The Offer (34 page)

Phillip, his wife, and his new racing kitten left the Blue Damson Room, Phillip whistling softly to the kitten.

Sabrina turned in the doorway. Both Rohan and Susannah were smiling toward her. “Thank you both. You've made him very happy.”

“It's not even close, Sabrina,” Rohan said. “You're at his center now. No, not even close.”

“Do you think, then, that he might carry me around and whistle to me?”

Sabrina left them laughing. Life was wonderful. Just wonderful.

Phillip said as he and Sabrina settled back into their bed, “I have both a wife and a racing kitten to train to become one of the top racing cats in all of England. I doubt building a dozen crenelated towers can get better than this.”

Sabrina rubbed her palm over his belly. “I wonder,” she said between nipping bits, “which you prefer, me or Olympia?”

“There's no contest. Er, how fast do you think you can run, Sabrina?”

She fell asleep with laughter still in her heart, her head on Phillip's shoulder, her nose nearly touching Olympia's small outstretched paw, the kitten sprawled on his chest.

McCaultry Racetrack

N ear Eastbourne, two and a half years later

 

The crowd was shrieking. There were six racers, but only Gilly from Mountvale Mews and Olympia from Dinwitty stables were now in contention. Gilly was running his paws off to reach Jamie, who stood at the finish line, singing Gilly's favorite limerick. Just behind Gilly, on the inside, ran Olympia, her long legs eating up the ground, her eyes focused on the Dinwitty strategy, namely, Cook from Dinwitty Manor, who was just standing at the finish line, beside the singing Jamie, her arms crossed over her massive bosom, calling out in a piercing voice that nearly drowned out Jamie, “Here, my sweetie. Here, my little kitty. Here's your favorite—steak and smoked oyster pie. Just think of all those kidneys, diced up real nice and small, and the steak, in long thin strips, just as you like it, and the smoked oysters, that will have your tongue singing. Come to Cook, Olympia. That's my darling, come to Cook.”

Then Cook pulled a packet out of her bosom, unwrapped it, and held up a long strip of steak. The odor wafted down the track. Olympia jumped a foot in the air, kicked dirt in Gilly's face, and within
seconds was across the finish line, the clear winner, bounding toward Cook and that strip of steak.

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.