Before the Crown

‘It must have been a dilemma wondering which dog to take.’ Philip tries to lighten the conversation, and Elizabeth smiles back at him.

‘Well, it was!’

He feels like punching the air. Her smiles are rare, but worth waiting for.

By unspoken consent, they turn the conversation away from the war.

‘Where are the dogs, anyway?’ Philip asks. ‘You talk about them so much in your letters, I was expecting to have to fight my way through them to get at you.’

Get at you. That wasn’t the right way to talk to Princess Elizabeth, Philip berates himself mentally. Uncle Dickie would have his hide if he could hear him!

Subtlety, my dear boy, subtlety. Philip can practically hear Mountbatten’s voice.

Fortunately, Elizabeth seems to realise he is teasing, though the faint colour that tinges her cheeks suggests she might have been a little taken aback at his forthright reference to why he was there.

‘They’re cattle dogs,’ she says, shifting her stole up onto one shoulder. It promptly slithers down her other arm. ‘They like to herd people up and nip at ankles, and they can be a bit naughty. Consider yourself fortunate that they’re shut away tonight.’

‘Lucky for me,’ Philip murmurs, but he is distracted by the slippery stole that is dragging his attention to her bare arms. He wonders what it would be like to draw the stole up into place for her. Her skin would be warm, the fur would be soft. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch and his mouth dries so abruptly that he takes a slug of his whisky.

It is unexpectedly intriguing, the way she swings between shyness and sensible conversation, the way she turns aside compliments and talks of dogs and knitting, apparently unaware of the lures at her disposal: the creamy skin, the enticing figure, the curve of her mouth.

‘I’m glad you’re coming back for Christmas,’ she says abruptly and Philip smiles.

‘So am I.’

Chapter 7

They eat in the State Dining Room. With the velvet curtains drawn against the winter night, it could almost be as it was before the war, Elizabeth thinks. The log fire may be meagre in the magnificent fireplace and the elaborate gilding on the walls and ceiling dulled, but the light is so dim one can hardly tell. The great mirrors on either side of the fireplace are warm with the wavering candlelight; the silver gilt gleams, while the mahogany table is polished to such a high shine that one can see the immaculately set crystal glasses reflected in it.

The meal itself is hardly a match for the setting, but her parents pride themselves on being rationed like everyone else, and at least they have access to game from the royal estates. Some pheasants have been sent down from Sandringham and are served roasted with vegetables grown in the castle gardens. Like everyone else in the country, the cook does his best with what he can get.

For Elizabeth, it is a change from the usual nursery suppers. She is content to sit and let the conversation flow around her. She wants to think about Philip. What was it he had said about the dogs? I was expecting to fight my way through them to get at you. She still doesn’t know quite what to think of that. A part of her is affronted: Philip sounded as if he assumed he could just walk into a room and claim her like a parcel. Elizabeth is not someone who can be ‘got at’. She expects to be treated with the deference due to her as heir to the throne.

Another part of her, she reluctantly admits to herself, felt an unwilling thrill at his arrogance.

Philip isn’t like the other men. Listen to him now, telling Papa about his ship being dive-bombed somewhere off Sicily.

‘There were three of the blighters coming for Wallace,’ he is saying, and she is not the only one listening. His expression is alert, amused, his gestures expansive. Compared to the deferential courtiers whose every movement is discreet, he is overwhelming, but her father doesn’t seem to mind.

‘We all dived for cover at first,’ Philip goes on, ‘but the first Stuka missed us completely. We thought that was a lucky escape and we kept our heads down as the second one came in low.’ His hand swoops over his plate in demonstration. His smile glimmers. ‘But he missed, too, and then blow me down if the third pilot didn’t strike out as well! They were at it for about half an hour and they didn’t get a single hit!’

The King is laughing. He likes Philip, Elizabeth notes with relief.

‘We ended up standing on the deck jeering at them,’ says Philip. ‘Eventually they gave up or ran out of ammunition. I don’t think they can have been the Luftwaffe’s finest. I can only think they must have been flying with shocking hangovers.’

‘No one was hurt?’ Elizabeth asks and Philip turns to her.

‘Not a scratch on any of us. I can’t say the same about the pilots’ feelings! They must have had a boll— A dressing down,’ he amends, ‘when they got back to base.’

‘You didn’t have such an easy time of it later, I hear,’ her father says.

Philip picks up his knife and fork. ‘No, there were some hairy moments.’

‘Dickie was telling me some story about a raft,’ the King prompts.

‘Oh, that … Just a lucky ruse.’

Elizabeth can see he is trying to shrug off any attempt to cast himself in a heroic light. ‘What happened?’ she asks.

Philip hesitates, but at her father’s urging he tells the story. ‘Wallace was covering the Canadian landings on Sicily,’ he begins. ‘As you can imagine, the Germans weren’t very happy with that, and their Stukas were on us the whole time, so we were at action stations pretty continuously.

