It was old money, grandiose, impressive, imposing, ostentatious, and expansive, as it was designed and intended to be. Just another run of the mill Hudson Valley granite mansion, its origins dating back to the feudal landlord days prior to the American Revolution. Even in the dark of the evening it conveyed old world opulence seemingly for no reason other than to stand its occupants above most others. An opulence of which could be seen at all turns of its architectural character.

      Each of the many rooms behind every ornate window was softly lit, demonstrating the grand house was fully alive on this evening. Likewise each window had only a single candle, a decorative Christmas holiday understatement as much as the made to order limited yet seasonally beautiful snow. From within the mansion could be heard a string quartet playing holiday classics yet still, in another place and time with a different moon and mist, one could swear some country club Count Dracula could comfortably call this home.

      A well-suited middle-aged Irish doorman stood outside the main entrance and greeted the many guests as they arrived. His breath danced in a cloud of steam as he patted his gloves and shifted his feet to combat the cold. He was freezing his ass off but his Irish pride prevented him from revealing this to the arriving guest. Consequently after each affluent clan entered the mansion he would pull out a flask, hold it high and offer up a poetic toast.

      “As I stand here so bold, so bold in the cold, servin’ the lord of the manor. I take comfort in knowin’ and I’ll never be showin’ that me balls have yet dropped with a clamor,” composed the doorman prior to taking another heavy swig.

      To the expressed delight of the doorman the fine warming Irish whisky served its purpose.

      “Ahhh, sheer poetry it is,” he said as he capped the flask then addressed it as though it were his own mother. “Thank you me darlin’. It’s more comfort ya bring than the Pope’s own blessin’.”

     The flask was quickly stashed in his coat with the arrival of still another limousine full of guests to attend the celebrated annual Wellington Christmas Gala. He opened the vehicle door and out flowed the formally clad socialites, passing him as though he were just another shrub growing near the Wellington’s immaculate stone entrance walkway. They then filtered into the mansion and the main ballroom, emerging into a sparkling and colorful privileged setting far removed from the reality of the depression that now gripped the outside world.

      In the room’s center stood an impressively tall Christmas tree decorated to the hilt with gold and silver heirloom ornaments, ribbons, fruits, small candles, and more. The guests flowed and mingled among themselves, ranging in carriage and appearance from perfectly beautiful and perfectly mannered to down right eloquently obnoxious, with the measure of most seemingly dependant on whether their jewelry gained as much notice as the Wellington holiday tree. They talked, smiled, drifted along, smiled, sipped, smiled some more and basically tried to impress each other, all the while politely and secretly critically analyzing and evaluating each other, not as friends and neighbors but as rivals and competitors. Then there, like a toad in a rose garden, amidst all this pomp and intentional happenstance, appeared an alien shit-eating smile in the form of Bart Haile wondering about uncomfortably in a borrowed tuxedo. One of the Wellington servants who appeared better dressed and tailored than Bart, approached with a tray of champagne but for some reason after sizing up our boy decided to blow on by.

      “Um, excuse me,” called Bart, noticing the servant‘s intentional disregard and passing.

      The servant stopped, offering Bart only a supercilious half smile.

      “Is that champagne you have there?” inquired Bart.

      The servant afforded a slight nod yes and unenthusiastically offered, “Would you care for a glass... sir?”

      “Nope, never drink the shit. I hear it induces impotence.”

      The servant remained unimpressed, “Would you prefer a… Christmas punch… sir?”

      “Only if I get to throw the first one,” smiled Bart.

      “Yes sir,” replied the still unimpressed snobby servant as he turned away. Bart had been bested by the help, he thought. Or had he?

      “A fool who would be king,” Bart tossed out in Latin to the departing arrogant servant.

      “An ass who would be a fool,” replied the servant. In Latin.

      “Touché,” Bart mumbled to himself, turning away in defeat. “The son-of-a-bitch got me.”

      His dejection lasted but only moments however, nipped in the bud when he spied an exceptionally attractive and appealing debutante standing alone near the punch bowl.

