The first week of widowhood was a lesson in siege warfare.
John Custis didn't leave after the funeral. He installed himself in a guest room—"to help with the transition," he said—and spent his days questioning servants, reviewing ledgers, and generally making himself impossible to ignore.
Amara countered by being relentlessly competent.
Every morning, she met with Breechy to review the day's operations. Every afternoon, she inspected some aspect of the estate—the fields, the workshops, the accounts. Every evening, she dined with John, making polite conversation while revealing nothing.
"You're handling this remarkably well," John said one night, watching her over his wine glass. "Most widows would be... overwhelmed."
"Most widows haven't spent the past month running this estate while their husbands lay dying."
"True." He set down the glass. "But most widows also don't make the kinds of changes you've been making. The increased rations. The reduced discipline. The... accommodations... for certain workers."
He knows about Pearl. Of course he knows—Grimes told him.
"I've made the changes I believe are necessary for profitable operation."
"Have you? Or have you been indulging some... charitable impulse... at the estate's expense?"
"The numbers speak for themselves, Mr. Custis. You've seen the accounts."
"Numbers can be manipulated."
"So can interpretations." Amara met his eyes. "If you have specific concerns about my management, I'm happy to address them. Otherwise, I have work to do."
She rose from the table before he could respond.
The legal challenge came on the second week.
A messenger arrived with documents from the county court—a formal petition from John Custis, claiming that Martha Custis was mentally unfit to manage the estate or serve as guardian of her children.
Amara read the petition in her study, her hands steady despite the anger boiling in her chest.
"Unfit." He's calling me unfit. Based on what? On the fact that I'm treating enslaved people like human beings?
She sent for Mr. Power.
The lawyer arrived the next day—a small, precise man with ink-stained fingers and sharp eyes.
"It's a standard challenge," he said, after reviewing the petition. "He's arguing that your recent behavior indicates mental instability. The evidence is largely circumstantial—reports from neighbors, observations from servants."
"Grimes."
"Almost certainly." Power adjusted his spectacles. "The question is how to respond. We could simply present your management records—show that the estate has been profitable under your direction. But that may not be enough."
"What would be enough?"
"Character witnesses. Prominent people who can attest to your sound judgment." Power hesitated. "Do you have any allies among the local gentry?"
Amara thought about Mrs. Pemberton's thinly veiled hostility. Mrs. Randolph's calculating eyes. The whispers that followed her everywhere.
"Not many."
"Then we may need to find some." Power pulled out a notebook. "I'll make inquiries. In the meantime, continue what you've been doing. Document everything. Give them no ammunition."
He left.
Amara sat alone in the study, staring at the petition.
Character witnesses. Allies. In a world where everyone thinks I'm either mad or dangerous.
Where am I supposed to find those?
The answer came, unexpectedly, from Elias.
She found him at the forge three days later, working on a set of hinges. He didn't look up when she approached.
"I heard about the legal challenge."
"Word travels fast."
"Word always travels." He dunked the hot metal in water; steam hissed. "John Custis has been talking to people. Promising them things. If he wins, he's going to sell off half the workers to pay for his gambling debts."
Amara's stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"
"Because people talk to me. Not the white people—but the ones who serve them. The ones who overhear things." Elias finally looked at her. "He's planning to break up families. Sell the children separately from the parents. 'More profitable that way,' he said."
Sell the children separately. Like livestock.
"I won't let that happen."
"Can you stop it?"
"I don't know." The honesty cost her something. "But I'm going to try."
Elias studied her face for a long moment.
"There's someone you should meet."
"Who?"
"A man named James. He belongs to the Fairfax family—works as a valet, travels with his master everywhere. He hears things. Important things." Elias paused. "He's also connected to... networks. People who help each other. Pass information. Sometimes more than information."
The Underground Railroad. Or its precursor. The informal networks that helped enslaved people survive, resist, sometimes escape.
"Why would he meet with me?"
