‘You don’t do too badly as Marquess of Milford Haven,’ Philip pointed out and David gave a smug smile.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Anyway, you’re not Elizabeth’s type.’

‘And you are?’

‘I could be.’

David stares at him. ‘Good God, Philip, you’re not serious are you? I thought that was just one of Dickie’s barmy ideas to restore the Mountbatten fortunes.’

‘Well, as he’s always pointing out, I don’t have a lot of options. I’m a prince without a country. I’ve barely been to Greece even if the monarchy were welcome there, which it isn’t. Uncle George is still in exile and likely to remain there. I feel British, but I’m not, so I can’t stay in the Navy. All I’ve got is a title and a lieutenant’s salary for the duration of the war. You’ve got to admit that marrying the greatest heiress in the world would solve some of these problems.’

‘And create a whole lot more,’ says David. ‘I can’t imagine you settling down, especially not as a Prince Consort. You’re too restless. And you’re an awkward bugger. You’ll rub everyone up the wrong way!’

David knows him well, it has to be said, but Philip only laughs as he swings the car onto the Long Walk. The trees in Windsor Great Park stand stark and rigid in the frosty air, and the avenue undulates, reminding him of the sea with the castle perched on the highest wave.

Swathes of the park have been dug up for vegetable growing but it is still an imposing entrance. Philip, though, has spent his life visiting magnificent palaces and castles across Europe and he barely notices the soldiers on guard as the little car buzzes through the George IV Gate. The tyres kick up a spurt of gravel as Philip stops the car in the Upper Ward and pulls on the handbrake.

‘Don’t worry, David. I’m not going to commit myself yet, but there’s no harm in keeping my options open, is there?’

Chapter 9

There are only nine of them for Christmas lunch. They are served venison and a Christmas pudding bulked out with breadcrumbs which is flaming as a footman carries it into the dining room to oohs and aahs all round. The pudding is decorated with a sprig of frosted holly that sparkles in the candlelight.

‘Apparently it’s done by dipping the holly in Epsom salts,’ the Queen tells them. ‘Isn’t it clever?’

Elizabeth can’t help feeling guilty. She has been reading about the lengths ordinary housewives are going to in order to make Christmas lunch special. Few families will have access to venison, she knows. The lucky ones who live in the country may celebrate with a rabbit or even a chicken, but others will be making do with mock goose, which is apparently some kind of potato casserole, and a Christmas pudding based on grated potato and carrot.

Their lunch is a feast in comparison.

The food makes a nice change from nursery suppers but Elizabeth has unaccountably lost her appetite. Something in her jumped when she saw Philip arrive with his cousin and there has been a jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach ever since.

David is darkly handsome and glossily self-assured but Elizabeth prefers Philip’s rougher-edged charm. He made a beeline for her when he came into the drawing room and his assumption that they are friends has sent warmth simmering along her veins.

Both men are on terrific form and between them keep everyone laughing. That evening Margaret insists on playing charades. She has a flair for acting and loves to stand up and show off, while Elizabeth prefers to be the one guessing, but Philip makes sure that they are in the same team, and under his encouragement she can feel herself blossoming. Once or twice she sees the Queen watching him with an indecipherable expression.

Philip himself is funny as a fit when it is his turn to act out an outraged dowager being caught in the bathroom and Elizabeth laughs until she is weak. Wiping her eyes, she lifts her head to find her mother looking at her closely but the moment Elizabeth meets her gaze, the Queen puts on a bright smile and leads the applause.

‘Bravo!’

Afterwards, they turn out the lights, extinguish the candles and sit around the fire to tell each other ghost stories. Elizabeth is aware that Philip is manoeuvring to sit next to her in the shadows. Having got himself into position, he moves his chair closer until his knee brushes hers.

‘You can hold my hand if you get scared,’ he says, his smile glimmering in the firelight.

‘I’m not easily frightened,’ Elizabeth says, but she doesn’t move her chair away. She can feel his knee pressing against hers. Her insides are tangling themselves into a trembling knot and she is preternaturally aware of her own body. It is as if she has never felt the slow slam of her heart before, never been aware of the silkiness of her stockings or the way her satin dress shifts over her skin. The fire has a crisper spit and crackle than she has realised before, while the wind pokes and rattles at the windows behind the blackout curtain.

Luckily the stories are not very scary. When it is David’s turn, Philip keeps interjecting comments to make everyone laugh until Margaret gets cross. ‘You’re spoiling it, Philip!’ she complains. ‘Ghost stories are supposed to be frightening and these are just not!’

Boxing Day is a disappointingly wet, grey day but Philip agrees with alacrity to Elizabeth’s suggestion of a walk that morning. She has been thinking, and there is something she wants to say to him, although she is not entirely sure how she will find the words.

Her parents are resting, Margaret wants to play the piano, and David excuses himself, whether by prior arrangement with Philip or not, Elizabeth is never sure.

‘I’m not much of a walker,’ he says.

‘David’s like a cat,’ Philip scoffs. ‘He can’t bear getting his feet wet.’

Elizabeth looks out of the window. ‘It doesn’t look very nice,’ she says dubiously, dragging on an old coat and some rubber boots. ‘But the dogs could do with a proper walk.’

And the conversation she wants to have will be easier outside.

‘Let’s go,’ says Philip. ‘If I get wet, I get wet.’

Outside, a raw wind snatches at the scarf she has tied over her hair and throws petulant handfuls of icy rain into their faces. They walk with their heads down to avoid the worst of it but Elizabeth is very aware of Philip beside her, matching his long stride to her shorter steps, while the dogs bustle around them, snuffling through the longer grass or circling each other skittishly.

It’s hard to talk at first but they pause at last in the shelter of an oak standing doughtily atop a rise and look back at the castle through the murky light. It looms massive and austere in the distance, the Round Tower skimmed by the lowering clouds.

‘There’s something reassuring about that building,’ Philip comments after a moment. ‘It’s seen so many wars, so many changes, and it’s still there.’

Elizabeth nods, her eyes on the grey walls. ‘Even though it feels now as if this war will never end, one day it will be over and it will be part of history, just something children learn at school. It’s good to remember that.’

‘Except that means remembering one day we’ll just be notes in a history book too,’ says Philip with a grimace.

‘Well, it’s true.’