Elizabeth has a bright smile fixed to her own face as she goes around the display, finding a comment for whenever she stops. She admires a refrigerator and a Singer sewing machine, though she doubts very much that she will use either. There is a television set, a 22-carat-gold coffee service, a mink coat. Hand-knitted tea-cosies are displayed between antique furniture, pieces of crystal and china of varying quality, a duffle coat trimmed with beaver sent by a man in Milwaukee and more than two thousand other gifts, large and small.

Her head is aching with the tension of waiting for Philip to explode with some new irritation, and it is a relief to get to the end of the display. She needs some time on her own. It’s a mild autumn day. She’ll take Susan for a walk and clear her head, she decides, and for the first time ever even finds herself hoping Philip won’t want to join her. Not that he would, she tells herself. He’s probably longing to jump into his MG and drive off somewhere he can let off steam.

In the event, the King asks Philip for a word in a way that clearly brooks no refusal, and glad that she is not being asked to witness her fiancé’s dressing down over the smoke-bomb incident, Elizabeth takes the opportunity to change into an old tweed skirt, a coat, and a scarf. Whistling for a delighted Susan, she waves off offers of company and heads off into the gardens.

The air smells of tumbled leaves and wood smoke and faint melancholy. Perhaps Margaret was right, and they should have waited until spring. Then perhaps there wouldn’t have been such a rush and things could have been sorted out in a calmer way. But it is too late to change their minds now.

Beyond the walls Elizabeth can hear the ceaseless grumble of traffic. The grounds are spacious enough but tired and brown and wherever she walks, she comes across the high brick wall that surrounds the garden. It’s not a prison, of course it isn’t, but sometimes, sometimes it feels like one. She wishes she could be spirited away to Balmoral or Sandringham or even Windsor, somewhere there is space to breathe. There have been so many problems associated with wedding, so many decisions to be made, that it feels as if there has been little time to enjoy the engagement and she is left feeling tense and jagged around the edges. If only she could be sure she has done the right thing. It hurts to see Philip so unhappy.

As if the thought of him has conjured Philip up, Elizabeth hears his voice calling her name and she stops and turns to see him striding along the lake path towards her. He doesn’t look unhappy now.

He looks furious.

His face is white, his brows an angry slash across his nose, his mouth thin with rage.

‘Your father and Tommy Lascelles …’ He can barely speak, he is so angry. ‘I’ve just been dressed down like a damned schoolboy!’

Elizabeth opens her mouth to mediate as usual, to say something soothing. Instead, something quite different comes out.

‘It sounds to me like you’ve been behaving like one.’

Philip’s head snaps back as if she has slapped him; it feels as if she has. His eyes narrow. ‘Oh, so you’ve been party to the let’s-find-something-else-to-tick-Philip-off-for sessions too, have you?’

‘If you mean have I been told that you and David made exhibitions of yourselves by throwing smoke bombs around, then yes, I have.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It was just a bit of harmless fun. Nobody was hurt.’

‘I understand it caused a good deal of damage, not to mention embarrassment.’

‘No one was embarrassed,’ Philip insists, glowering, and Elizabeth looks him straight in the eye.

‘I’m embarrassed,’ she says. ‘My future husband, my future consort, thinks it’s funny to drink too much and throw smoke bombs around, not caring about anybody who might be shocked or inconvenienced. Of course I’m embarrassed, and the King is embarrassed, and you should be embarrassed too.’

‘Oh, right, so I can’t even have a good time with my friends anymore?’ Philip demands. ‘I’m dogged wherever I go by bloody reporters. I can’t do anything without that old monster Tommy Lascelles hauling me over the coals! What am I allowed to do, Elizabeth? Stand to attention like a stuffed dummy with my hands tied behind my back? What kind of life is that?

‘You knew what life as a member of the royal family would be,’ she points out. Philip’s anger is making her feel nauseous, but they need to have this out. She can’t back down now.

‘I didn’t know it would be as bad as this!’ Philip hunches a sullen shoulder. ‘I didn’t think it would be … like this. Stupid of me.’

Elizabeth’s hands are folded at her waist. She makes herself take a breath, keep her voice even. ‘Do you want to change your mind, Philip?’

‘I can’t, can I?’ He paces away from her, then back. ‘You saw all those presents. People have made sacrifices for us. We can hardly send them all back and say, sorry, we changed our minds. It’s all gone too far to stop now.’

It is not what Elizabeth wants to hear. All he needed to say was no, I haven’t changed my mind, but instead he is feeling trapped. If he could change his mind, he would: that’s what he is saying, and her throat burns with disappointment.

‘It would certainly be awkward,’ she says in a level voice even as the forbidden anger burns through her. ‘But it would be better than being trapped in a marriage you will regret. I thought we had an agreement, Philip,’ she goes on. ‘I know you don’t want to marry me. I know you don’t love me. You’ve never pretended you did, and I’ve appreciated your honesty. You’ve made it perfectly clear you wanted to marry me because I’m heir to the throne. You wanted the position. Well, this is the position.

‘No, wait,’ she says, lifting a hand as Philip opens his mouth to remonstrate. ‘Don’t say anything yet. Take a good look at yourself and what you want. Think what being married involves,’ she tells him, ‘because after 20th November, there will be no going back. There will be no divorce and no chance of one, and you won’t be able to follow your father’s example and lead a separate life that suits you. That is not going to happen,’ she says clearly, coldly, because that is more controllable than the anger roiling along her veins.

‘So you can choose your freedom and we’ll cancel the wedding – somehow – or you can step up to the position you said you wanted, and if you’re going to do that, at least do it properly.’

She looks around for the dog who is snuffling in the undergrowth. ‘Susan, come!’ she commands and something in her voice has the corgi scrambling smartly back to the path.

Elizabeth looks back at Philip. ‘Have a think and let me know what you decide,’ she says, amazed at her own control, and she turns and walks deliberately away from him, leaving Philip gaping after her.

Chapter 47

London, November 1947

Philip’s sense of grievance runs white hot for several days after being dismissed – yes, dismissed! – by Elizabeth. He has never seen her angry before and that glimpse of fire, usually so carefully banked down, has shaken him more than he cares to admit.

A lark that got out of hand, that was all it was, but they have all reacted as if he has committed some crime against the state! He’s used to disapproval from the King and his advisers, but Elizabeth’s reaction … no, he didn’t like that. She has always been so gentle and supportive that he is still stinging from her rebuff.