Perhaps, Charlotte reflected, it was better that Aunt Charlotte was in Germany for she seemed to be of a critical nature: ‘As for Charlotte’s being much on one side you could easily make her get the better of it by making her wear a weight in her pocket on the opposite side.’ (She remembered those weights.) ‘As for her stutter, she must try and overcome that. She must calm herself before she speaks.’ ‘We must watch these little shadows on her character. If she behaves ill to others she should be punished severely. For lies or violent passions I believe the rod is necessary.’ ‘I always feared the child’s cleverness would lead her to be cunning to gain her points.’ ‘I hear that she is good at music and repeats French well and prettily. Though all this sounds very well I was a little hurt that she displayed these accomplishments without showing any timidity. Were she my daughter I should prefer a little modesty.’

Charlotte could see that there would have been no pleasing that aunt who bore the same name as herself and rejoiced in the distance which separated them.

That left Augusta, Elizabeth, Mary, Sophia and Amelia.

She studied them now as they bent over their embroidery; and she, of course, was supposed to be doing the same. Why did her threads always seem to get knotted? Why did she suddenly find that one stitch – some way back – was too big and in the wrong place? I was not meant to be a seamstress, she thought. Did Queen Elizabeth have to sit over her needlework, stitching away like some little needlewoman? How foolish it all was. She did not want to learn to sew but to be a queen.

Aunt Augusta was sketching. She was the artistic one of the family; she could also compose music which was very clever indeed. Grandpapa sometimes listened to it and sat nodding his head and afterwards he would say: ‘That was very good, Augusta my dear,’ as though she were of Charlotte’s age and had just mastered some difficult piece on the harpsichord. Then there was Aunt Elizabeth who was always affectionate and liked to be called Aunt Libby which was what Charlotte had called her as a child; she thought it showed what great friends they were, but Charlotte did not trust her. Aunt Elizabeth was always looking for drama. She would have liked to play a big part in State affairs and be involved in some terrific plot, Charlotte was sure. Mary was still pretty although she was getting old – she must be nearly thirty now. Poor Mary, who had been the best looking of all the princesses and was hoping to marry her cousin the Duke of Gloucester one day. He was very fond of her and was always at her side, and when he was there she glowed very prettily and looked nearer twenty than thirty; but then he would go away and she would be upset and grumble about how they were kept sheltered from life and then her face would pucker and she would look discontented and quite old. Poor Mary! Poor all of them! They were not very happy, and who could wonder at it, for Grandpapa, much as he loved them, could not bear to hear that any man wanted to many them and he went on trying to make himself believe that they were really very young girls who had to be protected from the world. Theirs was not exactly an enviable lot considering this and the fact that they were in constant attendance on the old Begum whose temper was very sharp, particularly in the winter when she was troubled with rheumatic pains.

Then there was Sophia – a bit of a mystery, Sophia; there were secrets in Sophia’s eyes, and Charlotte had seen her whispering with General Garth in corners. General Garth was often in attendance because he was one of Grandpapa’s favourite equerries; but, Charlotte ruminated, he seemed to like Sophia even better than the King.

And then Amelia – dear fragile Amelia, whose health gave her family so much anxiety; and who was sweet and kind to everybody, particularly poor Grandpapa, and who did not worry as the others did about not being allowed to marry because she knew that she was far too fragile to be a wife.

These were the aunts then – the Old Girls – whose company must be borne. They were always kind to her and she would have liked them if only she could have trusted them.

Now Aunt Elizabeth had taken up Charlotte’s piece of embroidery and was clucking over it in an amused sort of way.

‘Why, dearest Charlotte, this would never do. What would your Papa say if he saw a piece of work like that?’

‘He wouldn’t know that there was anything wrong with it. He’s an authority on women, art and fashion – and that does not I believe include embroidery.’

Aunt Elizabeth gave a little gasp of dismay; Aunt Mary chuckled.

‘One thing we can always say of our dear little Charlotte,’ said Amelia, ‘is that she says what’s in her mind.’

‘How could one speak of what was not in one’s mind?’ asked Charlotte gravely.

‘I meant, dear, that so many people dissemble. They say one thing and mean another.’

‘And is it a fault to be outspoken?’

‘Far from it.’

‘Then at least I have one virtue.’

‘You have many, dearest child,’ said Amelia.

