If Sheffield were to advocate for cleaning up heavy metal pollution in the Mississippi River, Northern industrialists upstream would erupt in fury—after all, they claimed their "hard work" fed the masses.
Just as Southern planters had once argued, "Without our paternal care, freedmen would revert to savagery in the woods," post-war America now festered with inequality. The wealthy reaped the Gilded Age's spoils while workers crammed into fetid slums, toiling endlessly for scraps.
"The Yankees' post-war dominance chafes" Annabelle mused. "I've longed to pivot our strategy, but direction eludes me. If only your grandfather…" She trailed off, then sharpened. "Brazil's chaos distracts us. Once you graduate, where will you stake your claim?"
"Grandmother, I'm sixteen. What if I bankrupt us?" Sheffield feigned modesty, though her ambition thrilled him.
"Boldness built this family!" Annabelle snapped. "We dared join the Civil War. We dared—" Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper "—dared eliminate that bastard Lincoln."
Sheffield choked. "That… complicates things."
"We weren't alone" she smirked. "Many wanted him dead—even his 'allies.' We Southerners simply… facilitated." Her tone turned pragmatic "I loathe Yankees, but profit trumps pride. Prove yourself worthy of inheriting this empire. Failures are tuition—pay them boldly."
"Graduate? Now?" Sheffield blinked.
"Immediately. Academia wastes your time." Annabelle dismissed his faux diploma. For elites, degrees were ornaments not necessities.
As they traversed the estate, she grilled him on politics, economics, even race. His answer on "Black autonomy"—a veiled segregation tactic borrowed from apartheid South Africa—earned a rare nod.
"Your grandfather transplanted that idea here post-war," she said. "A masterstroke. Let Northern hypocrites rage,we freed slaves first." Her laugh chilled. "Now the Yankees scramble as freedmen flood their cities. Poetic."
When Sheffield probed their family's role in Lincoln's assassination, Annabelle deflected. "Your grandfather believed time healed all wounds. But time…" Her voice faltered. "Time betrayed him."
At the manor.
"He's too young!" Isabella protested.
"Your father started this empire at his age," Annabelle countered. "Wealth forgives endless failures. One success resurrects fortunes, unlike those fools clinging to Brazilian plantations."
As they debated, a servant interrupted: "Northern guests approach. They seek… oil."
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