Um hóspede! Um presente! (England)

[Brazil]

September, 1865
The Port of Rio de Janeiro, Guanabara Bay

Being out of uniform while she was at war was so strange, yes?

Not that she liked her Army's uniforms that much, they were dull and tasteless to look at. ...Except for the hats, Beatriz decided after another moment. The hats were definitely the best part of the uniforms, yes? If she'd known there was going to be a big war going on, the Brazilian girl thought to herself, she would have definitely tried to make sure her Army had better-looking things to wear while they fought. How could you represent yourself well as an empire if your soldiers did not look the part?

Still, the uniform would have looked out of place on Beatriz away from the battlefield, so she was wearing a flowing, brightly-colored dress instead. Little Pedro (well, not so little anymore maybe) had asked her to come down and greet the British ship that was docking at the port today. Apparently there were some important officials from the British Empire coming to talk about that fool consul of theirs, plus maybe something about the war against Paraguay as well.

There hardly seemed anything worth talking about when it came to the war, Beatriz felt: she, Argentina, and Uruguay were thoroughly kicking Paraguay's ass without any foreign help! ...Maybe a little bit of foreign money, really not so very much, but gunpowder didn't grow on trees, yes? So really the only thing the Brazilian Empire wanted to know what what the British had to say about their stupid representative. From what little Pedro had told her, Beatriz didn't think this ship was here just to offer her a formal declaration of war.

Probably they'd offer something half-witted as an excuse to try and patch things up. Anything to make sure it was clear that they were never in the wrong, yes? All the times that she'd been in the vicinity of England, both as Portugal's colony and after her independence, Beatriz had noticed that the island nation had an a tendency never to apologize for anything he did. She didn't expect anything less from whoever he sent now.

Waving cheerfully to the people hard at work here at the docks, the young Empire of Brazil skipped down to the berth where the British ship was coming in to dock. Once there, she'd find a good place to watch the British leave their ship. After that, Beatriz would decide whether she wanted to talk to the British or not. Probably not, though - the longer Beatriz was away from the battlefield the more Paraguayans who she could be attacking were getting attacked by Argentina and Uruguay instead! Brazil was far too competitive to let herself fall behind!

-----
- Little Pedro = Dom Pedro II, second and last Emperor of Brazil.
- The Uruguayan War had ended by spring of 1865, so at the moment Uruguay is (somewhat resentfully) fighting alongside Brazil and not against her.
- Brazil had a real love of their Armada, but their Army sucked for a while after Dom Pedro I abdicated. Then they adopted the Prussian army model and resumed previous levels of ass-kicking.
- My South American headcanon is telling me that Argentina is a girl and Uruguay is a boy. It's split 50-50 on Paraguay though~
- Accounts are divided on how many Paraguayans died due to the War of Triple Alliance. Some say it was 90% of the male population, and some say it was 90% of the TOTAL population. And yet Paraguay made a freakishly amazingly fast recovery, go figure~
- Link to wiki: hereness~

[England]

There were a great many particulars, simply because there were always a great many particulars, and if there weren’t then some would absolutely be found somewhere. Several weeks on board a ship was plenty of time to think some up—after all, it didn’t take an entire envoy of the British Empire just to come to the conclusion that someone had been a twit, and now the situation with Brazil had become more than vaguely embarrassing: it was leaning precariously close to a war of no practical advantage. It was, in short, a lot of fuss about nothing that was about to become something serious, and the mechanisms of Her Majesty’s Government had finally got around to noticing. To be sure, if they had been inclined to push the issue, now was the time: Brazil had two fronts to fight upon—and by the look of her coastal defences, the thought had occurred.

But it was unfounded. There were particulars. There were also broader considerations, and none that involved scuppering trade—or letting Paraguay strut his isolationism all over the continent.

That didn’t mean Brazil couldn’t, shouldn't, have saved everyone the bother and elected to back down, like any sensible nation.

The envoy had been deemed prudent, after two years of silence and more important matters. But it was not so important now that it couldn’t do without him—England had not been ordered to attend, and would have been affronted at the very suggestion.

He was, however, well acquainted with the opportunity of a good excuse. Brazil was going to be trouble, but she was at least not the same trouble in the same suit on the same plate. There was progress to be made, a simple business transaction both bloody and beneficial. He rather thought he could count on Brazil’s nature, if not her hospitality, to see the sense in it.

But times were also changing: Rio de Janeiro still teemed with the palatable youth of the colonies, with expansion, violence and bare-faced opportunity. But there were winches where there’d once been pullies, and railroads were picking their way steadily across the gold aspirations and perilous jungle Arthur had cause to remember. Trains now ran beneath the streets of London, and he couldn’t be prouder, but soon the raw energy of all this would probably be the same known tedium of Europe. Telegraphs had proven exceptionally useful, and exceptionally damning in Russia; it was only a matter of time before such journeys were entirely superfluous.

