The letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Sally brought it in with the morning post—a thick envelope, sealed with wax bearing an unfamiliar crest. Addressed to Daniel, but with a note on the back: If Mr. Custis is indisposed, please forward to Mrs. Custis.
Amara broke the seal.
Dear Sir,
I write to inform you of developments that may affect your interests in the western territories. As you may have heard, His Majesty's government has issued new directives regarding settlement beyond the Appalachian mountains. The French continue to agitate among the native tribes, and there is talk of increased military presence along the frontier.
Additionally, the Assembly has been debating the question of taxation. Several representatives from the northern counties have expressed concern about the burden being placed on colonial merchants, particularly regarding the proposed duties on imported goods. There is growing sentiment that Parliament may be overstepping its authority...
The letter went on for three pages—political gossip, trade concerns, updates on the ongoing conflict with the French. Amara read it twice, her heart pounding.
Taxation. Colonial authority. Military presence on the frontier.
She knew where this was heading. The Stamp Act was still eight years away. The Boston Massacre, thirteen. The Declaration of Independence, nineteen.
But the seeds were already being planted.
On the surface, she was a young widow's wife receiving news about business matters she couldn't possibly understand. She composed her face into an expression of polite confusion, set the letter aside for Daniel to read when he was lucid.
But that night, alone in her bedroom, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
The timeline took shape slowly.
1757 (now) - French and Indian War ongoing
1763 - Treaty of Paris, end of war, Proclamation Line
1765 - Stamp Act
1770 - Boston Massacre
1773 - Boston Tea Party
1775 - Lexington and Concord, war begins
1776 - Declaration of Independence
1781 - Yorktown, war ends
1787 - Constitutional Convention
1789 - Washington becomes President
She stared at the dates, each one a marker on a road she knew by heart.
Daniel dies July 1757—that's weeks from now. If he dies on schedule, I become a widow. A wealthy, powerful widow. And in two years, I marry George Washington.
George Washington. The man who will lead the Revolution. Who will write the Constitution. Who will own three hundred enslaved people at his death and free them only in his will.
What if I can change him? What if I can plant ideas in his head, year after year, that make him see differently?
But there was another possibility. One she hadn't let herself consider until now.
What if Daniel doesn't die?
She'd been fighting to keep him alive. Sabotaging the doctor's treatments, substituting herbal remedies, doing everything she could to extend his life. And it was working—slowly, improbably, he was getting better.
If Daniel lives, I don't become a widow. I don't marry Washington. The entire future changes.
The thought was dizzying.
If I save Daniel, I might lose access to Washington. I might lose the chance to influence the Revolution, the Constitution, all of it.
But if I let Daniel die—if I stop fighting for him—am I any better than Grimes? Am I any better than the system I'm trying to change?
She put down her pen. Her hands were shaking.
I can't think like this. I can't play God with people's lives, calculating who lives and dies based on what's best for history.
History isn't a script. It's people. Real people, making real choices, every single day.
She looked at the timeline again. All those dates, all those events. She'd spent her career studying them, analyzing them, teaching students to see the patterns.
But patterns weren't destiny. The people who lived through those years didn't know what was coming. They made decisions based on what was in front of them—survival, family, hope, fear. The big picture emerged afterward, imposed by historians looking back.
I'm not a historian anymore. I'm inside the history now. And all I can do is make the best choices I can with what I have.
She picked up the pen again and added a line at the bottom of the page:
Priority: the living. Not the timeline.
Save the people in front of me. Plant what seeds I can. Let history take care of itself.
It wasn't a plan. It wasn't even a strategy. But it was a principle—something to hold onto when everything else felt impossible.
She stared at the paper for a long moment. Then, almost without thinking, she wrote one more line:
History is not a script. It's a battlefield.
The candle flickered. Outside, the night was quiet—no footsteps, no watchers, just the ordinary sounds of a plantation settling into sleep.
Tomorrow there would be more problems. More threats. More impossible choices.
But tonight, for this moment, she had clarity.
I don't know what's coming. I can't control what happens next. All I can do is fight for the people in front of me and hope that somehow, someway, it adds up to something better than what would have happened without me.
She blew out the candle.
In the darkness, the future waited.
[End of Chapter 20]