‘That particular night, it was still and very bright. A beautiful night at any other time, but the worst possible conditions for us then. The moon lit up our wake and turned it into one long, shimmering trail. We might as well have had a flaming sign pointing towards us for a pilot to follow. A German bomber found us, of course – he could hardly miss us! – and we took a hit to the side of the ship. He took off then, but we knew it was only a matter of time before he came back with reinforcements. At that point we’d be sitting ducks.

‘There was no way of knowing where they would come from. In the dark, they could see us on the water, but we couldn’t see them. It’s like being blindfolded and knowing someone is coming to get you.’

Elizabeth lays down her knife and fork. She is picturing the men silent on the ship, their shoulders hunched in anticipation of the next attack, straining their eyes at the night sky, listening for the sound of aircraft while the sea slaps unperturbed against the hull.

Conversation around the rest of the table has fallen silent and they are all listening to Philip’s story. ‘What did you do?’ the Queen asks.

‘We got the men to knock up a wooden raft,’ Philip goes on. ‘We knew we didn’t have long. It took them a matter of minutes until we could haul it over the side and set fire to it. Then we hightailed it out of there, full steam for a good five minutes before we felt safe enough to cut the engines.’

‘So that the wake subsided?’ The King nods. He was a naval officer in his time, too.

‘Yes, sir. Or we might as well have taken out a sign saying “Look, we’re over here”.’ Philip takes a sip of wine. ‘We lay there in the darkness. I remember the ship rocking gently, and the silence. Nobody said a word. We were all waiting for the Germans to come back. I don’t know how we long waited,’ he says. ‘It felt like hours and hours but it can’t have been. And then we heard the aircraft.’

He pauses and Elizabeth realises she is holding her breath.

‘I don’t mind telling you I was terrified to breathe in case the pilot noticed us,’ he says with a ghost of a grin, almost as if he had read her mind. ‘Not that it would have made any difference! The next thing we knew a bomb was screaming down … but it wasn’t anywhere near us, thank God. The pilot must have seen the flaming debris and thought he had done for us the first time, so he was finishing off all that was left of Wallace.’

‘Exactly what you wanted him to think, in fact,’ Elizabeth says.

Philip sends her a glimmering smile. ‘Quite. We were lucky he fell for it. We lived to fight another day.’

‘T-thanks to you,’ says the King, whose stammer still surfaces occasionally even when he is relaxed.

Philip holds up a self-deprecating hand. ‘You don’t want to listen to Uncle Dickie, sir. You know yourself how it works on a ship. It’s never just one man’s idea, especially not under circumstances like that. You don’t have time to think, just to act.’

‘Well, we’re very grateful to you for doing both. What’s next for you, Philip?’

‘I’m heading up to Newcastle, of all places, I believe. They’re commissioning a new destroyer, Whelp, and I’m to oversee the finishing touches before she’s ready for active service. After that, I hope I’ll see some action again.’

Chapter 8

Philip’s footsteps echo along the stone corridors as he gropes his way back to his room later that night. Kicking off his shoes, he yawns hugely and wrenches at his collar so he can fall backwards onto the bed. Whatever other changes the war has foisted on Windsor Castle, it hasn’t affected the excellent wine cellar.

The evening has gone off quite well, he decides, pleased. The King seems disposed to like him, although he may have to put in a bit more effort with the Queen, just as Uncle Dickie warned.

More importantly, he has made some progress with Elizabeth. He didn’t miss the admiring way she looked at him when he was talking about that nerve-wracking night on Wallace. Uncle Dickie will be pleased with him.

Best not to push it, Philip muses. He will go back to London tomorrow. There are still a few days to go until Christmas and he doesn’t fancy spending them on his best behaviour at Windsor. He and his cousin, David Milford Haven, are invited for Christmas itself, so they can come back together on Christmas Eve. In the meantime, there will be parties and maybe a chance to catch up with Osla, although he senses a certain cooling there.

He will need to go carefully with Elizabeth. Isolated at Windsor, she is unlikely to pick up on any gossip, but still it behoves him to be discreet, Philip realises. He has seen how quickly she withdraws, like a snail shrinking into its shell at the slightest brush of familiarity, but he is sure he can coax her out, given time.

Philip thinks about the fur slipping down her arm, the blood running warm beneath her skin. How tempting it had been to reach out and adjust the stole for her, to take the opportunity to trail his fingers over her shoulder.

Just as well he hadn’t tried it, he reflects wryly. She might be disposed to admire him, but she would need to feel a lot more than that before he would be allowed any closer.

Courting Elizabeth may turn out to be harder task than Philip thought, but then, he has always liked a challenge.