England hadn’t seen the former colony in some years, but he didn’t imagine the domineering, round-cheeked little ruffian had changed significantly. She’d been a warmonger from the start, with an infectious laugh and all Portugal’s ambition. She’d stolen his hat, on one occasion, and what war games it had been subsequently subjected to were anyone’s uncomfortable guess.

The familiarity struck too close to home, and England put his boot to the thought’s throat before it grew into a distraction. What changes these wars had wrought on the country, on Brazil, would soon be clear enough. They’d arrived.

Ahead of him, Marines were filing out of the longboat in two disciplined, red-coated lines. And it was from their armed, tightly belted shadow—once they'd taken position along the dock—that England stepped out, beyond his diplomats and staff, turning his head unerringly in the direction of Brazil’s oh-so-subtle vantage point. The sun was firmly in his eyes, and the haze coming up off the docks blinded—that was well done. But people responded to their Nation, to that particular vibration of confidence or despair, of nationalism and pride. It was why a Nation on the battlefield was often crucial, and for better or worse Brazil had certainly made herself a Nation. Called herself an Empire, no less. Well, then. One Empire to another—if Beatriz thought for a second that England didn’t know she was there, she was deeply mistaken. He could have felt the sheer buoyancy even without her cheerfully obvious waving.

He turned to speak to one of the younger Marines, dispatching him to respectively reiterate the dock number to a girl he'd find up beyond the next. After the whole Light Brigade fiasco, he'd had more than enough of chasing things about.

[Brazil]

September, 1865
The Port of Rio de Janeiro, Guanabara Bay

Beatriz watched the brightly colored men in uniforms marching out of their longboat and up the dock. Quite a sight, yes? At least the color was vivid enough, the uniforms designed with an attentive eye for the impact they would make. Beatriz started wondering if there was any way to hire the people who'd come up with the look to redesign her own army's uniforms.

Her thoughts momentarily ground to a halt when she saw that figure stepping out past his men and turning his gaze in what was unmistakably her direction. Beatriz giggled - she could see those eyebrows from here! England, Mister British Empire himself, had come to visit Rio today had he? So much for getting anything resembling an apology, yes? Ah, and he was looking right at her too. Even though she was certain he couldn't see her, England knew where Beatriz was.

'Hasn't anyone told him how creepy that is? Like he can spy on you without even trying or something,'

[/color] Beatriz thought to herself.

Hopping down from the large barrel she'd been using as a perch, the Empire of Brazil had just finished straightening her skirts when a younger fellow in red uniform trotted up to her. He looked rather confused by the whole thing, yes? Being told to find what looked to him like a fourteen year old girl.

The nearby dock workers paused in their activities, clearly watching the British boy with obvious suspicion. Unlike Beatriz, who had picked up more than enough of the clunky language to get by, these Brazilians hadn't learned as much English and weren't sure what was going on. Beatriz dispelled their worries with a cheery laugh and a wave of her hand.

"Inglaterra é muito velho e lento para andar, sim? Apresse-se e liderar o caminho, então!"[/color]

The docks erupted into merry laughter around her, the Brazilians clearly picking up on Beatriz's good mood. And who wouldn't be in a good mood after seeing that reaction? Oh, the look on that British boy's face...though he clearly didn't understand what he'd just been told, which was irritating. If England was going to wander around in another empire's territory, the least he could do would be to train his men to speak the language, yes? Otherwise it was just too annoying to deal with!

With a playful smile on her face, Beatriz ended up skipping down the dock ahead of her 'escort'. What a sight she must be making to England's little soldiers, yes? When she was a few long strides away from her target, Beatriz quite abruptly came to a stop and folded her arms over her chest. The playful smile had been replaced with a skeptical, scornful look, and she stared the taller, older empire down with no fear whatsoever in her gaze.

...How irritating, yes? With a slight rustle of cotton, Beatriz suddenly darted forward and attempted to kick England as hard as she could in the shin with her booted foot. The boots were the only part of the uniform Beatriz hadn't bothered leaving behind today - clearly it was for good reason, yes?

"Olá Inglaterra!"[/color] she grinned after dancing backward again, "I think you come here to see me, sabe?"[/color][/center]

----
- Translation:
"England is too old and slow to walk, yes? Hurry up and lead the way then!"
- Tried not to powerplay there, but the kicking really felt inevitable~ X3

[England]

That little trick was hardly magic—though he supposed it could be done with magic, if it made anyone feel better. England wasn't exactly known for his sensitivity regarding other people's nerves. But every Nation had their own impression, and he imagined each Nation felt different to every other Nation. He had no way of knowing what the others thought—it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought up over the dinner table, after all. At least, whenever he tried it seemed to kill the conversation. Nonetheless, the impression of sunny menace grew steadily stronger as they waited—England for Brazil, and his diplomat, Sir Thornton, for the Portuguese delegation they could see in the distance. They were early, anyway, as was England’s habit. (He was either early or he was late, and when the British were on time it had nothing to do with him.)

When Brazil appeared, the poor marine trotting briskly on her heels just to keep up, England wasn’t the only one to notice. Firstly, because she was wearing a rather brightly coloured dress in an ocean of dock-brown, sea blue and drab dock hand; secondly, because she seemed to be making straight for them; and thirdly, because she was certainly making straight for them—and completely alone.

