Crawfie saw the Duchess’s eyes tighten.

‘Hello,’ they said politely.

The King lit a cigarette. ‘My new car, and Mrs Simpson, are both from America. Do you like my car?’

‘Yes, but it’s jolly noisy,’ said Lilibet.

‘But that’s the part you will like when you come for a ride with your Uncle David and Aunt Wallis.’

The girls looked at her shyly. Uncle David’s friends were always very smart and pretty, but this woman had none of the curves and comfort their mother had. Her perfume was overpowering and body too angular.

‘Give her a kiss then,’ the King told them.

They did so. All three of them looking stilted and uncomfortable.

‘Well, now.’ Their mother smiled – satisfied, Crawfie thought, that her daughters would not take to the American interloper. ‘Time for bed, girls.’

Upstairs, as Crawfie helped Bobo to tuck them in, Margaret whispered to her, ‘I still don’t like Uncle David’s friend. Her dress’s so tight you could see her bones.’

Lilibet whispered back, ‘I don’t think Mummy likes her either.’

‘Now, now.’ Crawfie reached for the new Agatha Christie. ‘She is a lady a long way from her home, so we must be kind.’

Crawfie went to bed that night without once thinking about George, or the letter she should write him.

Chapter Twenty-One

Royal Lodge, August 1936

Tommy came up on the early Sunday morning train from London to Windsor. He had planned to go to West Sussex for the weekend; his family home was in the small village of Bepton, at the foot of the Sussex Downs, and it had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen his wife Joan and their three children. How he longed to be back home. He could do with a damned good walk as much as anything. The South Downs Way always cleared his mind of the clutter of state.

When in London he lived and worked at Buckingham Palace, which Joan didn’t like. He frequently attempted to soothe her anxieties, persuading her that she and the children were better off out of the capital, which of course they were. They could lead a perfectly normal life with perfectly normal hours, rather than constantly wondering where he was, when would he be home and whether he had eaten. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss her. He loved to take her out for lunch in Chichester, or go swimming at the Witterings, or do the gardening together.

Simple things, but all his plans were currently dashed.

The Duke and Duchess of York had invited the King to a family lunch at Royal Lodge. Alec Hardinge, the King’s private secretary, and therefore Tommy’s boss, could not attend; thus, as assistant private secretary, Tommy was obliged to show his face.

Joan had been disappointed but understanding.

‘Will Mrs Simpson be there?’ she had asked.

‘I have no idea,’ he had replied.

‘Well, if she is, I want you to tell me all.’

He climbed out of the car that had been sent to collect him from Windsor station and stood for a moment, surveying the large and beautiful house and garden. A pleasant breeze brought with it the smell of newly mown grass. The flower beds were rather ordinary, shrubs mostly, but there were a few good roses too. He must remember to ask Joan how the roses were doing in Sussex.