Before the Crown

His eyes drop to her legs. Elizabeth orders herself not to fidget but she feels ridiculously exposed and her smile is stiff.

‘Yes, Margaret and Cyril are very good.’

What has happened to the sparkle she felt on stage, she wonders miserably. She had been so determined to show him that she was no longer the gauche fifteen-year-old he had met before, but look at her: her tongue feels thick and unwieldy, any hope of witty repartee shrivelling in her throat. It was hopeless.

‘I thought you were very good, too,’ says Philip, but Elizabeth can’t help wondering if he would think she was good if she weren’t the King’s eldest daughter.

‘That’s kind of you,’ she says with a stiff smile, ‘but it’s Margaret who is the performer.’

‘You’re determined to turn aside any compliments, aren’t you?’ he says. He’s not exactly smiling but when Elizabeth risks a glance at him, she sees that the crease in his cheek has deepened. The sight sets warmth trembling inside her. She can feel it spreading outwards, blotching her throat and staining her cheeks beneath the greasepaint.

‘I don’t like being complimented when I don’t deserve it.’

Philip seems amused rather than daunted by her priggish voice. ‘What do you deserve to be complimented for?’ he asks, as if he’s really interested.

Being dutiful, that’s what her parents would say.

‘I have a good appetite,’ she says and remarkably, he laughs.

‘We have something in common then. I still think of the tea on the royal yacht when you came to the Royal Naval College in ’39. I had two banana splits.’

‘And platefuls of shrimps, if I remember right,’ says Elizabeth, encouraged by his laugh. ‘I’m surprised you weren’t sick.’

Philip grins at her. ‘It would have been worth it.’

His smile burns behind her eyelids and she looks away.

‘It’s hard to imagine a banana split now,’ she says after a moment. ‘I haven’t seen a banana since the start of the war.’

‘I’ve got friends who say that they dream of fresh fruit now.’

‘For me it’s soap,’ Elizabeth says and he raises his brows.

‘Soap?’

‘Before the war, when the soap got thin, we’d have a new bar to unwrap. It always smelt lovely, of roses or lavender. But now we have to use it down to the last tiny sliver, when it’s all cracked and grimy, and then it gets put together with other slivers so we can keep on using it. It makes us feel that we’re doing our bit, though it’s little enough compared with what most people have to do. So I always feel guilty about longing for a new bar all to myself. It’s a dream for when the war is over!’

Why had she told him that? Elizabeth cringes inwardly. Philip has been fighting. He has seen the reality of war. He is hardly going to be impressed by a silly girl yearning for soap.

But he doesn’t sneer, which is kind of him. ‘We all need a dream for when the war is over,’ he says.

Realising that she is still fidgeting with the cap, Elizabeth drops it onto the table behind her. ‘I’m awfully glad that you’ll be joining us for Christmas,’ she says bravely.

‘Not as glad as I am,’ Philip says. ‘Dickie and Edwina are away and I have nowhere else to go. It would have been a very sad Christmas for me otherwise.’

Elizabeth doubts that. She is not a fool. She is sure Philip has lots of girlfriends who would be delighted to invite him to share Christmas with them. She knows he is only here at Mountbatten’s bidding. His uncle’s plans for an alliance with the House of Windsor are common knowledge but what Philip thinks of the idea is less clear.

Elizabeth knows what she wants.

‘Well, we’ll be a very small party so it’s lucky for us that you’re not at sea,’ she says, willing the stiffness from her voice.

‘My ship’s being refitted so I’m on shore duty for a couple of months.’

So he has been around for several weeks without coming to see her, Elizabeth notes dully. But then, what was she expecting? Yes, he writes sometimes, but they are not friends. They hardly know each other. He has filled a large space in her life, but whatever he may plan for the future, for now she occupies only a very small space in his.

Elizabeth may not know how to flirt but she has not been hosting lunches for the Guards officers at the castle without learning how to make conversation, and she has her pride, after all.

‘How do they keep you busy?’ she asks Philip.

‘Instructional courses mostly.’ If Philip notices the coolness in her voice, he gives no sign of it. ‘Deadly dull, to tell you the truth. I can’t wait to get back to sea. It feels all wrong to be kicking my heels here when other chaps are still out there fighting.’ He stops. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded rude and ungrateful. I didn’t mean that I’m not glad to be here,’ he says. ‘Here at Windsor, I mean. With you.’