For her part, Brazil clearly intended to leave the British little time to ruminate on the strangeness of her un-chaperoned appearance—though England would like to think his men were terrorised sufficiently to keep their insinuations belted up around their superiors. The last thing he needed, on top of everything, was some sailor slapping her arse. Then she was level with them (upon them might have been more accurate). England watched her pull back her shoulders and narrow her eyes, and had just enough time to wonder—horrified—if she were honestly going to do what he thought she was going to do. And what was worse: he was going to have to let her. The soldiers would intervene, and then what. He was caught between getting out of the way or putting up a hand to forestall their interference—which meant standing where he was, as though everything were perfectly effing fine, and taking it with something approaching dignity.

And that was precisely what England did. There was just enough time to brace his heels against the ground before Beatriz’ temper made an impressive, gritty crunch against his shin. England hoped it was satisfying. It was the only sound she was going to get out of him. (…though if she’d been psychic, England’s current litany would have blistered the skin off a Goth--once it had managed to climb out of its gutter.)

There was a word for the expression on every face, and that was flabbergasted. All conversation had ceased amongst the British, who were staring in that particular way they had of not seeming to stare. A young lady did not normally walk up to a high ranking officer in Her Majesty’s Navy and kick him. That was, a young lady did not normally walk up to a high ranking officer in Her Majesty’s Navy and kick him unless he’d somehow done something rather ignoble with her mother, and disappeared with the tide. Which was about as far from the truth as it were possible to get, and good God he was done with this continent. His shin pulsed again, sickeningly, right up into his groin.

"Olá Inglaterra! I think you come here to see me, sabe?"

“Have come,” he corrected, stiffly. It was automatic. “Brazil,” he added, trying for polite and ending up somewhere around politely murderous. He’d been entirely right. She had not changed at all.

The small Empire hadn’t looked concerned before she’d kicked him, and she didn’t look at all concerned now she had kicked him. In fact the girl was grinning up at him, like it was all great fun, and for a moment with his eyes full of sun and his mouth thin, England would have happily forgotten all about peace to give her something to be concerned about. Brazil would find her arrogance quickly exceeded her capabilities—and her pockets.

England came back to himself as Sir Thornton’s voice interrupted them, enquiring the young lady’s name. He was being diplomatic. He’d been briefed; a man in his position needed to know who Beatriz was.

…and he was utterly right. They were here to promote their own interests, not to be bloody-minded fools. Was he utterly incapable of any sense around colonies—his mistake, former colonies—these days?

Arthur had a brief, violent struggle with his temper, and finally let it go. It might or might not last once he actually had to put weight on that leg, but it was good enough to try and dig up a language he hadn't used in years. The words felt utterly awkward in his mouth, but his marines already looked thoroughly traumatised. No sense confusing them even more. (It was about as conciliatory as Arthur Kirkland ever got.)

“Peço perdão. Brasil, permita-me que lhe apresente Sir Edward Thornton. A senhora deverá lembrar-se sua pai. Sir Thornton, Beatriz Soares. Então, vamos continuar a agüentar andar na gandaia sob o sol durante todo o dia?”




~

* “I apologise. Brazil, allow me to present Sir Edward Thornton. You may remember his father. Sir Thornton, Beatriz Soares. Now, are we going to continue gadding about under the sun all day?”

Formal Portuguese is formal. And crotchety.

- …that Portuguese took me forever. Peace offering is a damn peace offering. He’s going to go back to using a real language now.

- Sir Edward Thornton had extensive experience in South America, having represented the British Empire in Mexico, Argentina and Uruguay. Up to you if she ever saw him over there. His father was also a diplomat to Brazil before him, from 1817 – 1820 and then again from 1823 – 1824.

- Until 1919, when they became Ambassadors, representatives were called Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Emperor of Brazil. Say what now?

[Brazil]

September, 1865
The Port of Rio de Janeiro, Guanabara Bay

Beatriz tried not to show it, but she was a little bit surprised that England didn't try to step out of the way of her kick. Unless it was because he knew his people had been stupid and was accepting that as his just desserts? But one little kick was hardly anything! And even if Beatriz had been satisfied, her boss and people wanted something beyond the satisfaction of kicking England's legs black and blue, yes?

Though he did correct her English, and his cheeks turned an interesting shade of purple for a few moments. That was more like it! Beatriz only smiled brightly back at him without revising anything she'd said at all. If she cared about whether or not England would approve of her using his language, Beatriz would have made the effort to be better, yes? It was yet another way of showing him just how annoying his stupid representative had been to her.

England's soldiers looked rather affronted once they had enough time to process what had just happened. But none of them moved against her...which might have been amusing. Just because she wasn't in uniform didn't mean Beatriz had already forgotten how to fight! Though her fond remembering of such things was interrupted by one of the men (who was perhaps NOT a soldier, judging by the way he moved?) stepping up to England and asking who Beatriz was.