      Bart restored his broad smile and slid across the room for the kill. The debutante scarcely noticed his arrival.

      “Wonderful evening isn’t it?” Bart offered as an icebreaker.

      The lovely girl stood poised, offering no response.

      “May I pour you a glass of punch?” offered Bart.

      Again the young socialite beauty stood ignorant of his presence. Bart, having taken the hint and refusing to go down without swinging asked, “So my dear, just how long have you had this affliction anyway?”

      The girl suddenly came alive, gasping, insulted. “Well I never…” she said as she hustled across the room, taking refuge with a nearby clan of peacockish old hens. “Such a creature,” she told them. “The Wellingtons should be more selective about whom they employ for these occasions.”

      Bart stood by the punch bowl, rejected. He inspected and adjusted his ill-fitting tuxedo, cupped his hand and sampled his breath.

      “The Red Baron strikes again, eh old man?” observed Stanley as he glided up and put his arm around Bart’s shoulders. “Don’t take it to heart,” he continued. “She’s been conditioned. She’ll marry for money, copulate out of necessity and die a dried up old hag.”

      “What a waste,” observed Bart.

      “Hmm,” agreed Stanley as he drew Bart away. “This valley is full of Victorian holdovers. It’s as though the twenties passed them by altogether. It’s damn depressing some times.”

      They strolled through the maze of low-key socialites, offering nods and smiles as they talked.

      “I’m in need of your services, old man,” said Stanley.

      “You? In need of anything? Get serious.”

      “I’m to join my father in the library for my annual recapitulation and flogging. I could use your moral support.”

      “I’m afraid my morals wouldn’t impress your father very much.”

      “A free cigar and brandy,” offered Stanley.

      “You S O B. You think I can be bought cheap don’t you? Just because I’m going to become a lawyer.”

      “Actually I didn’t think of it that way but now that you mention it…”

      “Okay, you drive a hard bargain,” surrendered Bart. “But I refuse to defend your torrid affair with that voluptuous Turkish belly dancer in Toledo. I have my standards you know.”

      “Bart, that wasn’t me in Toledo. It was you.”

      “No no, I remember… Oh yeah. Right. You were with the Romanian stripper in Philadelphia. Now that was torrid. Absolutely disgusting. She had a mustache.”

      “No, the belly dancer had the mustache. Philadelphia was the beautiful Norwegian ballet dancer. The Ambassador’s daughter.”

      “Well, just the same, I’m not defending any of your damn disgusting adventuresome affairs no matter where the hell they happened.”

      “That’s fine, Bart. You won’t be expected to. I only need you to help me fend off the beast.”

      “Beast. What beast?”

      “The beast of tradition and drudgery. The Wellington ball and chain of heredity.”

      “I have no damn idea what the hell you’re talking about, my friend,” smiled Bart. “But okay, let’s go slay the beast.”

      Of course the library of the Wellington mansion was impressive, inclusive of walnut paneling, a vaulted ceiling, portraits of unrecognizable famous men, models of famous ships that contributed to the acquisition of the Wellington fortune, and more books than any civilized person should ever read for fear of inducing an intellectual coma. And into this den of opulent heritage, through stately hand carved double doors, entered Stanley and Bart who were met and greeted by a sophisticated, pragmatic father, one Stanley Corbit Wellington II, himself.

      “Ah, boys. Come in, come in,” he greeted as he led them to a setting of fine liquors in cut crystal. “Brandy? Cigar?”

      It wasn’t so much an offer but more a suggestion not to be refused. He poured a brandy and handed the glass to Bart.

      “Mr. Bartholomew Haile. Correct?”

      “Correct, sir,” smiled Bart.

      “I never forget a name or a face. That’s paramount to men of our ilk. You’d be wise to remember that, Mr. Haile,” said Wellington II.

      “I’ll certainly do that, um… Mr. um…”

      “Wellington.”

      “Of course. Just kidding, sir,” smiled Bart.

      “Of course,” returned Wellington II.

