He is nervous.

But when Dean comes back with the tea, Philip brushes aside anxious queries about how he is feeling. ‘I’m fine. Raring to go.’

He is ready far too early. Even spinning out breakfast and then donning his uniform doesn’t fill the allotted time, and he is driven mad by Dean fussing around him and fiddling with his hair.

‘All right, pack it up,’ he says impatiently at last. ‘Let’s get this sword on.’

Gingerly, Dean hands him the Battenberg sword lent by Uncle Dickie. It is a magnificent thing, a jewelled, ceremonial sword and symbol of the Battenberg dynasty. To wear it while marrying the heir to the throne is a momentous thing, Philip realises that. He is fulfilling his uncle’s dream, yes, but he is doing this for himself too, and because he wants to marry Elizabeth. He won’t forget that.

With the sword strapped to side, it is not easy to sit down, and Philip is too restless anyway. He paces around the apartment until David, who is to be his best man, begs him to stop.

‘Here, have a smoke,’ he says, proffering the packet.

Philip eyes it longingly but shakes his head. ‘I’ve given up.’

‘You’ve what?’

‘I’ve given up smoking. I promised Elizabeth I would. It’s a vow – and this isn’t the day to start breaking vows.’

‘Dammit.’ David rolls his eyes as he taps the cigarettes back into the packet. ‘Well, let’s have a G&T instead.’

‘It’s only ten-fifteen!’

‘So? I don’t know about you, but I need something to steady my nerves – and I’m not the one marrying the heir to the throne in front of two hundred million people! If we can’t have a fag, let’s at least have a drink.’

Philip looks at his watch. The car isn’t due to come for them until five to eleven. That leaves more than half an hour to hang around wondering what in God’s name he’s let himself in for.

‘All right,’ he says to David. ‘Better make it a small one, though.’

Chapter 51

Buckingham Palace, 20th November 1947

The sound of bagpipes has woken Elizabeth as usual at six thirty. ‘What’s the weather like?’ she asks Bobo when she brings her a cup of tea.

‘Dreich,’ Bobo opined, drawing back the curtains. ‘But what do you expect for the end of November?’

‘I’m worried about all those people who have slept out. They must have had a cold night.’

‘Aye, well, I don’t doubt they’ll be glad of it when they see you pass by.’

‘Oh, Bobo, I can’t believe it’s really happening!’ Elizabeth puts down the cup and saucer and takes the flesh on her arm between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This is my wedding day.’ The day that seemed as if it would never come is here. The day she has dreamt about for so long. Philip loves her and they are getting married today. ‘I have to keep pinching myself!’

Bobo is never one to lose her head. ‘I’ll go and run your bath,’ is all she says.

Breakfast arrives with a bouquet of white carnations from Philip. Her favourite flower. Elizabeth holds them to her nose, her mouth curving with pleasure at the scent, at the thought.

Still in her dressing gown, she peeps out of her window. Her rooms overlook the Mall, which is already a solid mass of people, with mounted police riding up and down on splendid horses to keep the processional route clear. It’s obvious that huge numbers of people have slept on the pavements and are now having picnic breakfasts, cooking bacon, she guesses, on portable stoves and brewing up coffee. Elizabeth can smell it when she eases open the window. Women are washing their faces, pouring hot water from vacuum flasks into little bowls, and putting on make-up in readiness for the day.

Touched by the efforts they are making to help celebrate her big day, Elizabeth smiles as she turns away from the window. She keeps smiling as she stands patiently for an hour or more while the Hartnell team start the long process of dressing her, checking that every stitch and seam sits perfectly.

They melt away when Monsieur Henri arrives to do her hair, only to reappear to fit the veil, but disaster strikes when her grandmother’s diamond tiara snaps in two as they adjust it on her head.

The crack splinters the buzz of excitement in the room and is followed by an appalled silence. For the first time, Elizabeth’s smile falters.

‘It just came apart in my hands …’ The assistant in charge of the tiara lowering is white-faced and near to tears.

‘Can you fix it?’ Elizabeth asks.

The assistant just looks at the two pieces of the tiara in her hands.

‘Mummy …’ Elizabeth looks helplessly at her mother who steps forward and attempts to calm everyone down.

‘There’s no need to upset yourself, Lilibet. One thing we’re not short of here is tiaras. I’ll ask my dresser to find another. Remember the one Mr Hartnell suggested originally?’

‘No, I want this one. Granny lent it to me for the wedding.’ It’s not like Elizabeth to be fretful but all at once, it seems impossible to be married without Queen Mary’s tiara.

The thought of her grandmother, the Big Potato as Philip calls her now, brings ridiculous tears to her eyes.

The Queen exchanges a look with Bobo. ‘Call the court jeweller,’ she says quietly. ‘Get him here straight away.’

Smiling, she turns back to Elizabeth. ‘There’s plenty of time – two hours until you’re due to leave for the Abbey.

‘Yes, of course.’ Elizabeth takes a deep breath and makes herself calm down.

‘You look like a fairy-tale princess,’ her mother tells her.

She really does, Elizabeth thinks. The dress is as beautiful as Mr Hartnell promised. It shimmers with seed pearls and tiny crystals that catch the light. ‘It needs the pearl necklace.’

‘This one?’ Still in calming mode, the Queen picks up Elizabeth’s favourite strand of pearls from the dressing table. They’re the ones she usually wears, but it’s not the necklace she has in mind for the wedding.

‘No, the double strand you and Papa gave me. Bobo, where is it?’

Bobo and the Queen exchange another look. ‘It’s still on display in St James’s Palace,’ Bobo says carefully.

‘Someone can go and get it.’ Elizabeth has made up her mind. ‘Ask Jock Colville to come in.’

Her private secretary is summoned but looks dismayed when Elizabeth asks him to fetch the necklace.

‘From St James’s Palace?’ he repeats cautiously.

‘It’s not that far.’

He hesitates. ‘Not usually, no, but there must be a hundred thousand people crammed between here and there this morning.’

‘Please, Jock.’

‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness.’ Clearly daunted, Jock withdraws with dignity but the moment the door is shut behind him, they can hear him charging off down the corridor at speed.

Fortunately, the court jeweller arrives just after her secretary has left, presumably having passed Jock on the stairs, and doing his best to look dignified in spite of being distinctly breathless. He purses his lips when shown the tiara and is told the bride is due to leave at eleven but manages to retain an air of avuncular calm. ‘I cannot promise a perfect job in view of the time,’ he begins, only for Elizabeth to interrupt.