It took another minute, but England finally spoke again. And what came out of the empire's mouth had Beatriz's jaw dropping.

“Peço perdão. Brasil, permita-me que lhe apresente Sir Edward Thornton. A senhora deverá lembrar-se sua pai. Sir Thornton, Beatriz Soares. Então, vamos continuar a agüentar andar na gandaia sob o sol durante todo o dia?”

[/color]

...Granted, it was almost totally gibberish and the accent was far too thick to make listening to it pleasant at all, but it was still Portuguese. Staring up at the other empire in obvious wide-eyed shock, Beatriz took a step back before she could contain herself. Really, Beatriz didn't think England even knew that much Portuguese! And if she were a flightier person, Beatriz would have been on him in seconds, kicking and demanding to know where the hell the real England was.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Beatriz was able to put the issue of England's attempted use of Portuguese aside in favor of trying to figure out what the hell he'd tried to say. There might have been something about the man standing there, so it could have been an introduction, yes? That would make that man 'Sir Edward Thornton'...well, he did look oddly familiar and the name Thornton did ring a bell. There'd been a diplomat named Thornton from England here not long before she'd won her independence from Portugal...that must be it!

"Thornton, sabe?"[/color] Beatriz inquired, specifically paying attention to the apparent diplomat and NOT to England and his sudden bizarre use of other languages, "Você olha como ele! Seu filho, certo?"[/color]

That particular Sir Thornton had spoken very good Portuguese as well...it would be a shame if his son did not, yes? Especially since if Beatriz heard England mutilating her poor language any more she was going to put his tongue out of its misery herself. Thankfully, the arrival of some more people put a stop to that.

Turning her head to see who it was, Beatriz noted with some surprise that the Marquis of Olinda was among them. The rest were his assistants and a few guards. Now that she could see them side-by-side with England's bright red uniforms, Beatriz was really displeased to note how little impact her army uniforms made in comparison. She really needed to steal his tailor at some point!

"Presidente!"[/color] Beatriz greeted him cheerfully.

He frowned at her, of course, but Beatriz only grinned. The Marquis of Olinda was very stern and stiff, but she and most of her people liked him. So did her boss, if his making the other man President of the Council of Ministers over and over again was any indication...though it was no secret between them that the old man disapproved of many of Beatriz's antics. Bullying the Emperor a little bit now and again wasn't that bad, yes?

Stepping to the side, Beatriz watched the head of her boss's parliament step forward to take control of the situation. At least she didn't need to tell him who and what England was.[/center]

----
- Portuguese translations: "You look just like him! His son, right?" and "President!"
- My translator claims that England mangled the language HORRIBLY there~ Sounds about right~
- It turns out the Empire of Brazil was actually a parliamentary monarchy! (More things to have in common, oh boy~) The prime minister was known as 'President of the Council of Ministers' and the Emperor generally tended to fire them immediately whenever they did something he disagreed with.
- This guy is Pedro de Araújo Lima, a.k.a. the Marquis of Olinda, and was one of the few who kept getting reappointed. He's on his fourth and last stint in office during the time this thread is set and is about...hmm, 70 or 71 years old?
- I don't really know who would be in a delegation like this, but I do know it wouldn't be the Emperor~ *is guessing at this* ^^;;

[England]

England’s first indication that something might have gone amiss (quite widely amiss) was Sir Thornton’s pale, polite face. After all, if he were to gauge anything by Brazil’s sour puss, especially those wide-eyes, he’d soon make a fool of himself: she’d fox him to the last. He was well enough acquainted with Catarina’s former colony to know that much. But Sir Thornton was a steady man, a product of the best institutions, and he had definitely just winced. England glanced between the diplomatic and the dramatic, perplexed and irritable. What had he said now? If Brazil was out to change Portuguese to the barbarous extent that his brood were beginning to butcher his beloved English, it was not his concern. They could lump it.

When Brazil actually took a step away from him, however, the affronted urge to call her up short on such preposterous behaviour almost buckled under the urge to snort. It was hard to tell which would be more appropriate—though probably neither, if he wanted to improve anything between them. The normal constraints of dignity had never seemed to bother Beatriz: she would, he had cause to believe, make an utter spectacle of herself if properly provoked. Who cared what the world thought as long as she got at his shins? Well, at the very least she was no longer smirking at him. The Portuguese going backwards and forwards in front of him (and over his head, as languages tended to) distracted them all from testing the theory. England, thankfully, didn’t have time to reach the limit of his patience at being ignored (though he was by no means thrilled about it) before a word he did understand cropped up.

Presidente![/color]

Presidente? Surely not. But as they turned, to a man, Brazil was not mistaken: the Marquis of Olinda was clearly visible, having stepped down from his carriage at the edge of the docks. He was walking towards them now, at a good pace for his years—and his accompanying party was not large. England exchanged a quiet glance with Sir Thornton, who tilted his head subtly as if accepting some privately held suspicion. It was unexpected—had Arthur telegraphed ahead, to advise them of his inclusion, perhaps less so. But he had not—and with bloody good reason, too. From the cheerful surprise on Brazil’s face, she seemed as surprised as they.

