Grimes left on a Sunday.
He packed his belongings in silence—clothes, books, the small personal items accumulated over years of service—and loaded them into a hired cart. No farewell speech. No final threats. He simply walked out the door without looking back.
Amara watched from the parlor window.
Three years he ran this place. Three years of fear and violence and control. And now he's just... gone.
It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like a held breath—the moment before something larger revealed itself.
"Mistress?" Breechy's voice, behind her. "What do we do now?"
The question hung in the air.
What do we do now?
The answer, Amara discovered, was more complicated than she'd anticipated.
Running a plantation without an overseer was technically possible but practically difficult. The white neighbors expected to see a white man in charge of field operations. The courts, if John pushed his legal challenge, would question her competence if she failed to appoint a replacement.
But the enslaved workers expected... something else.
"They want to know if things will be different," Elias told her, two days after Grimes's departure. "Without him. Without someone like him."
"What do you think?"
"I think you're going to disappoint them either way." His voice was flat. "You hire a new overseer, and it starts all over again. You don't hire one, and the courts take everything."
He's right. There's no clean solution. There never is.
"What if," Amara said slowly, "there was a middle way?"
The plan came together over the following week.
She advertised for an overseer—publicly, correctly, the way any responsible plantation owner would. But she wrote the requirements carefully: someone willing to follow detailed instructions, someone without strong opinions about discipline, someone who needed the job badly enough to accept unusual terms.
Breechy had mentioned a man in Williamsburg. A drunk. A failure. Someone desperate.
His name was William Hendricks.
He arrived for his interview looking like a man who'd given up on everything except the next drink. Thin, unkempt, with the red-rimmed eyes of someone who slept badly and woke worse.
"Mr. Hendricks." Amara received him in the study. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for seeing me, ma'am." His voice was rough but surprisingly educated. "I understand you need an overseer."
"I need someone who can follow instructions. Detailed instructions." Amara studied his face. "Can you do that?"
"I can do whatever you need, ma'am. I need this job."
"Then let me be clear about what I'm offering." Amara leaned forward. "You will be the official overseer. You will sign papers, meet with neighbors, represent the estate in any formal capacity. But the actual management of the workers—the day-to-day decisions—will be handled by someone else."
Hendricks blinked. "Who?"
"That's not your concern. Your concern is appearing competent and staying out of the way." She paused. "In exchange, you'll receive a salary, a cottage, and all the whiskey you can drink. Quietly. In private."
A long silence.
"You're asking me to be a figurehead."
"I'm asking you to be a survivor. Just like the rest of us." Amara met his eyes. "Can you do that, Mr. Hendricks? Or do you want to go back to Williamsburg and keep pretending you still have options?"
Hendricks looked at her for a long moment. Something passed across his face—shame, maybe. Or resignation.
"I can do it."
"Good. You start Monday."
The arrangement was delicate but functional.
Hendricks appeared at the required meetings, signed the required documents, and spent the rest of his time in the overseer's cottage with his bottles. Amara paid him well and asked nothing except silence.
The actual management fell to Breechy.
It wasn't official—couldn't be official, not when the law said Black men couldn't hold positions of authority over white interests. But within the estate, everyone understood. Breechy set the schedules. Breechy resolved disputes. Breechy made the thousand small decisions that kept a plantation running.
And Amara backed him up. Every time.
"You're taking a risk," Elias said, when he learned about the arrangement. "If anyone finds out—"
"They won't find out. As far as the neighbors are concerned, Hendricks is in charge." Amara's jaw tightened. "It's not perfect. It's not even close to perfect. But it's better than the alternative."
"Is it?"
"Would you rather have another Grimes?"
Silence.
"No," Elias admitted finally. "I wouldn't."
The legal challenge continued.
John Custis, undeterred by Grimes's departure, pressed forward with his petition. New witnesses appeared—neighbors who testified to Amara's "erratic behavior," servants who claimed to have seen "unseemly familiarity" between the mistress and her workers.
Mr. Power was concerned.
"They're building a narrative," he told her during one of their meetings. "A story about a woman who lost her mind after her husband's death. Who can't tell the difference between servants and family. Who poses a danger to herself and others."
"It's all lies."
"Lies can be effective, Mrs. Custis. Especially when they confirm what people already want to believe." Power shuffled his papers. "We need to counter their narrative with our own. Witnesses who can attest to your competence. Character references from people the court respects."
"Such as?"
"Colonel Washington, for instance. He's well-regarded. A war hero. If he spoke on your behalf—"
Washington. She hadn't seen him since the dinner at Mount Vernon, though they'd exchanged a few letters. Polite. Cordial. Nothing that would suggest a deeper alliance.
"I'll see what I can do."
She wrote to Washington that night.
The letter was carefully crafted—explaining her situation without sounding desperate, asking for support without demanding it. She mentioned their conversation about government and liberty, reminded him of his stated interest in "forward-thinking" ideas.
If I'm building a new world, she wrote, I need allies who understand what that means. People who see beyond the old ways. I believe you may be such a person, Colonel. I hope I'm not wrong.
The letter went out with the morning post.
She had no idea if it would work. But it was all she had.
A reply came ten days later.
Dear Mrs. Custis,
I was troubled to hear of your difficulties. The challenges of widowhood are many, and it grieves me to learn that your situation has been complicated by family disputes.
Mrs. Washington and I would be honored to offer what support we can. If it would be helpful, I would be willing to write a letter to the court attesting to your character and competence. I found our conversation at Mount Vernon most stimulating, and I have no doubt that a woman of your intelligence is more than capable of managing her own affairs.
Additionally, if circumstances permit, I would welcome the opportunity to continue our discussions in person. Perhaps you might visit Mount Vernon again, or we might call upon you at your convenience.
Your servant,
G. Washington
Amara read the letter three times.
He's offering to vouch for me. Publicly. In court.
And he wants to see me again.
She felt something loosen in her chest—not relief, exactly, but something close to it. For the first time since Daniel's death, she felt like she might actually win.
Don't celebrate yet. The battle isn't over.
But at least now I have ammunition.