"Ah, so it's all about retirement planning. After staying in France for so long, there's no room for grudges or old flames?" Sheffield chuckled, shaking his head. He turned to Anne, offering reassurance, "If you want to go to America, come along. One more person won't make a difference. It's not like I can't afford it."
A sheltered young woman with little worldly experience, Anne wore her heart on her sleeve. Her family, like many fading aristocrats, had been swept aside by societal upheavals. The French, after all, loved revolutions—only to later pine for monarchy.
"Where else can I go? They all see me as a decorative vase!" Anne fought back tears, her voice trembling.
*Well, aren't you?* Sheffield bit back the retort, pitying her plight. She reminded him of the Russian noblewomen who fled after the Tsarist collapse. *Maybe in twenty years, when the Russian Empire falls, I could take them in too.* He fancied himself a savior of distressed damsels. War, as they said, should spare women.
Snapping out of his reverie, Sheffield comforted the "vase" and vowed to ensure her comfort in America.
Picking up a novel to pass the time, he stumbled on a line from *Water Margin*: "However cunning you are, you'll still drink my foot-wash water." Slamming the book shut, he shot a wary glance toward Anne's room. *A schemer? Unlikely. Just a naive girl. Even if she were, what could she do in America?*
His father's telegram arrived before they left France. It brushed aside the agricultural export woes, urging Sheffield to sail to New York. The timing aligned perfectly—Sheffield had long been curious about the city.
Modern New York, with its Wall Street and Nasdaq, rivaled London as a global hub. But in this era, it remained a provincial boast, overshadowed by European capitals.
---
"My dear boy, you have no idea how hard I worked to get Anne to follow you to America," Harry Sheffield interjected, uncharacteristically earnest, as they boarded the ship.
"Thanks," Sheffield replied flatly, eyeing his father and Countess Susan bidding farewell nearby—a classic pairing of American nouveaux riches and French faded nobility. *How amusing if they knew their "prized vase" had betrayed them.*
"First he played hard to get, now they're arm in arm. All an act!" Harry crowed, watching the couple board.
Sheffield maintained a gentlemanly facade, attending to Anne throughout the voyage. Northerners ogled his French companion, sparking his smug pride. "Yankees drooling over a Frenchwoman," he sneered, ordering meals to suit her palate.
"Proud to have me?" Anne whispered, kissing his cheek loudly in front of gawking passengers.
"I hear hearts breaking," Sheffield smirked, ignoring the glares.
"Why do Americans act like two nations?" Anne asked, baffled.
"You'll see," he replied. Southerners loathed Yankees more than Black folks—traitors were worse than enemies. Though indifferent personally, Sheffield played the part to fit in.
---
Arriving in New York, Standard Oil agents intercepted them at the dock. "Mr. William, your grandmother invites you to discuss business."
Sheffield agreed, despite his sea legs. The journey up the Hudson revealed sprawling estates.
"Whose home is this?" Anne gasped at the construction site of a 3,000-acre manor.
"The richest man in America," Sheffield answered, awe tingeing his voice. "John D. Rockefeller."
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*(End of Chapter)*