Chapter 3: Yankees and Dixie

Annabelle's gaze swept across the uneasy faces in the room. "The Civil War ended nearly thirty years ago. The South no longer has the resources—or the will—to mobilize as we once did. If our kin in Brazil can't endure, then let them sell their plantations and return. We won't waste energy fighting their battles. Negotiation is our only path now." 

Though the Brazilian planters had once been wartime allies, three decades had eroded those bonds. Most Southern families, like those in Texas, had shifted to ranching or farming. Sentiment alone couldn't justify risking their rebuilt fortunes for distant kin. Money wasn't the issue—but manpower was. With plantation economies dead, where would they find armies to send? 

"Focus on our own struggles," Annabelle warned. "The Democrats only just regained power after years in the wilderness. Reclaiming our influence will take decades. We've no time to meddle in South America." 

A heavy silence fell. Texas had long been a Democratic stronghold—though the party's identity had flipped since the war. In this era, Democrats clung to conservatism, while Republicans championed Northern industrialists. For decades after the Confederacy's fall, Republican dominance seemed unshakable—until Grover Cleveland's recent victory finally broke their streak. 

The South's grudges ran deep. Though Democrats lost four straight presidential elections post-war, states like Georgia and Alabama refused even a single electoral vote for Republicans. This stubborn defiance, amplified by the Sheffields' meddling, had stretched the war's scars across generations. 

"Choose wisely," Annabelle pressed. "Our Brazilian kin face the same dilemma we did thirty years ago: surrender or fight a doomed war. We chose the latter—and paid the price." Her voice hardened. "Even if Edward lived, he'd oppose intervention. Brazil's rebels have less support than we did. Another war would end the same way." 

"Always our losses! Always our sacrifices to soothe Yankee hypocrisy!" Robert slammed his fist on the table. "Now the North reaps what it sowed—overrun by freedmen they once called 'contraband.' Poetic justice!" 

"Time will settle scores," Annabelle replied coldly. The hatred wouldn't die until their generation did. Ironically, Northerners' growing disdain for Black migrants had recently aided Democratic wins—a bitter twist she savored. 

Three sharp knocks interrupted. A maid peered in, oblivious to the tension masked by the gentlemen's polished attire. 

"Madam, Miss Isabella and Master William have arrived," she announced. "Shall they wait?" 

"I'll meet them shortly." Annabelle rose slowly, her aura undimmed by age. Before leaving, she delivered her final verdict: "Tell Brazil's rebels to negotiate while they can. If they want weapons, they'll pay market price. Charity died with the Confederacy." 

As the door closed behind her, grumbles erupted: 

"Harsh as ever…" 

"Quiet! She's right," another countered. "We barely survived Reconstruction. How can we aid the exiles? Northern trusts grow stronger daily. Only the Sheffields rival them now." 

Murmurs of agreement followed. These men might share a nation with Yankees, but their loyalties lay with Dixie. In their hearts, the Confederacy still breathed. 

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(End of Chapter)