And in bright autumn sunshine, Betsy Brand walked through Datchet in her new hat and gown, eyes peeled for the first sign of anything amiss. Though very soon after she had taken the ferry across the Thames, her task began to look impossible. Datchet Mead lay just below Windsor Castle, a grassy level beside the river. Here a course had been marked out, and a winning post set up. Facing it was the royal box, a makeshift affair of boards hung with carpets and flags. Steps led up one side, to a raised platform where the King and his party would stand. From the castle high above, the Royal Standard fluttered. By late morning a crowd had already gathered, consisting largely of sporting men and hangers-on. Betsy soon found that she was more conspicuous than she liked, though she managed to avoid conversation. She was relieved when she saw Mullin in his jockey’s clothes, leading his horse through the onlookers. Casually she wandered over to the riders’ enclosure, where the captain made a bow to her and touched his forehead.