There is a tiny moment of silence. With you. Elizabeth is very conscious of the stickiness of the greasepaint on her face. The satin tights have become crumpled and twisted at one ankle and the collar of the jacket is chafing her neck.

‘I understand,’ she says, achieving a stiff little smile. Crawfie is hovering and the babble of overexcited voices from the cast behind them is growing louder and more boisterous. Her parents must have left.

She gestures down at her costume. ‘I’d better change,’ she says, hardly knowing whether she is glad or sorry to bring the conversation to a close. There is something about Philip that makes her nervous. She is drawn to him almost against her will. He reminds her of a stallion, alluring and dangerous at the same time, a horse she longs to ride but one which might easily bolt.

‘Of course.’ Philip steps back. ‘I’ll see you later, I hope?’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth stretches into an artificial smile. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it.’

Chapter 4

Uncle Dickie must have got it wrong, Philip thinks as Elizabeth turns away. He’s seen little evidence that the princess is ‘very taken’ with him. She strikes him as stiff and serious … and yet … and yet, he is sure that he caught an intriguing flash or two of warmth and humour, quickly buttoned down.

It might be pleasing to try and coax out that side of her, he muses as he strides along the dark, frigid corridors.

Elizabeth has grown up, that is for sure, but she is still very young. She isn’t a beauty like Osla, Philip thinks, but she has a curvaceous figure, wonderful skin and her eyes are extraordinary – a clear, true blue. And when she was on stage, her smile lit up the Waterloo Chamber. Philip finds himself hoping he can make her smile like that again.

He stops at the end of the corridor. Left or right? The corridors in this part of the castle seem to go on forever, firmly closed doors on either side. Windsor Castle is subject to blackout regulations as much as anyone else and there is only the occasional, dim bulb to light his way after he has brushed aside the offer of an elderly footman to carry his bag.

‘I’ve got a pair of hands,’ he said shortly.

The footman looked offended, but he must have been over seventy by Philip’s reckoning. Is he supposed to walk empty-handed along miles of corridors while an old man struggles with his bag?

Only sheer stiff-necked pride prevents Philip retracing his steps to ask the footman for help after all.

When he eventually finds his room – HRH Prince Philip of Greece is printed by the door – he unpacks his bag and lays his meagre wardrobe out on the bed. Thank God for uniform, he thinks, picking up his much-darned socks with a grimace and tossing them onto the chest of drawers with his underwear. His dinner jacket is shiny with age and the trousers patched. Whichever footman has the dubious pleasure of looking after him will not be impressed.

Shifting the clothes aside, he throws himself down onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

Well, the country is at war, he reasons as he blows a circle of smoke into the chilly air. They can’t expect him to turn up in an immaculate outfit. There is no way he can afford new clothes even if he could get the clothing coupons. The royal family will have to take him as he is.

It’s not as if Windsor Castle is the lap of luxury either. It might be imposing from the outside but its thick stone walls make it unforgivingly cold inside and with its treasures in storage it feels more like a grim fortress than a royal palace. The chandeliers have been taken down along with the great paintings. The state rooms are shrouded in dustsheets or converted into offices. No fires are allowed in the castle bedrooms, he’s been told, and all he has for light is a single, flickering electric lightbulb. Between the blackout and rationing and the need to set an example of sharing the country’s misery, the conditions are far less comfortable than at the Mountbattens’ flat.

But he’s not here to be comfortable, Philip reminds himself. He’s here to make himself appealing to a princess.

He smokes for a while to distract himself from the cold. The truth, Philip can acknowledge to himself, is that he is slightly miffed that Elizabeth didn’t seem more delighted to see him. After all those painstakingly written letters, he has assumed she would fall over herself to welcome him. That may have been a mistake.

It’s galling to think his uncle may have been right about the need to come to an understanding with Elizabeth sooner rather than later. There’s a coolness to her, a reserve Philip recognises but didn’t expect. He may have to work harder to charm her than he thought.

He doesn’t need to commit himself yet. Philip stubs out his cigarette and links his hands behind his head on the pillow. Nothing is going to happen until the war is over, in any case, and he is far from ready to settle down. He is only twenty-two.

