‘Yes,’ she says again on a shaky breath. There, it was done. The proposal was made. Now all she can do is wait for Philip’s reply.

He doesn’t answer immediately. A flock of oyster catchers fly squabbling over the loch and she watches them disappear up the valley before Philip speaks.

‘Can I be honest?’

Her heart sinks. It doesn’t sound very promising. ‘Of course,’ she says with a brittle smile. ‘I hope you will be.’

‘I do have one small problem,’ he confides.

‘Oh. I see.’

Philip picks up her hand. ‘The thing is, I know that it’s protocol for you to propose to me, but I really, really wanted to propose to you.’

‘Oh …’ A smile, a real one, trembles into life as she turns to him. ‘I thought Papa told you to wait?’

‘He did, but we’ve done enough waiting, don’t you think?’

Elizabeth nods vehemently. ‘I do.’

‘Well then, as we’re here alone, and this is the place where you’re just Elizabeth, I say we forget about protocol,’ Philip says. ‘Let’s agree that we want to get married because it suits us and because we think we can make it work, and to hell with everybody else. We may not be lovers, but we’re friends and we can be partners.’

‘Exactly,’ Elizabeth says, wishing she could have put it that clearly. Perhaps it would have been nice to have been lovers as well as friends and partners, but there is no use in longing for the impossible and at least this way she will be with Philip. That is what matters.

‘In that case, let’s forget about what your father thinks and what the government thinks and what the public thinks,’ he goes on. ‘Let’s decide what we want.’ His hand tightens around hers. ‘Will you marry me, Elizabeth, and be my wife so that we can face whatever the future brings side by side?’

Relief and happiness are making Elizabeth feel giddy. ‘Yes,’ she says, smiling, curling her fingers to tangle with his. ‘Yes, I will, Philip.’

He throws back his head and laughs. ‘Well, that went better than I thought!’

‘You must have known I would say yes.’

Philip sobers at that. ‘I wasn’t sure. I know you don’t want to disappoint your father. They’re not going to like it,’ he warns.

‘This is all I’m asking for myself,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I don’t think it’s too much.’

‘I don’t either,’ he says. He eases her down onto the boulder. ‘And now all that’s agreed, can I kiss you?’

Laughing shakily, she slides her hands up to his shoulders. ‘I was hoping you would.’

Chapter 28

It is an enchanted morning, one Elizabeth tells herself she will remember for ever. When things are hard, as they will be, this is the memory she will turn to: the breeze, just enough to keep the midges at bay, ruffling their hair tenderly; the curlew calling in the distance; the mountains standing guard.

And Philip beside her. The warmth of his hand around hers, the way his eyes crease when he smiles. His mouth. That, especially. Thinking about the way it feels when he kisses her, when he touches her, sets a fine tremor going in the pit of her belly. It is a strange feeling, half thrilled, half languid, as if she is drenched in the sunshine that pours down and through her, seeping into every last inch of her and bringing a warm throb of happiness.

They won’t like it, Philip warned and Elizabeth knows he is right, but she doesn’t want to think about the difficulties ahead, not yet.

They sit by the loch, leaning against each other, talking in a way they have never been able to before. Because now everything has changed.

I want to marry you.

Philip wants to marry her, Elizabeth.

By mutual consent, they don’t talk about the future. It is too uncertain for now, so they talk about the past instead. About the time they met at the Royal Naval College before the war.

‘I thought you were a show-off,’ Elizabeth tells Philip, tucking her tongue into her cheek.

‘I can’t help it if I beat you at croquet,’ he says. ‘Admit it, you were impressed by me.’

‘Only by how greedy you were,’ she says.

Philip grins and links his hands behind his head so he can lie back. ‘When did you first realise that your life was going to be different from everybody else’s?’ he asks, wriggling his shoulders into a more comfortable position. ‘Was it at your father’s coronation?’

Elizabeth rests her cheek on her bent knees and thinks about it for a while. ‘Before that,’ she decides. ‘I was taken to Westminster Hall to see my grandfather lying in state. It was a horrible night. Dark, wet, bitterly cold.’

She wore a black coat and a new black velvet tammy. She remembers stroking the beret and thinking how soft it was before she had to put it on. Bobo instantly tutted at the unconsciously jaunty tilt she achieved and straightened it to a more sober angle.

‘I remember driving past all those people, standing in silence, a long queue that went on and on and on, like a great snake,’ she tells Philip. ‘I asked Mummy what they were doing and she said they were waiting to pay their respects to Grandpa England.’

The huge medieval hall yawned before Elizabeth as they paused at the entrance and let their eyes adjust to the gloom. It was very dark, lit only by the candles on a raised platform where her grandfather’s coffin was draped in the Royal Standard, and the silence pressed around them like a blanket. She was glad to hold her mother’s hand, Elizabeth remembers that. She remembers other things, too: their footsteps on the stone floor; the damp, suffocating smell of the flowers piled up around the platform.

‘The coffin was on a dais,’ she goes on. ‘Papa was standing at one corner, Uncle David, Uncle George and Uncle Henry at the others.’

‘Keeping vigil?’

She nods. ‘I remember how completely still and silent they were. It was so strange. I looked at Uncle David and I couldn’t believe it. He was normally so restless. Always shrugging or frowning or smiling or lighting a cigarette … Margaret and I used to love it when he played with us. He was funny and kind to us.’ Elizabeth swallows, reminding herself that her uncle is persona non grata with her parents now. ‘Anyway, it seemed extraordinary to me that he could stand so still. He didn’t move so much as an eyelid. I was looking straight at him, too.’

‘Were you sad?’ Philip asks after a moment.

‘I don’t think I really realised that it was Grandpapa in the coffin so I didn’t cry.’ She wouldn’t have been allowed to cry in any case. ‘I was sad when he died, though. He was a wonderful grandfather. He used to get down on all fours and play with me.’ A reminiscent smile curves her mouth. ‘He had a parrot called Charlotte, and he gave me Peggy, my first pony. I know Papa used to find him daunting, but he wasn’t like that with me.’

‘I’m sure I would have found him daunting too.’

‘You?’ She turns to him. ‘I doubt it. I can’t imagine you being daunted by anybody. You’re so sure of yourself. You’re not frightened of anything.’

‘You haven’t seen me quaking in front of Queen Mary,’ Philip says.