Perhaps that restraint is a good thing, he tries to persuade himself. There is nothing wrong with guarding your emotions. He does it himself. The last thing he wants is someone who would push and probe and want him to talk about his feelings. Elizabeth understands that, Philip thinks.

And she is kind. He has observed that about her. She notices if the footman winces or the dog limps. She imagines what it must be like for families notified that a son or a father is missing, presumed dead. She worries about the staff who may be blamed if they knock over a vase as they run around the corridors.

She asks him about his father, and he finds himself telling her how strange it was to hear about his death while he was so far away. ‘There isn’t any time to grieve when you’re at war and now that the war is over … it seems too late somehow. I still haven’t had time to go and collect his belongings.’

For the first time, Elizabeth reaches out and touches him voluntarily. She rests her hand on his. ‘I’m so sorry,’ is all she says and when he turns his palm up, she lets their fingers link together.

A clasp of hands may not be much to base a proposal on, Philip realises. But just because Elizabeth isn’t passionately in love with him doesn’t mean they can’t have a successful marriage. In fact, it might work better without messy emotions, he reasons. He only has to look at his own parents whose love match couldn’t survive exile and illness. And look at Dickie and Edwina’s tumultuous marriage! Two passionate, larger-than-life personalities endlessly clashing, constantly having affairs and furious arguments, forever separating and making up. All emotions conducted at fever pitch, for every belly laugh shared, a cutting comment. Every interaction a drama. It is hard sometimes to tell whether they love or hate each other. Philip shudders inwardly at the very thought of being trapped in such a volatile, emotional relationship.

There would be no emotional dramas with Elizabeth. No expectations or demands. And it’s not as if he isn’t fond of her. He is. Perhaps it might not be the most exciting marriage, but he could do worse, he knows. A lot worse.

Chapter 19

Elizabeth tips her head back against the rim of the bath while Bobo bustles around in the bedroom, laying out an evening dress and finding shoes and a bag. What ghastly weather we’re having. She could try that. Or, I do like your dress. But then what if she’s trying to make conversation with a man? The dress opening won’t work then. Isn’t it crowded? That’s always a reliable opener, even if it is dull.

Sighing, she gropes around under the water for the sliver of soap, contemplating it glumly when she draws it out. Once, a new bar of soap was a pleasure: the smooth pristine weight of it, the creamy suds, the heady fragrance of lavender or rose or lily-of-the-valley. Nowadays, with rationing still in place, they must eke out every last piece until it is like this one: cracked and almost transparent, riven with brown lines, grudgingly producing a meagre lather, barely more than a smear.

Rather like her attempts at conversation. Everyone else seems to find talking so easy. She has observed them at parties, laughing and chattering and flirting, but she just can’t do it. She knows she comes across as stiff and stilted but she is shy, and her position only makes things worse. Nobody knows what to say to the future Queen and she doesn’t know what to say to them, so the whole business is wretchedly uncomfortable.

She usually ends up making a beeline for Porchey, who is always happy to talk horses.

But now there’s Philip, of course.

She hopes he’ll be there tonight. He can always make her laugh. He doesn’t make her feel boring or standoffish. Under his intent gaze she becomes intriguing instead of uptight, and the muscles of her face relax into a natural smile.

He won’t monopolise her. Elizabeth half wishes he would, but he is careful not to give rise to any gossip. If he talks to her, it is never for too long and if there’s dancing, he only dances with her once.

Elizabeth has to watch him charming another woman as they dance past, and that woman is always, always beautiful and sophisticated. The other woman knows how to make Philip laugh. She knows just what to say and how to say it, how to tilt her head and smile and slide a glance under her lashes.

Whenever Elizabeth watches that other woman, she has to remind herself to smile at her own partner. It didn’t take long before someone told her how ‘very close’ Philip had been with Osla Benning, who is exactly as beautiful and assured as the other women Philip asks to dance. Osla is married now, Elizabeth is glad to know. She has met Philip’s old friend Hélène, too. Bright, bubbly, pretty, friendly … Hélène is everything Elizabeth is not, and although she is also married with children, she inevitably makes Elizabeth feel gauche in comparison.

With another sigh, Elizabeth gets out of the bath and wraps herself in the towel Bobo has warmed for her. The Scotswoman has been with her since she was a tiny girl, so long that Elizabeth cannot remember Bobo’s real name.

Used to being dressed, she lets Bobo fuss around her, zipping her into the dress and twitching the skirt so it hangs properly.

‘It’s a lovely dress,’ Bobo says approvingly. ‘The blue is very nice on you.’ She bends to pick up a pair of shoes and move them close to Elizabeth’s stockinged feet. ‘What do you think of these shoes with it?’

‘I’m sure they’ll be fine.’ Elizabeth wiggles first one foot then the other into the shoes while Bobo clicks her tongue.

‘You should take a little more interest in what you look like!’

‘Honestly, Bobo, I’d rather be in jodhpurs.’ Elizabeth studies her reflection glumly.

‘Och, come now,’ Bobo scolds, handing her a pair of evening gloves. ‘You look very pretty. Or you would do if you would only smile,’ she adds sternly and Elizabeth blows out a breath.

‘I wish Philip was coming here. It’s so much more comfortable not to have to go out and make conversation.’

Bobo snorts at Philip’s name. ‘Don’t you like him, Bobo?’

‘It’s not my place to like or dislike him,’ Bobo says stiffly.

‘But …?’

‘But he treats you a mite too free and easy, if you ask me.’

Elizabeth smiles and pulls on the gloves, pressing down between the fingers. ‘I like that. I like that he doesn’t treat me as if I’m made of glass.’

‘There’s nothing to stop him putting on a tie when he comes to the palace, is there?’ Bobo counters. ‘But I like the way your eyes always sparkle when he’s been,’ she concedes.

To her relief, Philip is one of the first people Elizabeth sees when she enters the party that night. He’s across the room, looking dashing in evening dress. The room is crowded and the chatter of conversation deafening, competing with music from a gramophone in the corner. Almost everyone is smoking and her eyes sting as she threads her way through the throng, trying to get over to him as subtly as possible.

‘Bobo thinks you should dress like that when you come to the palace for supper,’ Elizabeth tells him when she gets there, nodding at his dinner jacket and tie. She has to raise her voice above the sound of the party.

Philip raises his brows. ‘And who exactly is Bobo?’

‘My dresser.’