On the other hand, he is a prince. Elizabeth is a princess. He will need to marry one day, as will she. There might be worse fates.

He thinks of his father in Monte Carlo, with his fraying collars and cuffs. Of his mother living in that bare flat in Athens, pawning her jewels to buy food for those even poorer than herself. Philip has known since he was nine that he would have to look after himself. He will come into no vast inheritance. He has his title and that is it.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, will succeed to the throne of England and all the lands, wealth, and treasures that go along with it. If he marries her, he will have all the security he has never known.

At a cost.

The cost is marriage to a girl he barely knows. A lifetime of behaving well, of playing second fiddle.

Philip doesn’t know if he can bear the thought of that.

And then, of course, Elizabeth might not want him.

He scratches his chin while he thinks about how that prospect makes him feel.

She will need to marry and give the Crown an heir. How many eligible princes can there be? Why wouldn’t she choose him?

With a sigh, Philip swings his feet to the floor. It is time to get changed.

He knows what he needs to do. He just doesn’t want to do it.

Chapter 5

A fire has been lit in the drawing room where the King and Queen’s guests are gathering for drinks before dinner. By unspoken consent they all huddle in front of the mantelpiece to make the most of the meagre warmth from the flames.

Elizabeth is talking to Porchey, one of her oldest friends and as passionate about horses and racing as she is. Porchey is easy company. She never has any trouble talking to him. Her tongue doesn’t tie itself into knots when she is with him. Her smile doesn’t stiffen and her stomach doesn’t churn.

Not like when Philip is there.

She refuses to let herself watch the door for his arrival and deliberately turns a shoulder away from it, adjusting the fur stole she wears against the chill. It is only recently that she has been included in evening engagements and she still feels a little as if she is dressing up in her mother’s clothes.

She is laughing with Porchey when a prickle in her spine makes her look over her shoulder in spite of herself to see Philip walk in. He’s wearing his naval uniform and brings an energy with him, almost as if he is charging the air by standing there. The sight of him clogs the breath in Elizabeth’s throat and her heart starts to slam uncomfortably against her ribs.

Instinctively everyone turns to look at him. Philip seems quite unfazed by the short silence that greets his arrival. It is broken by her father who goes over to welcome him and introduce him to his private secretary, Tommy Lascelles. Tommy has a stern gaze and a quelling manner but Philip gives no sign of being intimidated, chatting easily as he accepts a glass proffered by one of the elderly footmen who have been persuaded out of retirement for the duration of the war.

The King stands with them but he looks tired and diminished next to Philip’s vigour, Elizabeth can’t help noticing.

‘Who’s that?’ Porchey asks, following her gaze.

‘Oh, that’s Philip.’ She is proud of how steady her voice sounds.

‘One of the Mountbattens, isn’t he?’

‘His mother is. He’s part of the Greek royal family. His cousin, George, is King of Greece but they’re all in exile at the moment.’

Porchey studied Philip’s fair hair. ‘He doesn’t look very Greek,’ he commented dubiously. ‘He looks like a bally Viking!’

‘I think they’re connected to the Danish royal family too. And the Russian one.’

Porchey doesn’t look impressed. He is an aristocrat, heir to the Earl of Carnarvon, and sturdily British.

‘Come and meet him,’ Elizabeth says, just as Philip turns away from Tommy and the King and heads determinedly towards her. The slam of her heart picks up and she pins on a bright smile.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘You look very nice,’ says Philip and his pale eyes rake her from head to toe. ‘Blue becomes you, ma’am,’ he adds with a small smile that drives the colour into her cheeks. She feels Porchey stiffen beside her.

‘Thank you,’ she says nervously. ‘Honestly, I’d rather be in jodhpurs and a jumper.’

Philip’s brows rise in amusement as she clears her throat. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Henry, Lord Porchester? Everybody calls him Porchey. Porchey, this is Philip.’

When the two men shake hands, they put Elizabeth in mind of two dogs circling each other, bristles up.

‘In the Guards?’ Philip asks, nodding at Porchey’s uniform.

‘Yes.’

‘Seen any action yet?’

There is a touch of gritted teeth in Porchey’s reply. ‘Not yet, no. I’m with a training battalion of the Grenadiers. My first stint is here, guarding the sovereign.’

