At one point she looked out on to the garden and the hill beyond and said to the King, in full earshot of the Yorks, owners of the said garden, ‘Don’t you think, David darling, that the view could be improved by moving a few of the trees and flattening part of the hill?’

The Duchess remained the very distillate of unruffled. If the remark was designed to irritate, the very opposite appeared true. The Duchess smiled and even managed a light joke. ‘Goodness. Our weekends would be busy.’

As we were leaving, we all had to admire the King’s new American station wagon car, a huge boat of a machine.

‘Isn’t she marvellous?’ the King said.

The Duchess said it was delightful.

Mrs Simpson replied, laughing all the while (and I still cannot believe she actually said this): ‘I am left with a distinct impression that while the Duchess is sold on an American car, she is not so sold on the King’s other American interests.’

How does one respond to that?

In short, my darling Joan, I fear the woman is unsuitable company for a King to keep. He reminds me so much of Mr Toad from The Wind in The Willows, always looking for the next great excitement.

Talking of which, plans for his coronation are coming together for next spring. Definitely good reason for you to go hat shopping.

And don’t forget to let me know re dahlias and earwigs.

Your

Tommy xxx

While Tommy signed and sealed his letter in London, Crawfie was at her desk in Royal Lodge, writing a letter to George.

She had procrastinated for too long. She was going back to Scotland very soon for her summer break and it was only good manners to let him know of her return, in case he wished to avoid seeing her. She had agonized over the wording, but finally decided that she had better be short and to the point.

Dear George,

I do hope you are well. I am coming back to Dunfermline next week and will be staying with my parents. I shall be home until early September. I hope you might be free to meet. It would be very nice to hear all your news.

I quite understand if this does not suit.

Yours truly,

Marion

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dunfermline, late August 1936

Marion felt the chill of the Scottish evening as she stepped off the train at Dunfermline station. In London, she had left behind a sweltering August, and even though she’d brought a coat, she was rueing her decision not to wear a cardigan as well.

She carried her bags to the small taxi office, hoping that they would have a car available. She found him sitting behind his glass window, smoking a pipe.

‘Mr McGregor?’

He looked up and grinned. ‘Ah, Miss Crawford. Back home again. What is our new King like? Have you met him yet?’

She ignored the question. ‘Do you have a wee car to go?’