Angrier than we supposed, Arthur thought, watching the Marquis of Olinda fix Brazil with a stern look. Or, he amended, they need a good bit more money than we thought. Of course, how much money Brazil needed and how much Brazil had been told she needed were not necessarily the same thing. It was all complete supposition at this stage. He might have been glad of the prospect. He was not. This business of riding rough-shod over one’s Nation was only getting worse and worse, the stronger Parliament grew. It was a blundering way of carrying on.

Around them, England’s marines had straightened their backs and lifted their armaments out of the subtle heat-sag they’d sunk into; at the sight of competition, it was amazing how much the laziest solider could grow. England was well acclimatised to the fine sight they made—he had damn well made sure of it, and English textiles were unparalleled. Side-by-side, the difference in impact was rather obvious. He still wouldn’t have given it much thought had he not caught Brazil’s sly glance, marking it silently for later. He was not, of course, feeling smug. That would have been beneath an Englishman. But it was all to the good. Every shiny thing she saw, everything she decided was necessary, was an extra pound interest due. Arthur wasn’t overly concerned about the money, Sumner be damned: Brazil would be in no trouble so long as she won, and England had every intention of seeing that she did. That had already been decided. (They’d already made the bloody mistake, one way or another. There had been no grubbing around for the basics of gunpowder and grapeshot for Brazil, or any of them. They’d been given, in the pursuit of pride and prestige, every advancement their colonisers had to offer—to Europe’s gain and to its cost. There was no point trying to do more than direct it now.)

England would say this for the Marquis of Olinda, though—the man did not miss a beat on seeing him. The serious gaze swept up from Beatriz to encompass them all, dissuading any kind of scene. Impelled by Brazil’s earlier unsubtle horror, Arthur had privately had half a mind to greet her President in Portuguese after all, just to be perverse. But he could hardly entertain it now they were eye to eye, and perhaps that had been the Marquis’ intention all along.

There was a bit of an awkward pause (from the British, anyway)—with Brazil stepped to one side, it unbalanced the introductions to two statesmen and one Nation, instead of an even table, but greetings were made and formalities adhered to. Through the course of the exchange the President’s presence was politely worked around as self-evident (though utterly baffling). For his part, England couldn’t pick up anything useful. There was no sense of urgency in the Marquis’ countenance, and if there was any hostility he hid it well. Which meant absolutely nothing, of course, except that the Marquis of Olinda would undoubtedly be formidable at cards. Within a short space of time they were leaving the docks behind, the four of them followed closely by the diplomat’s staff, and then flanked in two rows of guardsman—Brazil’s first, and England’s marines a two-pace behind in a bright red rear-guard.

Arthur’s leg was apparently going to survive its sacrifice to the cause of international concord. It twinged grumpily on the short walk, but it would be long healed before the journey was done; it was just enough to distract him into offering his hand as Beatriz went to step up into the carriage. (It must have been the utter strangeness of the skirt—God knew she was more likely to vault him.)






-

- Inescapable Victorian manners are inescapable.

- England’s Portuguese was put together from real sources, so I hope it was at least…no, no, never mind. XD I agree, he’d mangle it. Horribly. Because I bet it was perfectly comprehendible… in like 1506. When he learnt it. And oh God man just stop trying.

- They have more than a parliamentary monarchy in common. I lol’ed at Brazil’s idea of stealing England’s tailor, because England did exactly that >D he stole Prussia’s! English military uniforms cannibalised more than a little from the Prussian Hussars back in the day.

- Random amusement:

“Brazilian efforts in the nineteenth century to create the impression that they were complying with British demands to terminate the slave trade in Brazil, when they had no intention to do so, made popular a descriptive phrase that has survived to the present day—para ingles ver, meaning “for the English [or, indeed, anyone] to see.”

>||

[Brazil]

September, 1865
The Port of Rio de Janeiro, Guanabara Bay

Beatriz watched how unsettled England and his people were with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Of course, the Marquis could intimidate anyone into feeling unsettled like that: even Beatriz herself wasn't immune to that piercing glare he had, yes? It made her wonder sometimes if other empires or nations had many people like the Marquis. Someone who was a loyal, even patriotic citizen of the country...but who disapproved of the nation all the same surely had to be unique.

Every carefully selected word and motion the Marquis made as he and England's Sir Thornton exchanged greetings spoke volumes to Beatriz, naturally. It was a stark reminder of what Little Pedro had asked her to remember before coming down to the docks: to please keep in mind that she and England weren't actually at war yet and that it would most inconvenient if she started any hostilities before the other empire did.

'Does kicking him count as starting things off?'

[/color] Beatriz idly wondered, 'No, I don't think so...he had it coming, yes? So there's nothing to worry about!'[/color]

Satisfied with her reasoning, Beatriz did her best to ignore the smugness she could practically taste washing off of England as he took in the difference in uniforms between his soldiers and her own. It wasn't as if it mattered, yes?! Her Armada had much better uniforms and were a match for anything that tried to take them on. Even England's fleet would think twice before challenging Beatriz's ships (or so she fancied), so it didn't matter if her soldiers were a little less...polished-looking. It wasn't as if Beatriz wasn't going to fix that soon enough anyway, yes?

