Chapter 20: Stability Above All

The siblings hadn't yet left when Sheffield reappeared with his German shepherd in tow. Ignoring them completely, he barked at the coachman: "Detour to the girls' school first." The carriage rattled away, leaving the pair gaping in its wake. 

—— 

"Yankee, heel!" Sheffield hooked the dog's leash outside a stately manor before striding through oak doors. Twelve pairs of eyes turned cold at the interruption—until recognition dawned. Smiles bloomed like desert flowers after rain as the Texas Alliance Club members nodded deferentially. 

Sheffield slumped into the head chair at the mahogany table, elbows planted like a feudal lord surveying vassals. Ten men, two women, and himself—thirteen permanent members mirroring the Confederate states. This was no ordinary fraternity. Like Yale's Skull and Bones with magnolias and rifles, their cabal wove a web of power stretching from cotton fields to Capitol Hill. 

"I'm graduating," he announced through a yawn. "Who's replacing me? Any heirs apparent?" 

A man in khaki twirled his bourbon. "Sixteen and already retiring? The plantation calls its prince home?" 

"Duty beckons." Sheffield's tone dripped aristocratic ennui. "Two months till I'm chained to ledgers and lobbyists." 

Across the table, a redhead leaned forward, cleavage glinting. "Need a farewell gift, William? I volunteer as tribute…" 

"Control your cousin, Carter," Sheffield sighed. "Four years and she still mistakes this club for a brothel." 

The accused shrugged. "Laurel fucks coal miners for sport. You're just her white whale." 

"Imagine her with some Negro vagrant!" Khaki Suit guffawed. "Now that'd be—" 

*Bang!* Sheffield's signet ring struck wood. "Enough. We're selecting successors, not auditioning brothel tales. Criteria remain: no plebeians. Our fathers didn't preserve Southern gentility for us to dilute it." 

Nods rippled around the table. Seven scions of plantation dynasties, four political bluebloods, one military heir—this was Darwinism gilded in Spanish moss. Talent mattered less than pedigree; ambition bowed to tradition. 

"Brazilian exiles are returning," Sheffield added casually. "Old money with new grudges. Warn your fathers—fresh hounds enter the hunt." 

Laurel's pen stilled. "Competition?" 

"Reinforcement." His smile chilled. "Every fallen aristocrat weakens our walls. We'll absorb them, as our grandfathers absorbed each other's… assets." 

Murmurs of assent followed. These Brazilian "exiles" were Confederates who'd fled Reconstruction—kindred spirits draped in saudade instead of rebel gray. 

"Rest easy," Sheffield concluded. "The Sheffields ensure no true son of the South falls. Stability," he tapped the table, "is everything." 

The unspoken truth hung heavier than plantation iron collars: Their privilege depended on a world frozen in 1860—where bloodlines trumped merit, and progress died at the Mason-Dixon Line. 

(End of Chapter)