Every Tuesday night, Burrell tells us, Diana would sit at her desk in her study at Kensington Palace, writing a steady stream of heartfelt thank-you letters and listening to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 and—her favorite—Manning Sherwin's "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." Maureen Stevens, a clerk from the Prince of Wales's office who also happened to be a classically trained pianist, would give Diana a weekly private recital as she worked. You can almost hear Stevens's piano rippling in the background as Diana writes a fulsome note to her close friend Liz Tilberis, the late editor of Harper's Bazaar: "Dearest Liz, How proud I was to be at your side on Monday evening.… So deeply moved by your personal touch—the presents for the boys, candles at the hotel and flowers to name but few—but most of all your beaming smile, your loving heart. I am always here for you, Liz." Sometimes Diana would stop and telephone the Daily Mail's Richard Kay—Ricardo, she called him—to help her with the phraseology of a letter. The palace was her fortress. On warm summer afternoons, she would vanish into its walled garden in shorts and vest and Versace sunglasses, carrying a bag of books and CDs for her Walkman. On weekends, when William and Harry were home, Burrell would see her in a flowing cotton skirt on her bicycle, speeding down the palace drive with the boys pedaling furiously behind her. On her 36th birthday, in July 1997, she received 90 bouquets of flowers, and Harry gathered a group of classmates to sing "Happy Birthday" to her over the telephone.