‘And the sovereign’s daughter,’ says Philip, looking from one to the other.

‘Porchey’s a terrific horseman,’ Elizabeth puts in quickly in an attempt to defuse the antagonism.

‘Is he?’

‘Do you ride?’ Porchey asks Philip.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m more of a speed man. I like fast cars and fast boats.’

‘I like speed too,’ says Porchey, ‘but I like fast horses.’

‘So do I,’ Elizabeth says quickly. ‘I remember my grandfather taking me to his stud at Sandringham and being allowed to pat Limelight, who was one of his favourites. And it was only last year that I went with Papa to the Beckhampton stables and said hello to Big Game. I promise you, I didn’t wash my hand for the rest of the day.’

‘What about you?’ Porchey looks at Philip with a trace of hostility. ‘You’re a long way from the sea for a naval man, aren’t you?’

‘I’m on shore leave. I’ve been on convoy duty, escorting merchant ships from Rosyth and Sheerness.

‘Isn’t that route the one they call E-boat Alley?’ she asks.

Philip’s brows rise in surprise. ‘You’re well-informed.’

For a girl, or for a seventeen-year-old? Elizabeth is both those things, but she is more, too.

‘I feel I must be.’ She doesn’t want to tell him how carefully she has followed his movements with every letter. She has a map of the world with pins marking his route. It has felt like the only way she can connect with him.

Two years ago, when Philip came for tea at Windsor, she and Margaret had been enthralled by his devil-may-care attitude and the entertaining way he talked about his experiences. Afterwards, she shyly offered to write to him, and of course was thrilled when he said he would be delighted to get a letter from her. But then, what else could he say? He had even replied occasionally. It was kind of him to find the time to write at all, Elizabeth always told herself as she read and reread his letters in vain for any indication he thought of her as anything other than a remote member of his extended family.

‘I try to keep up with what is happening in the war everywhere,’ she adds, wincing inside at how pompous she sounds.

It is true, though. All round the world, people are fighting in her father’s name, and one day they will fight in hers. The least she owes them is to know what is going on.

It is almost a relief when her mother, arriving late as usual, beckons Porchey over. He is a favourite with the Queen. Elizabeth is not supposed to know, but her mother has a ‘first eleven’ list of potential husbands in mind for her, and Porchey is on it. It’s no secret that she wants Elizabeth to marry an aristocrat from a background similar to her own.

Elizabeth is very fond of Porchey but she can’t imagine marrying him. He’s a friend. He would be safe. He would be kind. Those are good qualities to have in a husband, she can see that, but marrying Porchey would mean that everything in her life would carry on exactly as it has always done. Elizabeth is ready for a change.

She doesn’t want safe, but she’s not sure she is brave enough for danger either.

Philip isn’t safe.

He’s not doing anything threatening. He’s just standing there with a glass of whisky in his hand but still she feels as if she is teetering on the edge of some precipice, half fearful, half tempted to step out into the unknown.

It’s not like her to be fanciful, but something about Philip leaves her feeling spooked, edgy as a young colt, beneath that icy blue gaze.

And more alive than she has ever felt before.

‘Have you known Porchey a long time?’ he asks and she could almost swear that he is jealous.

‘Since we were children. We both love riding, and racing. We can talk about bloodstock lines for hours. We’d both rather be in the stables than at a party.’

‘Maybe the parties you’ve been to haven’t been enough fun.’

Elizabeth’s eyes slide from his. ‘Maybe.’

‘I was glad of your letters,’ Philip says abruptly.

‘Oh … good. I’m afraid they must have been very boring.’

‘Not at all.’

He’s being polite, Elizabeth thinks and when she risks a glance at his face again, she is sure of it. His expression is carefully neutral. What else can he say, after all? How could he possibly have been interested in anything she had to say?

‘We don’t have a very exciting life here so there’s not much to talk about,’ she says to show him that she understands. ‘Lessons. Riding. Walking the dogs. Sometimes we invite the officers to lunch, and Papa and Mummy come back at weekends, which is nice but … well, it’s very tame compared to what you’ve been doing.’