"Because I asked him to." Elias's jaw tightened. "I told him you might be different. That you might be someone worth talking to."
"And he believed you?"
"He believed I wouldn't risk my neck for someone who didn't deserve it."
The words hung in the air.
He's vouching for me. Putting his reputation—maybe his life—on the line.
"When can I meet him?"
"Sunday. After church. There's a clearing in the woods behind the old mill." Elias held her gaze. "Come alone. And Mistress—don't be late. He won't wait."
Sunday came gray and cold.
Amara slipped away after the church service, claiming a headache. She walked the two miles to the old mill, her heart pounding, the kitchen knife a familiar weight in her sleeve.
The clearing was small, surrounded by thick underbrush. A Black man was waiting there—middle-aged, dressed in the fine clothes of a house servant. He watched her approach with careful, assessing eyes.
"Mrs. Custis."
"You must be James."
"I am." He didn't offer his hand. Didn't bow. Just studied her with the same intensity Elias had shown. "Elias speaks well of you. He says you're trying to make changes."
"I'm trying."
"Why?"
The question was direct, almost challenging.
Because I'm a Black woman from the future trapped in a white slave owner's body. Because I can't look at these people and not see my own ancestors. Because doing nothing would destroy whatever's left of my soul.
But she couldn't say any of that.
"Because it's wrong," she said instead. "What's happening here. What's happening everywhere. It's wrong, and I can't pretend it isn't."
James was silent for a long moment.
"That's a dangerous thing to believe."
"I know."
"And an even more dangerous thing to act on."
"I know that too."
"Then why do it?"
"Because someone has to." Amara met his eyes. "I'm not naive, James. I know I can't fix everything. I know the law is against me, the courts are against me, the entire structure of this society is against me. But I can make small changes. Protect individual people. Plant seeds that might grow into something bigger."
"Seeds." James smiled—a bitter, knowing expression. "That's what they all say. The Quakers, the few abolitionists, the ministers who preach about liberty while owning twenty souls. They all want to plant seeds."
"I'm not them."
"Aren't you?" He stepped closer. "You own people, Mrs. Custis. You inherited them from your husband, and now they belong to you. Their lives, their labor, their children—all yours. How is that different from any other master?"
The question cut deep.
"It's different because I know it's wrong. It's different because I'm trying to change it." Amara's voice hardened. "I didn't ask to be in this position. I didn't choose to own anyone. But I'm here, and I have power, and I'm going to use that power to do what good I can."
Silence.
Then James nodded slowly.
"Elias was right about you."
"Right about what?"
"He said you were angry. Not politely concerned, not charitably inclined—angry. The kind of anger that doesn't go away." James paused. "That's rare. Most white people who want to help... they want to feel good about themselves. They want to be praised for their virtue. You don't seem to want that."
"I want to not hate myself. That's all."
"Then maybe we can work together."
He told her about the networks. The information channels that ran through every plantation in Virginia—servants who listened at keyholes, drivers who carried messages hidden in their clothes, preachers who used Bible verses as coded signals.
"We can't free everyone," James said. "We can barely help a handful escape each year. But we can protect people. Warn them when they're about to be sold. Help them prepare. Sometimes even hide them long enough for the danger to pass."
"What do you need from me?"
"Access. Information. When you hear about sales, about traders coming through, about anything that might threaten our people—we need to know." James's eyes were hard. "And if there's ever a chance to do more... to help someone disappear... we need to know you won't stop us."
He's asking me to become part of the resistance. To actively work against the system I'm supposed to uphold.
"I won't stop you."
"Good." James stepped back. "I'll be in touch. Through Elias."
He disappeared into the woods before she could say anything else.
Amara stood alone in the clearing, her mind racing.
I just agreed to help enslaved people escape. In 1757 Virginia. If anyone finds out, I'll be ruined—maybe killed.
But if I don't help... what's the point of any of this?
She walked back to the plantation, feeling for the first time like she might not be entirely alone.