It was the start of a new year, but just like last year and the year before, May wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it. The last New Year she had truly enjoyed had been three years ago, before anxieties about what was happening in Russia and in South Africa had surfaced. In the June of that year, after Alicky had given birth to her second girl, Tatiana, the British Ambassador to St Petersburg had informed Granny Queen that there were rumours that if Alicky’s next child was also a girl, Nicky’s uncles intended removing him from the throne and replacing him with his younger brother, George.

Alicky hadn’t mentioned such things in her letters to May – letters that were becoming more and more sporadic – but four months ago she had written that she was once again pregnant, and May was aware of how vitally important it was that this time the baby was a boy.

In South Africa long-term unrest between Dutch and British settlers had, a little more than a year ago, boiled over into war. And now, arriving back at York Cottage after three days in Wales, where she had attended the funeral of a young man who had died in the fighting, May was in a deeply depressed state of mind. The deceased had been the twenty-two-old son of one of her ladies-in-waiting, just one of thousands of British soldiers to have died since the beginning of the Boer War fifteen months ago – a war that showed no signs yet of coming to an end.

It was a war that was affecting hundreds of thousands of families in Britain, including her own, for all three of her brothers were fighting in the Transvaal. Dolly was a major in the 17th Lancers; Frank was a major in the 1st Dragoons, and Alge was a second lieutenant in the 7th Hussars and only two months ago had received the Distinguished Service Order for bravery in combat.

Almost as many men were dying from sickness in the inhospitable climate as from battle wounds. One of her most engaging and likeable royal cousins, thirty-three-year-old Christle, Marie-Louise’s brother, had served as a staff officer and had died of enteric fever. A telegram told his parents that Frank had been with him when he died. ‘And so at least he didn’t die amongst strangers,’ Uncle Christian had said, his voice breaking in grief. ‘He had a brother-in-arms who was also a much-loved cousin with him, and Frank ensured that Christle’s funeral was carried out just as we would have wanted.’

Having Frank spoken of with appreciation made a welcome change, and May was still thinking about Frank when she walked into her drawing room – a room she had long established as her own by having its brown-and-tan decor altered to a crisp white, with pale-yellow touches.