Nelson Demille - Gold Coast

Lester rose unsteadily. "I remember now. We're having people for dinner."

Susan said, "You must get me the recipe."

Susan was obviously irked at something. Poor Lester seemed muddled. He said, "Yes, of course I can. Would you like to come along? I'll call." Susan replied, "Thanks, but we have dinner plans."

I didn't know if this was true or not, because Susan never tells me these things.

Lester wished us a good evening, and Susan told him to drive carefully. I stood and steadied myself against the wall. I smiled at Susan. "Good to see you."

"How many of me do you see?" she asked.

"I'm quite sober," I assured her, then changed the subject. I said, "I see the Carlisles here. I thought we'd ask if they could join us for dinner." "Why?"

"Isn't she a friend of yours?" I asked.

"No."

"I thought she was. I rather like…" – I couldn't remember his name – "her husband."

"You think he's a pompous ass." She added, "We have dinner plans."

"With whom?"

"I told you this morning."

"No, you didn't. With whom? Where? I can't drive."

"That's obvious." She took my arm. "We're having dinner here." We made our way through the house to the opposite wing and arrived at the largest of the dining rooms. Susan directed me toward a table at which sat the Vandermeers, of all people.

It was obvious to me that Martin's wife had also failed to inform him of the evening's plans.

Susan and I sat at the round table with the white tablecloth and exchanged small talk with the Vandermeers. Sometimes I think that Eli Whitney got his idea of interchangeable parts from upper middle-class society where all the people are interchangeable. Everyone in that room could have switched tables all night, and the conversations wouldn't have missed a beat.

I realized that my growing criticism of my peers was more a result of changes within me than any changes in them. What had once made me comfortable was now making me restless, and I was, quite frankly, concerned about the compromises and accommodations that had taken over my life in insidious ways. I was fed up with being the caretaker of Stanhope Hall, tired of everyone's obsession with the status quo, impatient with the small talk, annoyed at old ladies who walked into my office with ten million dollars in an old valise, and generally unhappy with what had once made me content.

Oddly enough, I didn't recall feeling that way the week before. I wasn't certain how this revelation came about, but revelations are like that; they just smack you across the face one day, and you know you've arrived at the truth without even knowing you were looking for it. What you do about it is another matter. I didn't realize it then, but I was ready for a great adventure. What I also didn't know was that my new next-door neighbour had decided to provide one for me.

Saturday morning passed uneventfully except that I had a slight headache brought on, no doubt, by the Vandermeers' hot air. Also, the Allards both had the flu, and I paid them a sick call. I made them tea in the gatehouse's little kitchen, which made me feel like a regular guy. I even stayed for half a cup, while George apologized six times for being sick. Ethel's usual surliness turns to a sort of maudlinism when she's ill. I like her better that way. I should mention that during the Second World War, George Allard went off to serve his country, as did all the able-bodied male staff at Stanhope Hall and, of course, the other estates. George once told me during a social history lesson that this exodus of servants made life difficult for the families who had managed to hold on to their huge houses through the Depression, and who still needed male staff for heavy estate work. George also tells me that higher wartime wages lured many of the servant girls away for defence work and such. George somehow associates me with this class of gentry and thinks I should feel retroactively saddened by the great hardships that the Stanhopes and others endured during the war. Right, George. When I picture William Stanhope having to lay out his own clothes every morning while his valet is goofing off on Normandy Beach, a lump comes to my throat.

William, by the way, did serve his country during this national emergency. There are two versions of this story. I'll relate Ethel's version: William Stanhope, through family connections, received a commission in the Coast Guard. Grandpa Augustus Stanhope, unable to make use of his seventy-foot yacht, The Sea Urchin, sold it to the government for a dollar, as did many yacht owners during the war. The Sea Urchin was outfitted as a submarine patrol boat, and its skipper turned out to be none other than Lt (j.g.) William Stanhope. Ethel says this was not a coincidence. Anyway, The Sea Urchin, with a new coat of grey paint, sonar, depth charges, and a.50-calibre machine gun, was conveniently berthed at the Seawanhaka Corinthian. From there, Lieutenant Stanhope patrolled up and down the Long Island Sound, ready to take on the German U-boat fleet, protecting the American way of life, and occasionally putting in at Martha's Vineyard for a few beers. And not wanting to take up government housing, William lived at Stanhope Hall.

Ethel is probably justified in her opinion that William Stanhope's wartime service symbolized the worst aspects of American capitalism, privilege, and family connections. Yet most of the upper classes, from all I've read and heard, did their duty, and many went beyond the call of duty. But Ethel excludes any realities that upset her prejudices. In this respect she is exactly like William Stanhope, like me, and like every other human being I've ever met, sane and insane alike. Needless to say, William does not regale his friends or family with war stories. Anyway, George returned from the Pacific in 1945 with malaria, and he still has episodes from time to time, but this day I was sure it was just the flu. I offered to call the doctor, but Ethel said cryptically, "He can't help us."

George and Ethel had been married right before George shipped out, and Augustus Stanhope, as was the custom at the time, provided the wedding reception in the great house.

A few years ago, during a chance conversation with an older client of mine, I discovered that Grandpa Augustus, who would have been in his fifties then, also provided Ethel with some degree of companionship while George was killing our future allies in the Pacific. Apparently this small investment of time and effort on Ethel's part paid dividends, the Allards being the only staff not let go over the years. Also, there was the generous gift of the gatehouse, rent-free for life. I often wondered if George knew that his master was dipping his pen in George's inkwell. But even if he did, George would still be convinced that it was his loyalty, rather than his wife's disloyalty, that was responsible for the old coot's generosity. Well, maybe. Good help is still harder to find than a good lay.

I don't normally listen to gossip, but this was too interesting to resist.

Besides, it's more in the category of social history than hot news. As I drank my tea, I looked at Ethel and smiled. She gave me a pained grimace in return. Above her head on the wall of the small sitting room was a formal photograph of her and George, he in his navy whites, she in a white dress. She was a very pretty young woman.

What interested me about this story was not that a lonely young war bride had had an affair with her older employer; what interested me was that Ethel Allard, the good Christian socialist, had done it for the lord of the manor and had perhaps blackmailed him, subtly or not so subtly.

A place like this is rife with interlocking relationships that, if explored, would be far more damaging to the social structure than depression, war, and taxes.