Turning her thoughts to ignoring England, Beatriz skipped along after the Marquis and tried to put the thought of her mind. Soon enough they were at the Marquis' carriage, ready and waiting to take them into the city proper. It was at this point that England, seemingly intent on making himself far too tempting a target, offered a hand as if to help her into the carriage.

Beatriz scowled. Did he think she was unable to climb up by herself or something? The condensation that implied instantly infuriated her. If that was what England thought then he'd soon learn to regret leaving his hand in the open like that, all too close to her mouth -

"Brasil."

The Marquis' voice cut through her thoughts. It didn't have the same weight as Little Pedro's voice, but the tone and the look on his face were clear enough. Behave, they reminded her. We're still not at war yet.

Sighing heavily, Beatriz grudgingly accepted the help into the carriage after all. The temptation to dig her nails into his skin was strong, but somehow Beatriz managed to overcome it and settled down in the seat next to her President with a sulky expression on her face.

Once the carriage had all its passengers, the whole assembly began slowly moving away from harbor. Out the windows, Beatriz could see her and England's soldiers following along. At least her men marched as smartly as their red-coated counterparts, yes? Training was probably more important than the uniforms anyway. Beatriz half-listened as the Marquis informed both England and his Sir Thornton of the fact that they were now headed for the Paço Imperial.

It probably said something about how carefully Little Pedro was trying to manage the potential for war between the two empires, having the Marquis going to fetch the British envoy in person and recalling Beatriz herself from the field for the meeting. For an Emperor, Dom Pedro II was inexplicably fond of playing cautiously in international politics.

At least he played internal politics with a respectable amount of boldness. Beatriz would have thought she'd gone horribly wrong raising her second boss otherwise.[/CENTER]

----
- Anything you spot that seems highly improbable, let me know. *not a confident Brazil player*
- The 'Paço Imperial' was formally the governor's residence back when Brazil was a colony. It turned into an imperial residence when Portugal's royals moved in, and during the Empire of Brazil it became the Emperor's workplace. (They had a separate imperial residence elsewhere in the city.)
- Pedro I abdicated when Pedro II was five and left to take the Portuguese throne. Luckily he didn't take after Beatriz in personality despite her bossing him around like he was her kid brother all the time.

[England]

Everyone was, of course, pretending they had not seen the embodiment of the Empire of Brazil almost bite the embodiment of the British Empire. To England the metaphysics were less important, it being—for all intents and purposes—his hand before it was—oh, what would it be, Liverpool? Yes, somewhere about there. The whip-crack of the Marquis’ voice had given him a start, the kind of start one has when someone yells “scorpion!” just as you’re putting your toes into a boot (there was much to be said of Arabia, and someone had to stop France looting all of it for Paris, but the scorpions; the scorpions…) But up Beatriz went, and Arthur was dastardly enough to arrange his face into a look of approval. Her sulky expression did not negate the fact that that had been nicely done, at least in comparison to her customary idea of grace. She’d even managed not to stomp on his foot, which must have taken a Herculean effort. Arthur was courting another outburst, he knew, but at the end of the day Brazil wasn’t his; her bad behaviour didn’t reflect on him a whit, and beneath his brass and his polish no-one had ever accused England of boundless magnanimity.

I should introduce her to Australia, Arthur thought, taking his place opposite the young Empire. They could not have been more perfect: she would bite him and he would bite her; she would eat him alive, he would probably prove thoroughly poisonous. They both had an abundance of oversized spiders and violent natives, very often vying to consume one another. ...and actually, that was something of a disturbing analogy. Listening to the Royal Society go on wasn’t always educational so much as it was food for the unsettling. England put it out of his mind. He’d do no such thing, anyway. Australia was wild and unruly, and very likely to put a scorpion in his boot—but as the carriage began its winding way into Rio proper, England understood the two were not comparable. Brazil had what could politely be termed a blooded muzzle, and he had no intention of putting in harm’s way that which remained his to protect.

Rio de Janeiro greeted them in the way of most larger cities: with the muted sound of children beginning to tag alongside the carriage, warned off their quest for coin by the accompanying soldiers. Childish taunts and rascal-sharp entreaties soon blended into the bustle of Brazil’s capital, the feel of it growing stronger as her population density rose sharply around them.

They were rumbling past the Igreja São José before England broke his silence, until then quite content to leave the diplomacy to his diplomat—which was, of course, what the man was trained for. Heaven forbid the Crown leave the fate of a Nation to the Nation, these days.

