It’s telling that I got involved with Erin Pizzey’s groundbreaking work to build the first domestic abuse refuge in the UK in the early 1970s. I frequently went to the shelters because I felt honored to be able to assist with fundraisers.

Although it would sound strange to us now, I never considered that my fascination in Colin might have something to do with my own encounters with him. I believe now that Erin Pizzey may have recognized something in me that suggested that I get involved.

But it’s only recently, in today’s more accepting environment, that I’ve felt comfortable confessing what actually transpired. I am extremely appreciative of my friends and family for recently encouraging me to share my experiences with others.

Also an inspiration to me is [Camilla] the Queen Consort, who has made ending domestic violence one of her causes.

Being Colin’s wife has taught me a few things, one of which is that no one is immune to mistreatment or the associated uncertainty and humiliation, no matter how spectacular their life may appear from the outside.

Because of how difficult life was with Colin, I occasionally wondered if he was just trying to put me to the test. He had menacingly threatened, “I’m going to break you, Anne,” early on.

He attempted to do so but failed, and he was pleased with me. Another time, he told me, “I knew you’d be able to handle it.”

That was Colin’s internal dilemma. He needed me to be indestructible because he wanted to break me.

I attribute some of my ability to handle his mistreatment to the resilience I developed as a child, but I also had a lot of exceptional advantages. I frequently traveled, was in the company of fascinating people all the time, and led a very active social life as a result of my marriage.

In addition, I received a ton of practical assistance in caring for the kids and our different homes.

That meant I had safe havens to hide out in, a nanny to keep the kids out of harm’s way, employees to help with Colin’s excessive needs, and, most importantly, friends to unwind with.

Nevertheless, life with Colin, particularly in the early years, almost destroyed me.

Just three months after we married, in April 1956, I went to my mother in a panic, telling her I didn’t think I could carry on with Colin and his terrible tantrums. She told me I’d made my choice and should stick with it. No complaining was allowed, to our husbands or to anyone else, so I got very short shrift.

And when I attempted to ask Colin’s mother for help in dealing with his tantrums, she advised me that the best course of action was to offer him a good cup of cocoa before night!

In those early days, when I was expecting our first child, I hardly ever slept because Colin would either lay on the floor in the foetal position or rock back and forth while he sobbed nonstop for hours about how terrible his life was and how it was no one’s fault but his. I was sympathetic and patient with them, but it didn’t seem to help.

I felt utterly wretched. I also suffered from physical pain — so agonising that a surgeon took out my appendix when I was six months’ pregnant. It turned out, however, that there was nothing wrong with my appendix.

After Colin died in 2010, I was shocked to discover something he’d written to the effect that I’d had the operation on purpose, which might have endangered our son’s life. It was perhaps the most hurtful thing he could have said, and I’m glad he was no longer alive when I read it.

I now think all that physical pain was a symptom of the shock and strain of finding myself married to Colin, and the effort involved in coping with it all.

Even so, as time went on, there would be moments of vivid happiness. Dancing was one of them; we loved jive and rock and roll and would let rip in various clubs.

To me, those were really magical times when I could forget myself and all the tensions between us. I also learned to treasure the many moments of joy and laughter we shared with our family and friends, and appreciate the times Colin was at his best, charming the people around us.

That was until a great change came in our marriage. It would test me to my very limit.

Buying Mustique, in 1958, was a great leap into the unknown, and I had some marvellous times on the island, even when we had no running water or electricity.

Spending so much time out in the West Indies, however, was not good for Colin.

His arrival had improved the lives of the islanders a great deal. He built a new village, installed electricity and created a lot of well-paying jobs by attracting many wealthy new landowners. Over the years, he also sank a lot of his personal fortune into the island.

As a result, he regarded himself as the King of Mustique and behaved accordingly, as a monarch with absolute power. In his rages, he would attack people physically.

I’m afraid that many of the islanders simply accepted this as what white men did. He’d often be very generous, paying for medical treatment, setting people up in business or funding the education of their children, so they accepted his awful behaviour as the price to be paid.

He thereby grew accustomed to being allowed to act out his greatest rages without being held accountable. Even affluent people who had properties on the island avoided him because a conflict with the King of Mustique was not worth it. It wasn’t just the locals that pampered him. Then perhaps I shouldn’t have been shocked when he ultimately attacked me on Mustique. We were commemorating the twin daughters’ birthdays in November of the late 1970s.

We’d gone down to Basil’s Bar to celebrate over a high tea with a few friends, including Barbara Barnes, the girls’ nanny, who later became nanny to Princes William and Harry.

While I sat with the kids, Colin was having cocktails with clients. He requested me to meet the folks he was talking to after a while, probably to warm them up for his business venture.

Although I really didn’t want to, I left the kids with Barbara and headed over. I greeted her warmly, struck up a little conversation, gently explained the birthday party, and then I returned to the twins.

A little while later, a furious Colin marched over. He pleaded with them, “Come with me,” through gritted teeth.