      Wellington II passed a filled glass of brandy to Stanley, opened a humidor and passed out his favored imported cigars. He then moved with his own brandy to a surround of large comfortable leather chairs near the center of the room where the two young men joined him, all sitting on cue. Lighting and sampling their cigars, Bart was forced to hold back a cough. He didn’t agree with cigars and wondered just why the hell he accepted it in the first place. Turning his head to hide his displeasure he noticed across the room a well stoked fire in a broad overly ornate marble fireplace faced by two large overstuffed high-back chairs. The only other furnishings in the goodly sized library were tables supporting glass encased ships and memorabilia in the form of ship’s bells and various ship’s fittings taken from favored vessels of days past. Also a few tables with lamps and ash trays to accompany the chairs. And of course there was the bar. Who could read all these books without the aid of a good bottled stimulant, thought Bart.

      “So Bartholomew, how goes it amidst the ivy covered halls of my old university?”

      Bart was in mid gulp of his brandy, trying to kill the lingering taste of the cigar.

      “Oh fine, sir. Wonderful in fact. Especially the ivy covered halls with your name on them,” Bart smiled.

      Wellington II smiled in return. The comment didn’t go unnoticed and was even appreciated. Bart squirmed a bit, not sure if his host appreciated his odd sense of humor.

      “And Stanley? Performing well as usual, I expect.”

      “Of course, sir,” answered Stanley.

      “Of course,” echoed Wellington II.

      They sat and sipped their brandy, Wellington II in his grandeur, the boys in bored expectation, until the elder Wellington broke the uncomfortable silence with an attempt at some obligatory social small talk.

      “So, young Haile, I understand you, like Stanley, are also a student of law.”

      “Yes sir,” affirmed Bart. “Much more preferable than taking up proctology.”

      “Um, yes. Of course,” responded Wellington II. “I expect your parents are very proud of you. Certainly should be.”

      “Not really, sir. They’re dead.”

      “Oh, um. Well… Um… I’m so sorry to hear that. Tragic. Tragic indeed.”

      “Oh, not at all, sir. They died happy,” clarified Bart. “Screwing in a railroad Pullman car when the train went off a bridge.”

      Bart had a way of coming to the point of a conversation and this occasion was no exception causing Stanley to nearly choke on his brandy and Wellington II to search for recovery in his own glass.

      “Oh dear, I mean… Yes, well… Fortunate then. Leaving you an estate, I mean. Getting you through university.

      “Oh no sir. Haven’t got a damn cent.

      “But…”

      “Full scholarship, sir. I’m a bloody genius.”

      Stanley started sinking into his chair, fighting laughter while avoiding participation in the conversation. It was this total lack of inhibition that he appreciated most in his good friend Bart which somehow managed to compensated for his own social reserve. This and the fact that Bart’s humor tended to draw fun loving ladies like bees to honey. He observed with delight and it seemed Bart was doing fine on his own but he could avoid it only so long and felt obligated to rescue his father whom it seemed was out of his element.

      “Well father. How is business these days?” he asked. “Difficult I imagine, with the depression and all?”

      Wellington II welcomed the subject change and leaned back, obviously more comfortable in the realm of business than personal chit chat.

      “Ah yes, business. Proper you should ask, Stanley. Business. The future. Your future. Things we need to speak about.”

      “Father, is it necessary to have this conversation again. I’ve told you many times, I want to build my own life and explore my options independently.”

      “So, once again you show contempt for the family, the estate and our social standing. Wellington Shipping and Transportation is a large serious concern. All these things came hard and it’s your responsibility to…”

      Stanley stood, his immediate instinct being to leave the room but he instead searched for a diversionary argument.

      “Father, I may as well tell you… I’ve… Well… Bart and I…”

      Bart perked up. He hadn’t a single damn clue where Stanley was going with this and wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to tag along, even if this was Stanley’s idea of fending off the beast.

      “We’ve done some research and have… um, decided to venture into… um, mining.”

      Bart silently mouthed the word mining, drew on his cigar and choked.

      “Mining? Are you insane?” returned Wellington II, looking to Bart for confirmation.