Construction had been underway on the Igreja São José before Beatriz’ independence, and completed after. Once upon a time a single word from the Pope had commanded whole armies into battle, including his. They’d thrown themselves against the East, against each other, at the lift of a jewelled hand. And that same hand had, in its day, partitioned the whole of the New World between Antonio and Catarina—he’d never seen Francis more livid in all the centuries he’d known him. Well, regarding someone else, anyway. England, as the heretic, had had little to be surprised about. But the edict had laid down the grounds for Brazil’s creation, or her re-education as it were, and so it was no small wonder that the Faith lived on strongly here. Portugal would have been devastated with less—one point on which Arthur agreed to disagree with her. But as she was not here to mock him for breaking his aversion to anything Catholic (it seemed to matter less and less as time went on), England waited for a polite pause in the conversation to address Brazil.

“How long are you away from the lines?” It was an odd question, and before Brazil could jump to the wrong conclusion (or her President, for that matter), England gestured to the church they were passing. “Even I’ve been told Sao Francisco da Penitencia is worth seeing. If this is something to go by, I’m beginning to believe it.”






-
Igreja São José was begun in 1808 and completed in 1842. Situated near the 'Paço Imperial', its bells are one of the most recognisable sounds across the city.

Sao Francisco da Penitencia was started in 1653 and completed in 1773, and is meant to be spectacular. As well as holding more gold than any other church in the New World. England’s never seen either, owing to his own refusal to give Catholicism the time of day. As the Age of Science progresses his opinion is loosening up a little.

Pope Alexander VI’s Inter caetera and the 1494 Treaty of Tordesillas attempted to distribute rights to the newly discovered lands between Spain and Portugal. France, who had financially supported Alexander’s rival for the Papacy, was left out.

[Brazil]

September, 1865
The Port of Rio de Janeiro, Guanabara Bay

Beatriz kicked her feet and watched her city rolling slowly by the windows of the carriage. Why diplomacy had to take such tedious and slow routes when the option of telling the other person straight to their face what you wanted and what you were willing to give was an option, the young Empire was sure she'd never understand.

At least this gave her the chance to show off her capital city, yes? It would be obvious even to someone as utterly stupid and useless as her idiot 'uncle', Spain, that Rio de Janeiro was a city worthy of hosting the heart of an Empire! And for all his many, many faults...England was, at the very least, capable of appreciating the scenery properly.

Beatriz ignored the soft exchange of words between the Marquis and England's Sir Thornton during all this: what they were doing was the diplomatic version of trading gossip, and as far as Beatriz was concerned it either consisted of nothing she cared about or things she already knew. Much more interesting to listen to the bells of the Igreja São José, yes?

"How long are you away from the lines? Even I’ve been told Sao Francisco da Penitencia is worth seeing. If this is something to go by, I’m beginning to believe it.”

[/color]

Hearing England's voice made Beatriz's head turn. Speaking English again...well, as long as he didn't mangle her poor language any more that was fine with Beatriz. If England never did so again, it would still be too soon...and really, it was poor taste for him not to at least make the effort to learn proper Portuguese, yes? As things were now, everyone England interacted with would have to learn English just to tell him off properly.

'Stubborn idiot!'[/color]

Whether England could pick out her specific thoughts from the expression on her face or not, he'd still asked her a question. And judging from the expression on the Marquis' face, Beatriz knew she had to be diplomatic about answering.

That didn't mean she couldn't have fun while doing so, yes? England wasn't the only one who could butcher a language and get away with it!

"Maybe I go back before you leave, sabe?"[/color] Beatriz replied, her tone cheerful.

Really, she was looking forward to returning to the battlefield. Who knew how far ahead in their little mass-murder game Argentina and Uruguay were already?! ...Actually, Uruguay wasn't the problem. Argentina was the real bitch in their neighborhood, and Beatriz wasn't about to let her 'cousin' rake in all the glory!

The other thing England had said...Beatriz had to glance at the Igreja São José for a moment, frowning. It was a nice building and the bells were wonderful, but did England really think it compared to the Igreja da Ordem Terceira de São Francisco da Penitencia? How ignorant! She couldn't restrict herself to choppy foreign tongues after hearing something like that!

"You can't be serious, sabe?"[/color] Beatriz blurted out in Shakomay - laced with Portuguese, because why not? - "My Igreja da Ordem Terceira de São Francisco da Penitencia is a wonder! It has more gold on its walls than you or Sister Catarina ever stole from Espanha estúpida!"[/color]

The Marquis, not knowing the common nation language, was still clever enough to pick up on the Portuguese he heard and plan accordingly.

"Você lhes mostrará a igreja depois da nossa reunião."

Beatriz's head whipped around and she glared daggers at the Marquis. The last thing she wanted to do was play tour guide right now! But that stern face was beyond reasoning with...well, if Little Pedro could be convinced otherwise then that worked out for Beatriz, yes? The Marquis of Olinda was many things, but he was not the boss of Brazil!

Thankfully, their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Paço Imperial before things could get any more awkward. Propriety be damned, Beatriz nearly flung herself out the door to get out of the carriage first. Hopefully Little Pedro would see sense and declare war properly so Beatriz could kick England out before she had to do something so embarrassing![/center]

----
- Translation: "You will show them the church after our meeting."

