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.