      Bart offered only a bewildered yet somehow affirming smile.

      “Um, diamonds, actually,” continued Stanley. “We’ve discovered what we think is a healthy deposit of diamonds. Um, in the Indian Ocean.”

      “That’s preposterous! What kind of irresponsible talk is this?” questioned Wellington II, rising to refill his brandy and continuing. “Diamonds?  In the Indian Ocean? A pipe dream. A harebrained pipe dream. I won’t hear of it and I won’t tolerate it and I won’t even discuss it.”

      Then, mysteriously, from across the room came an authoritative voice of reason.

      “Oh hell, Junior. Cut the bullshit.”

      Bart and Stanley turned and looked across the room. From behind one of the large chairs near the fireplace rose grandfather Wellington. He stood tall, domineering, wearing a favorite old smoking jacket, a favorite old touring cap, and holding a large serious glass of Scotch whisky. He drank it down then walked confidently across the room to the bar next to Wellington II and poured another. As he did so he addressed Bart with a bit of advice.

      “Better douse that donkey dick your smoking there, Bartholomew. You’re starting to turn green.”

      Bart looked to the cigar and gladly obliged by snuffing it out in a nearby ashtray. Wellington II drew on his brandy and returned to his seat. Grandfather Wellington turned, saluted with his glass, took a manly gulp of the scotch then addressed and pointed with the glass to his son, Wellington II.

      “Junior, I’ve been listening to this silly-ass dribble of yours for years and to your credit I’ll give you your due. You certainly do know business and you’ve tripled the family fortune. Not to mention weathering the stock market crash of twenty-nine and overcoming this damn depression but as God is my witness son you don’t know shit from Shinola about kids.” Another draw on his scotch and he continued, “Our boy Stanley here is not you and he’s not me but he is a Wellington, damned or be gone, and he’s his own man and he’s got an itch you can’t scratch. So why the hell don’t you just loosen your self-righteous corset, quit pussy footing around, give the boy your blessing and leave it at that?”

      Wellington II sat back in his chair, flustered. Bart hid a smile of approval with a gulp of brandy.

      Grandfather Wellington continued. “Son, I know you think I’m a little ruff around the edges. It’s because my father sent me to sea when I was young and I’m a better man for it. Might not impress the neighbors but then who the hell gives a damn. The question is, do you want a boy with character or some damn candy ass who struts around counting money all day? Oh hell, son. He’s not going to bring down the empire. He simply wants to get laid and come by his own means on his own terms. I don’t know about you but I think that kind of independent attitude is rather admirable, commendable to say the least and though you may believe otherwise, I can remember having such desires, those kinds of days and those feelings.”

      The senior Wellington moved across the room to the ships under glass and pointed to a model of a three-masted barkentine.  He placed his hand on the glass with affection as he continued, “I know it may seem foreign to you but it’s not an unproven concept, even for the Wellingtons. Your great grandfather for example, cabin boy to ship’s Captain, created the foundation of the Wellington fortune. It didn’t come by placating a circle of spongy socialites like that squirrelly bunch out there in the ballroom, you know. It took courage and an appetite for adventure. It took some balls.”

      Wellington II rose, irritated but properly respectful of his father and knowing there was no way he would emerge victorious in an argument this close to the old man‘s heart.

      “Yes.  Well, I suppose I’d better see to our guest,” he said as he rose from his chair.

      “Of course, son. You do that,” agreed the old man, slapping him on the back. “The decent thing to do.”

      Wellington II offered all present a nod as he departed the room, “Boys. Merry Christmas.”

      “Merry Christmas, father,” answered Stanley.

      “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wellington,” said Bart as he stood, “And thank you, sir.”

      With the departure of Wellington II from the library, grandfather Wellington turned with a smile, snatched up the bottle of scotch and joined Bart and Stanley. As they all sat the old man handed the bottle to Bart then snatched Stanley’s lit cigar and popped it in his mouth.

      “Now gentlemen,” said grandfather Wellington. “What’s all this goddamn malarkey about diamonds?”