- So yeah, I figure that Dom Pedro (being civilized and all that) will probably offer tea or something while you guys are waiting to see him~

[England]

Indeed, the carriage seemed rather astoundingly tranquil in the wake of Brazil’s departure. That was, once the sudden uncomfortable air of political hostility was discounted. England reached out a hand to catch the small, beautifully engraved door as it rebounded sharply onto its hinges. It would be a shame to scratch the craftsmanship for the sake of a tantrum, surely – even if it had been rather entertaining.

“Sir Thornton, kindly convey to the Marquis that that would be most satisfactory,” he said, stiffly, and stepped out on Brazil’s heels. He wasn’t the least bit angry, but it never hurt to look it. Watching Brazil attempting to behave ‘diplomatically’ was fast turning into the most fun he’d had since Plymouth, but her prime minister had to remain another matter entirely. He had come here to offer an apology, and put the whole wretched business to rest. He hadn’t come here to be insulted, and Olinda would do very well not to forget it.

Outside, the buildings of Rio de Janeiro's capital square shone bright and lively under the sun, full of comings and goings. England eyed the Paço Imperial critically as the other men disembarked, and the soldiers were ordered to rearrange themselves. Some of his were wheezing, he noticed sharply; a few weeks aboard ship had not done them any good (but that was no excuse to be showing him up now). Still, with the lingering affluence of a genuine royal seat, the Paço Imperial could have been well on its way to being impressive by now– England had certainly expected to see some notable difference. It had remained, however, very much a governor’s house. Then again, much of Beatriz' wealth must have been going to the war now.

Stupid girl. Gold was far more easily traded than stolen; he’d put all that behind him, whatever she had been implying. And if Beatriz wanted more of it, she’d learn to have a little patience. After all, he’d already pressured the others into treaties. Brazil was the last still clinging onto both her slaves and her sugar, and England couldn’t allow her to continue challenging the West Indies forever. It simply wasn’t productive. But given the opportunity, he could see to it that she still made out respectably from all of this.

Speaking of Brazil, her bright skirts could be clearly seen up ahead of them, attendants and guardsmen scattering to get out of her path.

“You will tell me if things start going badly,” Sir Thornton murmured, with a slightly worried touch of humour, as they followed the young empire into the full bustle of the Brazilian Imperial Court.


~


Portugal had brought tea to England several centuries before, and he hadn’t liked it on principle. Her concerted efforts to elevate him from a cultural backwater had gone woefully underappreciated at the time, and for a good duration after that, but he couldn’t imagine life without it now. For that reason, as they were ushered into a well-furnished audience room to await a summons, he had thoroughly expected the servants to arrive with coffee – if they arrived with anything at all. After almost being bitten it would hardly be shocking. Instead, shortly after they’d been left to make themselves comfortable, a new set of servants had duly appeared carrying not only teapots but some bone china they’d dug up from somewhere. Arthur had to resist the temptation to take one of the dumpy fluted pots away from them and turn it over, though if one was sufficiently empty at the end he might get away with it. He had the vague suspicion he’d given a set very much like this one to Maria Teresa, and would not be at all surprised to find them one and the same after all these years. (Brazil had been standing at the docks that evening, as well, as the storm buffeted England’s ships and the Portuguese royal family home to her.) The Brazilians hadn’t gone out of their way to provide milk, but it hardly mattered; the blend was downright nostalgic. It might have been pensive, had the pastéis de nata not brightened it (and on that account, some diplomat clearly had a very long and very good memory). It hadn't truly been that long, but it might as well have been. Everything was different, even if it looked quite the same, and Portugal was as gone from here as he was from America. Of course, Portugal was still ‘Sister Catarina’…

Yes, well, and whose fault is that? he thought, snippily, and turned his attention back to the sugar.

The diplomat's staff, to a man, looked thoroughly glad to be finally off the ship. Sir Thornton himself had taken the chair across from Arthur, but his gaze was distant and every so often his lips moved slightly in the shadow of speech, a frown following the line of his long nose. Arthur didn't interrupt. He recognised the shape of the thoroughly revised, meticulously worded apology. Outside the door to their chamber noise rose and fell as missives came and went, flits and bursts of activity synonymous with a distant war. Arthur almost caught his fingers drumming in agitated curiosity. It wasn’t a sport, he reminded himself. He wasn’t the least bit interested in Brazil’s progress as anything other than a means to an end, and the end was a good long way off. He certainly wasn't crass enough to trivialise the matter into the concept of a score. ...not crass enough at all.






a.n.

- Maria Teresa, Princess of Beira, who England would have met during the transportation of the Portuguese royal family to Brazil in 1807.

- Plymouth was a major shipping port, handling imports and passengers from the Americas. No deeper connotation intended.

- Slavery was slowly being abolished in South America during the 19th century, often under pressure from the British and the dedicated fleet they had to sabotage the slave trade. Brazil was at this time the only nation still resisting completely, and would continue to do so until 1888 and the signing of the Lei Áurea, again under heavy pressure from yours truly. (Who really just wanted to see off competition in the sugar trade).

[Brazil]

To Be Continued...HERE~