‘I’ve been inspired by Botticelli’s Primavera,’ he told them in his fulsome manner, snapping his fingers at an assistant who leapt forward with a print of the painting with a flourish. ‘Particularly by Flora – here, you see – in her white garment.’

Another snap of his fingers and there is another assistant, this one producing a sketch of Hartnell’s design. ‘I see the princess’s dress like this,’ he said grandly. ‘White satin, embroidered with seed pearls and crystals in a flower design incorporating roses – York roses, of course! – lilac, jasmine …’

‘Oh, Mr Hartnell, it will be magical!’ The Queen was delighted and the designer beamed.

‘Thank you, Your Majesty. As for the veil, I’m envisaging white tulle and a long train alive with the same flower motifs as the dress.’

‘Exquisite,’ the Queen said as she admired the sketch. ‘A fairy-tale creation.’

‘Precisely, ma’am. Because who amongst us does not need a fairy tale? I thought, too, a diamond tiara …?’ He glanced at the first assistant who hastily replaced the print with a photograph of the Queen wearing a tiara before the war. ‘Something like this?’

‘Oh, yes … that would perfect.’ Elizabeth’s mother smiled sweetly. ‘But Queen Mary has offered her own tiara for the day. Something borrowed, you know.’

Hartnell bowed deeply. ‘Of course. What a marvellous idea.’

Only then did they both turn to Elizabeth. ‘What do you think, Elizabeth?’ her mother asked.

Elizabeth was thinking that in fairy tales the prince is in love with the princess. But she smiled, of course, because that’s what princesses do, and told Mr Hartnell that his design was beautiful, which it was.

Remembering the scene a little sadly now, Elizabeth tells herself yet again to stop being so silly. She is marrying Philip. They came to an agreement and she has what she wanted. It is too late now to start getting sentimental or resentful about the fact that she still has to be back at the palace by ten o’clock at night, while Philip can drop her off and then roar off in his MG to meet his friends for late-night drinks and laughter. She said she would not interfere with his life as long as he was discreet.

But now it seems he is not being discreet.

It hasn’t taken long for the story about the smoke bomb at the Thursday Club to reach Buckingham Palace. Elizabeth is told about Philip’s exploit by the King and a deeply disapproving Tommy Lascelles.

‘It’s time the boy grew up,’ snaps the King. ‘Tommy’s had to work hard to keep the story out of the papers. God knows what people would think if they knew the heir to the throne is marrying someone who’s carrying on like an idiot. I’ve asked him to come and see me,’ he tells Elizabeth to her dismay. ‘I’ll try and knock some sense into him.’

Elizabeth can’t imagine anything less effective but she’s cross with Philip for causing yet another problem to be smoothed over.

‘We warned you he wasn’t one of us, Lilibet,’ her father says. ‘He doesn’t have the same sense of humour.’

‘While Your Royal Highness is here,’ Tommy puts in smoothly before Elizabeth can respond, ‘there is another matter it might be wise to discuss at this stage.’

Elizabeth suppresses a sigh. ‘What’s that, Tommy?’

‘It’s to do with the marriage vows. As you know, Lieutenant Mountbatten’s rank is considerably lower than yours, particularly now that he has given up his royal title. You are, moreover, a senior officer in the services. Might it not be a little incongruous if you were to use the traditional vows for a bride which, as you know, are “to love, to cherish, and to obey” her husband?’

‘No, Tommy,’ Elizabeth says firmly and he pauses, his brows lifting in polite enquiry.

‘Your Royal Highness?’

‘No, I’m not going to change the vows,’ she clarifies. ‘I am to be Philip’s wife so I intend to promise to obey him. There are few enough opportunities for us to have a traditional marriage, and it’s important that he knows I’m happy to be a wife like any other. We cannot take this away from him as well.’

***

That afternoon she and Philip are due to view an exhibition of some of the presents that have been pouring in from all over the world. Some are spectacular indeed. Her parents have given her a magnificent double-string pearl necklace. The Shah of Persia has sent a beautiful Persian carpet, a wreath of diamond roses has come from the Nezam of Hyderabad. Elizabeth’s secret favourite, a gift from the Aga Khan, is Astrakhan, a chestnut thoroughbred filly who for obvious reasons is not on display, though Elizabeth has already been to coo over her at the royal stud.

Other gifts are less grand but more useful. Twelve engraved champagne glasses and a fitted picnic case from Margaret. American towels and bathmats from Mrs Roosevelt. More touching still are the gifts from ordinary people whose generosity has left Elizabeth overwhelmed and humbled. They have sent handkerchiefs and nylon stockings, hand-knitted tea cosies and embroidered linen and clothing coupons to help with her trousseau. Knowing how hard so many people are struggling with austerity and rationing, Elizabeth is moved almost to tears by such thoughtfulness. All the coupons must be returned, though, as it is illegal to give them away, and she signs many letters of heartfelt thanks as they are posted back.

Together with Margaret, Crawfie, and her lady-in-waiting she has been opening most of the parcels as they arrive. Crawfie opened a round, heavy parcel with some trepidation. ‘I hope it’s not a bomb,’ she said but when she snatched off the last piece of paper it turned out to be a lump of rock, sent by an elderly Welshman for luck. A piece of Snowdon, he said. Another parcel contained two soggy pieces of burnt toast, sent by two young women who were so excited at hearing news of the engagement that they let their toast burn to a cinder. As proof of their story they posted the charred toast together with a really charming letter of congratulation which made up for the disgusting mess that fell out of the envelope at first.

Now all the presents have been put on display in St James’s Palace, and the royal family are due to inspect them with Philip and Queen Mary. At least Philip has put on a suit for the occasion, but his face is set and his manner abrupt. Elizabeth’s heart sinks the moment she sees him. Increasingly, it feels as if he is regretting their engagement and looking for a way out and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

The King is already cross about the smoke bomb, and matters aren’t improved when Philip falls out with her grandmother over a gift from Gandhi. It is a fringed lacework tray cloth made out of yarn spun by Gandhi himself on his own wheel, apparently at the suggestion of Mountbatten. Unfortunately, her grandmother mistakes it for a loincloth and is affronted.

‘Such an indelicate gift!’ she declares. ‘What a horrible thing!’

Instead of making allowances for her mistake, Philip immediately goes on the attack. ‘I don’t think it’s horrible at all,’ he says. ‘Gandhi is a wonderful man. A very great man.’

Queen Mary gives him a stony look in return and moves on in disgusted silence, which does nothing to improve Philip’s mood.

Chapter 46