Although Dolly was bored nearly out of his mind, May wasn’t. She was fascinated by the diligent way the Queen attended to her red despatch boxes; by how state duty was carried out daily, even in the remote fastness of the Cairngorms. The house intrigued her as well. Nowhere was there a clear surface. Every desk, sideboard, occasional table and writing table held a galaxy of silver-framed family photographs. Cheek-by-jowl were bronze casts of small, chubby hands. One was of Beatrice’s hand, made, according to its label, when she had been three. Another was of the childhood hand of Leopold, Aunt Queen’s youngest son, who had suffered from haemophilia and had died from it seven years earlier. Every wall was thick with antlers or paintings, and sometimes both. Everything made of wood had a thistle carved into it.

May would have loved to know what Thaddeus would have made of the glorious hotchpotch garishness. They hadn’t exchanged letters in more than a year, but knowing how delighted he would be to receive a letter on Balmoral stationery, she had written to him during one long, empty afternoon when Dolly had been playing billiards with Henry and everyone else, apart from the Scottish household staff, had been resting.

The day before they were to return to London, the Queen announced that only May would accompany her on her afternoon carriage ride.

‘This is it, May,’ Dolly said, when no one was near enough to hear him. ‘This is when the mystery will be over and we’ll get to know who it is she has in mind for you.’

The weather next day was breezy and bitterly cold. ‘It is,’ the Queen announced as the carriage horses set off at a brisk trot, ‘what the Scottish call a verra raw day.’

She was suitably swathed in a black cloak of heavy warm wool, a black bonnet tied firmly beneath her chin. May had her coat collar up, her fur hat pulled over her ears and her gloved hands tucked deep inside her muff.