslie, their Royal Highnesses’ butler.’