‘Well, it’s good to know you’re making yourself at home.’

Sitting beside her uncle, Elizabeth stiffens at the snide note in his voice. ‘Philip’s good at making a home,’ she says. ‘I never notice furnishings or anything like that, but he does. It’s wonderful the difference he’s made to the feel of my sitting room.’

‘Rather surprising,’ David says, ‘given that he’s never had a home of his own.’

Her uncle means it unpleasantly, Elizabeth knows, but it is true nonetheless. Surreptitiously, she studies Philip who is attacking his meal with a kind of furious energy. His brows are drawn together over the bridge of his nose.

She needs to remember that he has never known the security of a home and make allowances for his prickliness. This isn’t an easy situation for him, and if he can seem distant, well, when has she ever given him any indication that she would welcome more intimacy? That was not in their agreement. She can’t comfort him publicly, and she knows he wouldn’t want her to. But she can give him a home and a family of his own. She will ask her father again about refurbishing Clarence House.

***

As the days pass, Elizabeth lets herself relax. Philip goes grouse shooting with the King and wins her father’s approval by turning out to be a good shot. Sometimes she goes with them and follows the shoot, enjoying the crisp air and the pleasure on Philip’s face when he spots the lunch laid out in the rigged-up tent: venison pies and sausage rolls with Chelsea buns and sandwiches for tea.

There are picnics on the moors and a chance to walk through the pine forests. Sometimes she plays golf with Margaret and on wet days, there is a giant jigsaw puzzle set up on a table.

The one thing there is not is a chance to be alone with Philip. They might be engaged but the days are always fully planned and after dinner the fiddles and bagpipes strike up in the sitting room while a space is cleared for Scottish reels. If Elizabeth is lucky, Philip will grab her hand and swing her into the dance, but it is not as if there is an opportunity to talk and they are soon spun away from each other as they circle in time to the music. Philip doesn’t seem to mind, and Elizabeth tells herself that it’s enough that he is enjoying himself.

But one evening just before he is due to return to duty, they play games instead of dancing. ‘Murder in the Dark!’ the King announces to laughter and gaiety.

‘What a good idea,’ Philip murmurs. He is standing close to her when the lights go out and she stifles a gasp as he pulls her deeper into the shadows and holds her tight.

‘Gotcha!’ he says softly, his mouth at her ear.

‘Are you the murderer?’ she whispers, dizzy at his nearness.

‘I don’t think so. But I’ve got you anyway.’

Chapter 43

London, October 1947

Philip tries not to favour his knee as he climbs the stairs to Elizabeth’s sitting room. He is still irritated with himself at the accident. A wet road, some autumn leaves and his camp record for the ninety-eight mile drive between Corsham and London has been blown. The twisted knee is a bore, but he is more worried about his precious car which came off the worst after its encounter with a hedge.

Thank Christ he’d been in his own car! If he’d been out in one of the cars from the Royal Mews, he would never have heard the end of it from the chauffeurs who cosset their vehicles like horses and shake their heads at the slightest dent or scratch. As it is, he has just had to endure some ribbing from the chaps in the Methuen Arms.

Elizabeth stayed in Scotland after his less than successful visit to Balmoral so he hasn’t seen her for a while. Philip hopes they will be able to recover the closeness they had when they were first engaged. Since the formal announcement, it feels to him as if the court has gone out of its way to keep Elizabeth hemmed in by protocol and tradition – and away from him. It is as if they think of her as the precious brood mare and he is the stallion, reluctantly drafted in to service but otherwise of no use or interest whatsoever.

He barely saw her in Scotland. He spent his days shooting grouse with the King instead. Elizabeth’s father seems obsessed with killing wildlife and given his evident lack of enthusiasm for the engagement, Philip thought it politic to make an effort to get on with him.

Much good it did him. Oh, the King was pleasant enough but the rest of the court made it plain what they thought of him. Philip was left feeling frustrated and out-manoeuvred. He was lucky if he got to touch Elizabeth’s hand when dancing those endless reels. At least Murder in the Dark gave him the opportunity to get a bit closer, but he’d had to be quick.

The worst part of it, Philip acknowledges to himself, is not knowing what Elizabeth herself feels now. She has been schooled to keep her thoughts to herself, but he’d hoped he had got past that invisible guard she erects between herself and the world. Now, he’s not so sure.

They just need some time alone together. Is that too much to ask? Philip grimaces as his knee twinges with every step. He hopes Margaret isn’t there as she usually is for these palace suppers. Elizabeth’s sister can be fun but she dominates the conversation and all too often Elizabeth lets her.

As with so much else at the moment, luck isn’t with him. When Cyril announces him, the first person Philip sees is Margaret, lounging on the sofa in front of the fire and reading a newspaper. He bends to greet Susan who bustles to meet him, then lifts his eyes to Elizabeth. She looks tired, he thinks, and there are lines of strain around eyes, but she smiles and offers her cheek for a chaste embrace.

‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’ she says.

‘All right?’ Philip bristles instantly. ‘Of course I’m all right!’

Margaret waves the newspaper at him. ‘We’ve just been reading about your accident.’

‘Oh, good God, they didn’t bother with that, did they? It was nothing!’

‘That’s not what this paper thinks,’ Margaret informs him. ‘They say you’ve got a reputation for speeding and they think you should be more careful.’ She folds the paper to the right column. ‘“His well-being is essential to the happiness of the heiress of the throne,”’ she reads out.

Philip throws himself down into an armchair. ‘It would be nice if someone gave a fig about my happiness for a change,’ he grumbles.

‘But are you really all right?’ Elizabeth asks as sits carefully in the armchair opposite. Typical of Margaret to appropriate the sofa so he can’t even sit next to his own fiancée, Philip thinks sourly. ‘It sounds as if it was a nasty accident.’

‘It was nothing,’ Philip says again. Irritated, he pulls out his cigarettes, extracts one and taps it on the packet. ‘I skidded on a wet road and ended up in a hedge. Banged my knee up a bit but that’s it. There’s no need for anyone to fuss.’

‘I worry about you driving so fast,’ Elizabeth admits. ‘And smoking,’ she adds pointedly as he fishes out his lighter.

Deliberately Philip lights his cigarette and inhales. ‘I didn’t realise getting engaged meant giving up all my pleasures in life,’ he says.

‘You can see what heavy smoking has done to Papa. Call me a killjoy if you want, but I’d rather you didn’t end up ill too.’