Chapter 9: The Prodigal Heir Returns

"Send telegrams to Texas senators. Invite them to the estate for a private gathering," Annabelle instructed her daughter. "You'll host the gentlemen. Though Texas elections are secure, it never hurts to reaffirm loyalties. Let William handle the arrivals from Brazil, those old partners matter less now." 

New Orleans had once been the heart of the Confederacy, its docks teeming with ships that ferried human cargo from Africa to sprawling plantations. Before the war, the Sheffields were merely one of many Louisiana planter families. But Annabelle's family had been different—slavers, traffickers, and hunters who carved their wealth from blood and soil. 

*What a disgrace* William Sheffield mused *a 21st-century "model citizen" reborn into this cesspool.* He eyed the aging overseer of Oakwood Plantation—a sunburnt man in suspenders and a wide-brimmed hat—and stifled a sigh. The man's presence was a relic of an era William's time-traveling grandfather had apparently embraced with gusto. *Probably charmed his way into power. Wonder if he gave foot massages too.* 

Before the war Southern plantation owners had been among America's wealthiest. Their estates along the Mississippi—cotton fields and sugarcane empires—dwarfed Northern factories in opulence. Now, many lay abandoned or managed by proxies. The Sheffields' holdings however thrived. 

As William reviewed ledgers, the stark divide struck him: Black laborers, once enslaved, now toiled as sharecroppers on land their ancestors had cleared. The "free" workforce remained tethered to the same soil, their poverty a quieter shackle. 

"Such wasted potential " William muttered, eyeing the bustling port. New Orleans could have been a crown jewel, yet his family clung to fading glory. 

Days later, bored by plantation audits, he ventured into the city's Black neighborhoods with a retinue of brawny attendants. Jazz spilled from a ramshackle hall—syncopated trumpets and rollicking piano. Drawn by the rhythm, William pushed through the crowd. 

A bandleader spotted the pale interloper and grinned. "Young man! Care to join us?" 

Bodyguards tensed, but William waved them off. Mounting the stage, he bantered with the musicians, their laughter uneasy. 

"What's your name, friend?" the trumpeter asked, sweat glistening on his brow. 

"William Sheffield." 

The music died. The crowd froze. 

"Like... the Sheffield?" someone muttered. 

"Grandson" William replied, smile sharp. The room's warmth evaporated. 

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