Staring into the flames of the fire, Alah agreed. ‘Those poor boys. They did their father very proud tonight.’

‘I smiled at Papa, but he didn’t smile back. And then Big Ben chimed nine times and it was so noisy. The floor shook under us and made my ears hurt a bit.’

‘Oh my.’ Bobo could picture it all. ‘And are you glad you went? It wasn’t too frightening?’

‘It was just very sad.’ Lilibet looked into the fire. ‘I wish I could have said goodbye to him properly, but we are not allowed to open his box.’

Alah stopped this line of conversation immediately. ‘Now, young lady.’ She pointed at Lilibet. ‘It’s way past your time for bed, so off you go, please. Bobo will take you.’

‘Good night, Alah.’ Lilibet yawned. ‘Thank you for taking me. Bobo, may I have some warm milk?’

‘As long as you don’t wake your sister.’

‘I won’t, I promise.’

Crawfie was in her room just across the nursery landing when she heard Bobo taking Lilibet to bed. She stepped out of her room and went to check on Alah. She found her sobbing quietly in her chair by the fire.

‘It’s only me,’ she said softly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh Crawfie, dear … I’m glad to have seen it, but it was all so final. I kept thinking about him waving across the park at us from his office, about how much he loved Lilibet and how the Queen must be feeling so lonely.’

Crawfie took Alah’s hands. ‘I felt exactly the same way. But we went, and we said our goodbyes, and the world moves on. Let me make you some cocoa.’

‘Thank you. That would be very nice.’

‘And Alah, I am so sorry about last night. It was wrong of me to think I could take Lilibet today. And some of the things you said I have thought about, even though they hurt. We both want the best for the family, and that is all that matters.’

Alah looked up at her and smiled through her tears.

PART TWO

Chapter Nineteen

145 Piccadilly, August 1936

Crawfie was looking for Ainslie, butler to the Duke and Duchess of York. She found him in the neatness of the post-breakfast kitchen, reading The Times.

‘Good morning, Ainslie.’

He closed the paper and folded it quickly. ‘Morning, Miss Crawford. May I be of help?’

‘The Princesses will have lunch in the nursery today, please, and I wonder if the post has arrived?’

‘I shall let Cook know. The post has indeed arrived, but there is nothing for you today.’

A frown crossed Marion’s face. She had written to George weekly since her return to London in the New Year and, at the start, he had replied at the same rate. He wrote lovely, fond letters, full of funny stories about the customers at the motorcar showroom, or how he and Christopher Bailey were happily banking the money that came from a sale. But over the last couple of months his letters had become less regular and certainly shorter. The last one had arrived almost three weeks ago. She did have a telephone number for him, but it was for the showroom and she was nervous that Christopher Bailey would answer. She couldn’t bear the thought of him making jokes about her. But what had happened – why wouldn’t he write? Was George getting bored with her? Had she read too much into the affection he had shown her at New Year? London was such a long way from Scotland, and there were girls far prettier than her who would be attracted to a handsome man like him.