Before I could say anything, he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the bar with him. Not wanting to make a fuss, I didn’t resist.

On the way back to our house in the car, a journey of about ten minutes, Colin was shaking with anger. I stayed very still and quiet, my usual tactic when he was in a rage, hoping he’d calm down.

Drawing up at the house, I got out of the car and before I knew what was happening, he hit me across the head from behind with his shark-bone walking stick. It knocked me straight to the ground. And then he launched in on me.

I lay there, trying to protect my head and begging him to stop.

He didn’t: he was in a frenzy, quite out of his mind. I was utterly terrified, convinced he might actually kill me.

I have no idea how long it lasted, but eventually he tired himself out. I lay there until I heard his car drive off, then crawled into the main house and locked myself into the bedroom.

I was petrified he might come back and finish me off. Later, I learned that Colin had gone back to the bar and told a friend of ours, without a trace of remorse: ‘I’ve just given Anne a thrashing.’

And the friend did nothing. He didn’t alert Barbara or fetch any help. Perhaps he had that old idea of not wanting to interfere between husband and wife. Perhaps he thought it wasn’t his place — but, then, whose place was it?

I try not to dwell on it now, but the idea of Colin going back to the bar and actually boasting about what he’d just done is truly horrible. I was alone all night and in agony.

By the following morning, I realised something was seriously wrong. The pain in my ear was terrible. I was covered with blood — I could feel it matted into my hair but I didn’t dare look at myself. I was too scared to open the bedroom door in case Colin was waiting outside. I was certain he’d gone completely mad.

Instead, I crawled out of the window as dawn was breaking and reached Barbara’s chalet nearby in the grounds.

I will never forget the look of shock and horror on her face when she saw me. She took me back to my room, phoned the doctor, and then I heard her give Colin absolute hell.

‘How dare you?’ she shouted. ‘How dare you treat Lady Anne like that? It’s unforgivable!’

It was very brave of her, but then she’d always been able to deal with Colin when he was at his worst while I never could.

Colin slunk off, and the island’s doctor arrived and examined me. He was very concerned, but I didn’t tell him what had happened and he didn’t ask. Perhaps he guessed.

My eardrum had burst, and I have been deaf in that ear ever since.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Colin knew he’d gone too far. He wanted to see me but Barbara forbade it. Instead he left a small bunch of flowers outside my door.

I kept to my room. I didn’t want the children to see me until the bruises had healed. Barbara looked after me — goodness knows what she told them.

Once I was able to emerge, Colin was allowed to see me, and said a meek ‘sorry’, like a little boy. ‘I won’t do it again,’ he said. ‘I will be good, I promise.’

It was one of the only times I saw any real remorse from him about his behaviour. I said nothing.

He was sorry he was in trouble, and that he’d gone too far. That was all.

I stayed away from the children for about ten days until my bruises had faded. The day before I was able to fly home, I went down to the beach and one of the better-known people on the island, a woman I counted as a friend, came up to me.

She looked at my face and arms, where bruises were still visible despite the make-up I’d put on to cover them. ‘Have you been a naughty girl?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ I said, but couldn’t say anything else. It was so painful and humiliating. Did she expect me to joke about it? I’m afraid I really hated her in that moment.

On my return to England, I told my mother everything. He could easily have killed me, I said. Did she still feel I’d made my bed and had to lie in it?

She was horrified, and asked if I wanted to leave him. But even though something in me had irrevocably changed towards Colin, I still believed in marriage and in the virtue of putting up with things and getting on.

I’d noticed when I worked with Erin Pizzey that the wives often blamed themselves for their husbands’ behaviour, and I’m afraid — even on this occasion — I began to think I was partly to blame. After all, I knew how volatile Colin was, so perhaps I should have avoided making him angry.

It was an attempt, I suppose, to rationalise the whole thing, as if I could make it better by, to some extent, blaming myself.

When I told my mother there would be no divorce, she issued an ultimatum to Colin. ‘If you ever do anything like that to Anne again, that’s it. She’ll leave and we will support her in every way.’

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Colin grovelled. I believe he was ashamed of what he’d done once someone he respected confronted him with it.

In different circumstances, he could have been arrested for what he’d done to me, and for the casual assaults he perpetrated against others. It seems incredible now what we allowed him to get away with.

I could have gone to the police myself, but I was too ashamed to make public what had happened.

Finally, he sent me a sincere letter of apology, in which he essentially begged for my patience and promised to treat me right moving forward. People may not realize how difficult it might be to part ways with someone who can be so terrible at times and then so pitiful and remorseful at other times.

Even after I apologized, things between us never returned to normal. I was made aware of a sadistic streak and a depth of cruelty by an astonishing and uncalled-for rage that I will never forget.

Colin never struck me again, but he did continue to push me and spit at me when he was enraged. He was knowledgeable enough to stop there. And he needed me, no matter how horribly he abused me.

He used to threaten to kill himself if I left him, and I didn’t see that as an idle threat.