The Offer (Baron 2)

Phillip Mercerault was holding his small son, Alexander, in his arms when Olympia came flying over the finish line, tail fluffed, fluting a high meow of victory. Alexander screamed with laughter when Olympia jumped into Cook’s arms and ripped the strip of steak from her hand.

There was wild applause intermingled with grumbling for those who had bet on one of the other racers. As for the champion, Gilly, he left the track, his head held high, allowing Jamie to carry him to where Susannah and Rohan stood.

Susannah Carrington was yelling congratulations to Olympia, even as she leaned down and picked up Gilly, holding him close and kissing his dusty neck. Then she let her daughter, Violette, give him a consoling pat. Marianne, now nearly seven, was saying to Rohan, “I could smell that steak. Are you certain that’s fair, Papa? I started drooling when I smelled that wonderful smell.”

“A new racing technique, pumpkin,” Rohan said, and kissed his daughter. “The Harker brothers will just invent something else for us, something more powerful that will have your aunt Sabrina and uncle Phillip gnashing their teeth when next we win. You’ll see.”

Later that evening, back at Mountvale, Julien and Katherine St. Clair, the Earl and Countess of March, joined the Carringtons and the Merceraults at the dining table. They’d just produced a son, Damien, the previous year, who was now sleeping in the nursery with all the other offspring. They spoke of marriage contracts among the children, but then Phillip, sighing, said, “All of you know as well as I do that the chance of any of our children doing anything that we wish them to do will be equal to the number of races Gilly will win with Olympia in the race.”

Rohan threw a muffin at his friend. “We will see. I have infinite faith in the Harker brothers. Now, back to our children. There aren’t yet enough to have a really good mix. We must get to it, Susannah,” he said to his wife, “and provide more choices for all the offspring.”

“We must help in this also,” Phillip said, patting his wife’s shoulder, a lovely shoulder that was very white and not as thin as it was when they’d first married.

“Perhaps,” Sabrina said, “just perhaps we shall.”

“And you, my lord?” the Countess of March said to her husband. “Will we also do our share?”

“I believe we will, Kate. Yes, I do believe we will.”

Talk turned to Richard Clarendon, the Marquess of Arysdale, whose beloved father had recently died, making Richard the Duke of Portsmouth. “I wonder,” Phillip said over a glass of tart white wine, “if Richard will ever find a woman who will make him realize what he’s all about.”

“Yes, a woman who will claim him right and tight,” said Sabrina. “Just as I did you, Phillip.”

“Who knows?” said Rohan Carrington, and raised his glass to all his friends.

Susannah said, “To well-fought cat races and good friends.”

“Amen to that,” Phillip said. He sipped his wine, then leaned over to lightly kiss his wife on her mouth.

September 10, 1974–May 2, 1997

Gilly, my old warrior, died quickly and easily on Friday, May 2nd.

He leaves many people who loved him dearly.