‘Thank God we don’t have to smile any more,’ Georgie said devoutly. ‘You don’t mind if I close my eyes and have a snooze, do you, May? It never occurred to me that getting married would be so exhausting.’

She didn’t mind. She, too, was in dire need of a little peace and quiet. Until now she had refused to allow herself to think of anything other than the nervous tension of the ceremonial procession from Buckingham Palace and the wedding service. Now that those two hurdles were behind her, she had no excuse not to face what she had always known would be her biggest hurdle – Sandringham.

It was still so linked to memories of Eddy’s agonizing death that it was the last place on earth she would have chosen for their honeymoon. She had hoped for Florence, or indeed anywhere that didn’t have such painful memories. Instead, Georgie had chosen for them to spend their honeymoon at York Cottage on the Sandringham estate. Even worse, York Cottage, only a hundred yards from the big house, was where they were to make their home.

She bit her lip, knowing she had to forget the unhappy memories associated with Sandringham and think instead of how she and Georgie were on the threshold of making lots of new, happy memories there.

As the train steamed north-east out of London, May’s thoughts turned to how the two of them were going to manage the coming night. Would Georgie know what to do? Had he had any previous experience?

She certainly hadn’t, but her mother, a stranger to embarrassment, had told her what to expect.

‘The first time isn’t comfortable,’ she had said frankly, when she had finished explaining the mechanics of what would take place, ‘but you’ll get used to it. You can get used to anything, given time. And Georgie is a gentleman,’ she had added reassuringly. ‘And that always helps.’

That evening in York Cottage they had a game of bezique and then several games of Halma. At last, as the drawing-room clock chimed ten o’clock, Georgie said, putting the Halma pieces back into their box and not meeting her eye, ‘It’s time to turn in, I think, May. It’s been a long day.’

They walked up the stairs together and then, in their separate dressing rooms, changed into their nightclothes. Her nightdress, made of white silk lavishly embellished with French lace, demurely long-sleeved and high at the throat, fell reassuringly all the way down to her ankles. Dismissing her maid, she gave a last look in the mirror and, with her heart pounding, entered the lamplit bedroom.

A nightshirted George was sitting up in bed, waiting for her. ‘You look very pretty, May,’ he said, sounding as nervous as she felt, as she got into bed beside him. ‘I like you with your hair unbraided.’

She lay down an inch or two away from him.