Chapter 6

Tame? It sounds unbelievably tedious to Philip. Her letters have indeed been very bland, but for the first time he thinks about what life must be like for her, trapped in the castle for the duration of the war, surrounded by over-protective servants determined to keep her safe and stop her from having any fun at all. Entertaining officers for lunch seems to be the social highlight. If they are all as stuffy as the young Lord Porchester, it must be deadly, Philip thinks.

He hasn’t taken to Porchey. There was something damned proprietorial about the way the younger man had been standing next to Elizabeth. Philip doesn’t care for the easy way she and Porchey were talking when he came in. The first thing he saw was her unshadowed smile and it gave him, not a shock exactly … Philip struggles to explain it to himself. It had been the tiniest of checks, an unexpected jump in his breath, that was all.

Her smile dropped when she saw him. He didn’t like that either.

He wants Elizabeth to smile at him the way she smiles at Porchey.

It occurs to Philip that he may have to work a little harder than he thought. ‘I was very glad to hear from you, whatever you wrote about,’ he says. ‘And your parcels were always welcome.’

‘I hoped it would be nice for you to have a word from home,’ Elizabeth says.

Home. That word always settles like a stone in the pit of Philip’s stomach. Everyone uses it so easily. Home. It has so many connotations of comfort and security, of familiarity and belonging. Somewhere you can be yourself, where you do not have to sing for your supper or watch what you say. At least, that is how Philip imagines a home. He hasn’t had one since he was a small boy in Paris.

Not that he will tell Elizabeth that. He wants her to think of him as strong and steadfast, not as a little boy longing for somewhere to belong.

‘It was indeed,’ he says instead, and she flushes a little with pleasure.

‘I’m glad. It’s good to feel that something I can do makes a difference. I feel so frustrated sometimes that I’m not allowed to do more for the war effort. I’ve asked Papa if I can volunteer for the ATS, but he thinks it’s safer for me to stay here, where all I can do is knit for the Wool Fund.’ She makes a face. ‘And I hate knitting! I do try, but I am very bad at it.’

Philip laughs. ‘All I can say is that the comforts we get – the socks and scarves and things – are all very welcome.’

‘Still, I wish I could do more. Other girls my age are out there, doing their bit.’

Philip thinks of the ruined streets, the houses where wallpaper flutters sadly from exposed walls. Of the grime and the grind of daily life and the looters lurking in the shadows. Of groping through the dark or tensing at the stutter of sirens breaking into their inhuman wail. Listening to the desperate fire of the anti-aircraft guns as the searchlights rake across the night sky. Worse, hearing the fiendish whistle of bombs falling and the eerie second of silence before the air explodes.

Once, he and his cousin David were weaving their way carelessly back from a nightclub when they came across a house that had suffered a direct hit only minutes before. They had gone to help but they had been drinking and had probably got in the way. Philip doesn’t remember much about it, only the sight of a disembodied hand lying as if discarded in the smoking rubble. One finger pointed right at him as if accusing him, though of what Philip couldn’t tell. For a moment he can almost smell the stink of smoke and terror.

He is not stumbling around a bombsite now, Philip reminds himself. He blinks himself back to the present – Windsor Castle, a drink in his hand, a princess to court – to find Elizabeth looking at him. Her eyes are very clear, very blue. They seem to see far more than they should.

He musters a smile. ‘Don’t wish to be out there. It isn’t safe.’

‘You’re out there.’

‘I’m not as precious as you.’

Elizabeth sighs and pushes a wisp of hair away from her face. ‘I just wish I could do something.’

‘You are doing something,’ Philip surprises himself by saying. ‘You’re representing hope for the future. We all need you more than you know.’

‘Thank you,’ she says softly after a moment. ‘That makes me feel less useless.’

‘Besides, it’s not as if you’re completely out of danger here, are you? I was given my instructions on how to find the bomb shelter. Although I doubt I’d be able to find it again – it was hard enough finding my bedroom,’ he goes on, coaxing a smile out of her at last.

‘It’s not an easy place to find your way around, is it? Especially not in the blackout. In the early years of the war we used to practise what would happen if there was an invasion and we had to escape,’ she tells him. ‘We had to run down to the armoured cars in the darkness. There’s only enough room for Margaret and me and Crawfie and some luggage. They told us we’d only be allowed to take one corgi.’