The ladies arrived precisely at two o'clock.
There were three of them: Mrs. Pemberton, whom Amara had met before; Mrs. Anne Randolph, a cousin of Daniel's with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue; and Mrs. Judith Carter, who seemed to serve primarily as an audience for the other two.
They swept into the parlor in a rustle of silk and judgment, their eyes cataloging everything—the furniture, the silver, the way Amara's dress was just slightly out of fashion.
"My dear Mrs. Custis." Mrs. Pemberton settled into the best chair without being invited. "How good of you to receive us on such short notice."
You didn't give me much choice. You sent word an hour ago that you were coming.
"The pleasure is mine," Amara said smoothly. "Sally, the tea, please."
The ritual of tea service gave her time to study her visitors. Mrs. Pemberton was the leader—that was clear. Mrs. Randolph watched everything with calculating interest. Mrs. Carter mainly looked uncomfortable.
"We've heard such interesting things about you lately," Mrs. Pemberton began, once the tea was poured. "The whole county is talking."
"Oh?"
"About your improvements." She said the word like it tasted sour. "Additional rations for the servants. Repairs to the quarters. Some are calling it quite the experiment."
"I prefer to call it good management."
"Do you?" Mrs. Randolph leaned forward. "I must say, I'm curious about your methods. My husband has been in the planting business for twenty years, and he's never seen fit to—how did you put it?—'improve' the living conditions of his workers."
"Perhaps your husband hasn't calculated the cost of replacing workers who die of preventable illness."
A flicker of something—annoyance? respect?—crossed Mrs. Randolph's face.
"Mrs. Custis, you must understand." Mrs. Pemberton's tone shifted to something almost sympathetic. "We're not here to criticize. We're here as friends. As fellow women who understand the challenges of managing a household."
You're here to lecture me. To warn me. To put me in my place.
"I appreciate your concern."
"The thing is, my dear, these creatures—" Mrs. Pemberton gestured vaguely, encompassing the house, the grounds, the invisible people who worked them. "—they don't understand kindness the way we do. They see it as weakness. They take advantage."
"In my experience, well-fed workers work harder than starving ones."
"Perhaps. But there's more to it than that." Mrs. Pemberton set down her teacup with a decisive clink. "There's the matter of discipline. Of order. Of maintaining the proper... hierarchy."
"I see."
"Do you?" Mrs. Randolph's voice was cool. "Because from what I've heard, you've been remarkably lenient. No whippings in weeks. Workers getting extra rest. Some are saying you've even been visiting the quarters yourself."
They know. Of course they know. In a community this small, everything gets around.
"I believe in understanding my assets," Amara said carefully. "It's difficult to manage what you don't inspect."
"But alone? Without a chaperone?" Mrs. Carter finally spoke, looking scandalized. "Surely that's not—"
"I had an escort." The lie came easily. "I simply didn't want to make a production of it."
Mrs. Pemberton and Mrs. Randolph exchanged a glance.
"The thing is, Mrs. Custis," Mrs. Pemberton continued, "your reputation affects all of us. If word gets out that you're running a... lenient... establishment, it creates expectations. Our workers hear about it. They start to wonder why they don't get the same treatment. It breeds discontent."
Good. I hope it breeds rebellion.
But she couldn't say that.
"I assure you, my methods are purely practical. I've seen the numbers. Healthier workers, fewer replacements, better output. It's simple economics."
"If you say so." Mrs. Randolph didn't look convinced. "But there's something else you should know. My husband mentioned that several planters in the area are looking to... reduce their holdings. Sell off some surplus workers."
"And?"
"And they've mentioned your name." Mrs. Randolph smiled—a thin, unpleasant expression. "It seems you've developed a reputation as someone who might be sympathetic to... difficult cases. Workers who are troublesome elsewhere. Older workers. Sickly ones."
They want to dump their problems on me. Use my 'kindness' as a garbage disposal.
"I see."
"I thought you'd want to know. Before you find yourself with a household full of workers no one else wanted."
The warning was clear. The threat beneath it, clearer.
"I appreciate the information," Amara said. "I'll certainly consider it when making any future purchases."
The conversation moved on to other topics—weather, fashion, local gossip—but Amara's mind was elsewhere.
They're trying to trap me. Either I refuse the 'difficult' workers and prove I'm just like everyone else, or I accept them and get overwhelmed with broken people I can't help.
But what's the alternative? Let those people be sold further south, worked to death in the Deep South cotton fields?
She smiled and nodded and poured more tea, and all the while the calculation ran in her head.
How many can I actually save? How many can this plantation support? Where's the line between helping and drowning?
She didn't have answers. She wasn't sure there were any.
After the ladies left—finally, mercifully—Amara retreated to the study.
She pulled out the ledger and opened it to the back, where she'd started keeping her own notes. The names were all there, eighty-four of them, with new annotations she'd added over the past weeks. Medical conditions. Family connections. Skills. Vulnerabilities.
Eighty-four people. And now others might be coming.
She thought about what Mrs. Randolph had said. The "surplus workers" other planters wanted to unload. The old, the sick, the troublemakers.
If they come here, at least they'll have blankets. At least they won't be whipped. At least they'll die in something that resembles comfort instead of being worked to death.
Is that enough? Is that anything?
She stared at the names until they blurred.
I can't save everyone. I know that. I've always known that.
But if they're coming here anyway...
She picked up the pen and wrote at the bottom of the page, in handwriting that was half Martha's and half her own:
Maybe at least this is a better hell.
It wasn't hope. It wasn't victory. But it was something.
She closed the ledger and went to check on Daniel.
[End of Chapter 18]