***

‘It’s bloody freezing,’ Philip tells David, raising his voice above the sound of the engine. They’re in his beloved MG, heading back to Windsor Castle. It’s Christmas Eve and a hard frost has left the countryside edged in glittering white. Philip settles his sunglasses one-handed on his nose. The sky is a thin, washed blue, the light low and glaring.

‘Everywhere’s bloody freezing at the moment,’ David grumbles. His cousin likes his comforts.

‘But Windsor Castle takes cold to a whole new level. It’s probably freezing in a heatwave. Something to do with all that stone.’

In spite of his complaints about the cold, Philip is in a cheerful mood. The last few days have been fun: plenty of socialising, plenty of drinking and solitude when he needs it at Chester Street, where he sleeps happily on a camp bed in the dining room and Mrs Cable, the rough-tongued cook, spoils him.

The Mountbattens’ home is a haven, and so much more comfortable than staying in Kensington Palace with his cousin and their grandmother, the formidable Dowager Duchess of Milford Haven, who is grand enough not to care what anyone else thinks but has plenty to say about what she thinks of her grandsons. She has ears like a bat, David claims, and no matter how quietly they try to tiptoe past her apartment, she always calls them in with her harsh smoker’s voice to berate them for their lateness or lack of consideration while the ash trembles on the end of her inevitable cigarette only to fall onto her skirts and be brushed impatiently away.

‘I don’t care how cold it is, anywhere would be better than staying with Grandmama,’ says David, following his own train of thought. ‘I tried to sneak Robyn in the other night. I thought there was no way Grandmama would be awake, but I swear she took up the carpets deliberately to listen out for that creaking floorboard.’

‘You should know where it is by now.’

‘I ended up shoving poor old Robyn into the broom cupboard.’ David sighs. ‘I wish we could get Lynden Manor back. You wouldn’t catch Mama making a fuss about bringing a girl home.’

Philip gives a crack of laughter. David’s mother, Nada Milford Haven, is notorious for her affairs with men and women. She is exotically beautiful and glamorous and generous, one of the most interesting and intriguing people Philip knows. It was Nada and her husband, his uncle George, who first gave him a home when he was a small boy in need of one and Philip adores her.

Lynden Manor has been requisitioned like so many other stately homes for the duration of the war, but at least David will be able to claim it again when the war is over. Philip will have nowhere to go home to.

‘Then you should enjoy Windsor Castle. The wine is good too.’

‘And what about the company?’ David swivels in the passenger seat to study Philip’s profile. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Who?’ As if he doesn’t know who David means.

‘Elizabeth. She was just a little girl the last time I saw her. All tweedy skirts and sensible shoes with socks. Has she grown up?’

Philip changes down a gear as they come up to a sharp bend. ‘She has,’ he confirms with a sidelong grin.

‘And?’

‘And … she’s nice.’

‘Nice?’ David scoffs. ‘I didn’t think you liked nice girls.’

‘I like Elizabeth. I do,’ he insists when his cousin rolls his eyes. ‘She’s not like other girls. She’s serious. She holds herself back. I don’t think she lets many people close.’

‘Should be a good match for you then,’ says David with a wry look.

‘Quite.’ A long, straight stretch of road comes up and Philip puts his food down, enjoying the feel of the little car beneath his hands. The hedgerows flicker past and the road is striped by the low winter sun. ‘She’s still very young, though.’

‘Is she a looker? It’s hard to tell in photographs.’

‘She is when she smiles. She’s got lovely skin. A nice figure. Very blue eyes.’

‘Sounds promising. I might have a crack at her myself. Cut you out.’

‘Ha! You wouldn’t stand a chance, David,’ says Philip, grinning.

‘Why not, pray? I have plenty of charm and address when I choose to use it.’ Which was, of course, all too true.

‘Forget it. You’re not a prince.’

‘I would be if George V hadn’t made my grandfather renounce his royal title.’ David settles back into his seat, unfazed by the speed at which they were travelling. ‘What a fuss that must have caused, the transformation of the princes of Battenberg into mere Mountbattens. No wonder Grandmama never got over it. Mind you, I’m damned glad not to be saddled with a Jerry name now we’re at war again.’

‘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.’

‘You’ll have a rather bigger note than me.’

There is an edge of something Elizabeth can’t quite identify in his voice. She glances at him and then away. That, too, is true. There is no point in denying it. Does it bother him that her inheritance is so much greater than his could ever be?

‘Do you ever wonder what it’s like not to be royal?’ he asks abruptly.

‘Sometimes.’ Elizabeth pulls the collar of her old coat closer against the chill as they start walking again. ‘When Uncle David abdicated, we moved to Buckingham Palace. We were horrified at first. We loved our cosy house in Piccadilly. That felt like an ordinary way to live, although I don’t suppose it is. The palace isn’t the most comfortable of places but it has a lovely garden with a hillock in it. Margaret and I used to climb it so we could look over the wall at the people walking past. We liked watching the children especially and wondering where they were going, where they lived, what they would have for their supper.’