“That’s Cambria, the British challenger,” Randolph said, pointing at a yacht that looked almost exactly like the others. “She’s from the Royal Thames Yacht Club. You might even spot a few familiar faces in her entourage.”

“I doubt it very much. Is there only one challenger? Isn’t that rather unfair? It makes it very unlikely that they will win, doesn’t it?”

“Dear lord, Margaret, don’t go saying that—you’ll have us ejected from the club.”

She giggled. “I can’t tell one of these boats—I mean schooners—from the other, so you’ll need to tell me when to cheer.”

“Which side are you on?”

“Oh, if the challenger was from Leith—that’s Edinburgh’s port—then I might have a dilemma, but they’re English, so there’s no question but that I’ll be cheering for our team.”

“That’s my girl! Come over to the other side and take a look at the crowds. Fort Richmond over there is the most popular viewpoint, because you can see both the start and the finish of the race.”

“There must be tens of thousands here!”

“Some of them will have been here since dawn. Maybe earlier.”

Randolph leaned on the rail, his elbows brushing hers. Back in April, she had worried that their friendship would falter, but after an initial awkwardness they had established a new, easy camaraderie, leaving neither with doubts or regrets. He was formally dressed today, in an expensive black suit, though he was holding his hat, for the breeze had got up, ruffling his hair over his forehead. When she reached out to push it back, he grinned. “I guess I need a haircut. We’ll be docking in five minutes. The race is due to start at eleven thirty, so we’ll join Gordon Bennett and his party when we arrive.”

She listened with half an ear as he ran through a list of people she may or may not bump into, surprised to hear that it included both the Astors and the Vanderbilts. “You still haven’t told me how I am to help you.”

“Have a little patience. Come on, let’s see if we can get you a cup of tea before the race starts.”

They disembarked and walked up the short hill to Rosebank. The club-house was built in the Swiss-Italian style with a broad front porch and situated just above the shore with a commanding view of the harbour.

“Gordon Bennett Junior acquired this place for the club about two years ago,” Randolph said as they joined the line of people waiting to be received. “That’s our host there.”

Mr. Gordon Bennett looked to be about the same age as Randolph. His sparse hair was cropped very short in the military style, and this combined with the vigorous moustache and hawk-like nose made him look rather forbidding.

“Mueller,” he said, thumping Randolph on the back, “glad you could make it.”