‘But,’ said Elizabeth, ‘they do not include embroidering.’

The sisters all laughed.

‘Put it right for me, dear Aunt Libby, before the old … before anyone sees it.’

Covert smiles. They knew she was going to say the old Begum. Perhaps they thought of their mother as that. Perhaps they did not like her any more than Charlotte did, but because they were old and were expected to behave with decorum, they had to pretend. I shall never be like that, thought Charlotte. But then when I’m old I shall be the Queen.

She watched Aunt Elizabeth’s deft fingers unpicking her clumsy stitches.

‘I should like to know,’ she said boldly, ‘when I am to see my mother.’

Hushed silence! But she was not going to let them pretend. ‘I have heard, of course, about this Delicate Investigation. What a strange way of describing an investigation!’

The Princesses looked at each other in dismay and Mary said: ‘It describes it exactly. It is a very delicate matter.’

‘You mean one that is not to be discussed.’

‘I mean one, dear, which it is better to forget.’

‘But how can I forget it when I don’t see her? It’s weeks and weeks … months and months …’

‘His Majesty thinks it best,’ said Aunt Elizabeth as though that solved the matter.

But everything His Majesty thought best was not necessarily so – for instance, refusing to allow his daughters to marry and making them live this life of frustration until they were ready to do almost everything to escape it.

‘A child should surely be allowed to see its own mother,’ said Charlotte primly.

‘It would depend,’ replied Augusta mysteriously.

‘On what?’

‘On circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’

‘Oh, dear Charlotte, you must not speak in that er … peremptory manner. It’s not really very becoming.’

‘But I want to know.’

‘You will understand,’ said Amelia gently. ‘All in good time.’

‘But Willie Austin is not my brother.’

Augusta said: ‘Where does the child hear these things?’ No one answered.

Charlotte knew that they were thinking she was far too precocious. Perhaps having parents who hated each other and created public scandals made one precocious.

‘Everyone whispers about them,’ she said scornfully. She was about to mention the cartoon she had seen but thought better of that. They might find some way of stopping her seeing them.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I should be allowed to see my mother.’

Augusta, as the eldest, thinking it behoved her to speak, said: ‘I will speak to the Queen about this. And tell her what you have said.’

‘Not the Queen,’ cried Charlotte in alarm. ‘Tell Grandpapa instead.’

‘I fear it would upset him.’

Charlotte turned to Amelia. ‘If you could tell him … not specially … but one day when you are talking to him. Say I asked about my mother and that a child ought not to be separated from her own mother.’

Amelia smiled. She was accustomed to having to make requests to the King.

‘I’ll see how he is and if I can introduce the subject without upsetting him.’

Charlotte was about to say more when Amelia hurried on: ‘Augusta, do play that latest piece of yours. I am sure Charlotte would like to hear it.’

She would discover little from the aunts, that was certain.

While the music was being played the Duke of York came in. This was Uncle Fred – her favourite among her uncles. He greeted her exuberantly. He was not one to stand on any ceremony.

‘And how is my little niece today?’

‘Very well, Uncle.’

He kissed her warmly; he was very fond of women, as were the rest of the uncles and her father as well, of course. But their trouble was that they could not be faithful for long. The Duke of York had now become quite friendly with his wife although at one time they had hated each other. Aunt Frederica of York interested Charlotte far more than any of the Old Girls; but Uncle Fred was not often at Oatlands where she lived; he was always deep in some love affair with a woman other than his wife.

But she liked him; he was jolly, gay, kind and carefree. A very pleasant sort of uncle to have. She liked him even better than Uncle Augustus, Duke of Sussex, for he had disappointed her when he had left dear Aunt Goosey for another woman.

We are a strange family and no mistake, thought Charlotte. Here are the Old Girls living like nuns in a convent and scarcely allowed out of the old Begum’s pocket while the Old Boys live the most scandalous lives. Uncle Augustus had not been considered to be married to Goosey although he had declared he was at one time and there had been a case to prove he wasn’t. He had married her it was true, but this was in defiance of the Royal Marriage Act which Grandpapa had made law and which said that no member of the royal family under the age of twenty-five could marry without his consent. Uncle Augustus had married Goosey – she was going to have a child – and then the State had said No, they were not married, and Goosey’s baby was a bastard, which had infuriated Uncle Augustus at the time; but perhaps he did not care now since he and Goosey had parted.