The deposition hearing was held in Williamsburg.
The courthouse was a brick building near the center of town, imposing and official. Amara arrived early, dressed in her most respectable mourning clothes, Mr. Power at her side.
John Custis was already there with his lawyer—a sharp-faced man named Morrison who looked at Amara like she was an insect he intended to crush.
"Mrs. Custis." John inclined his head. "I see you've decided to fight."
"I see you've decided to waste the court's time."
His smile tightened.
The hearing began at ten o'clock. Morrison presented his case first—the witnesses, the testimony, the carefully constructed narrative of a woman gone mad with grief.
Neighbor after neighbor took the stand. They spoke of Amara's "strange behavior." Her "unnatural sympathy" toward the enslaved. Her "failure to maintain proper discipline."
One woman—Mrs. Pemberton, of course—testified that Amara had been seen walking alone through the slave quarters at night.
"It was most irregular," Mrs. Pemberton said, her voice dripping with false concern. "A lady of her station, wandering among the workers after dark. One can only imagine what she was doing there."
The implication hung in the air. The judge's eyebrows rose.
Amara sat motionless, her face a mask. Inside, she was screaming.
They're turning everything against me. Every good thing I've tried to do—they're making it sound sordid. Suspicious.
Mr. Power presented the counter-evidence. The financial records. The productivity reports. The testimonials from servants—carefully selected ones—who attested to Amara's competence and fairness.
But it wasn't enough. Amara could see it in the judge's face. The narrative was taking hold.
Then Mr. Power called his final witness.
"The defense calls Colonel George Washington."
The murmur that ran through the courtroom was audible.
Washington entered through the main doors, tall and commanding in his military bearing. He walked to the witness stand with the confidence of a man who'd faced cannon fire and found it lacking.
"Colonel Washington." Mr. Power approached. "You are acquainted with Mrs. Martha Custis?"
"I am."
"And how would you characterize your acquaintance?"
"We have dined together on several occasions. I have found Mrs. Custis to be a woman of considerable intelligence and sound judgment."
"In your opinion, is she capable of managing her late husband's estate?"
"More than capable." Washington's voice carried throughout the room. "I have discussed matters of business and politics with Mrs. Custis, and I have found her understanding to be superior to many men of my acquaintance."
Morrison jumped to his feet. "Objection. The Colonel's personal opinions about the petitioner's intelligence are hardly relevant—"
"On the contrary," Washington said, turning to face Morrison directly. "They are precisely relevant. This court has heard testimony suggesting that Mrs. Custis is mentally unfit to manage her affairs. I am here to say, unequivocally, that such suggestions are false."
The room went silent.
Washington continued. "I have known many widows in Virginia. Some have struggled. Some have failed. But Mrs. Custis is not among them. She has taken a difficult situation—the death of her husband, the challenges of managing a large estate, the care of young children—and she has handled it with grace and competence."
He looked directly at John Custis.
"If this court rules against her based on the gossip and innuendo I've heard today, it will be making a grave error. And I, for one, will not stand silent while a capable woman is stripped of her rights because she had the audacity to think for herself."
The silence stretched.
Then the judge cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Colonel Washington. Your testimony is... noted."
The ruling came three days later.
Petition denied.
John's challenge had failed. Amara retained control of the estate, guardianship of the children, and authority over all decisions regarding the property—including the enslaved workers.
She received the news in the parlor at White Oaks, where she'd been pacing for hours.
"It's over?" she asked Mr. Power.
"For now. John can appeal, but after Washington's testimony..." Power shook his head. "It would be political suicide. The Colonel is too well-respected. Anyone who crosses him publicly will pay a price."
I owe him. Washington saved me.
Which means he has leverage over me now.
The thought should have been troubling. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something larger.
Washington visited a week later.
He came with his wife—Martha, the real Martha, small and gracious—and they stayed for dinner. The conversation was pleasant, ranging from farming to children to the latest news from London.
But after dinner, when the women retired to the parlor, Washington asked Amara for a private word.
They walked in the garden as the sun set, their breath visible in the cooling air.
"I must thank you, Colonel. For what you did at the hearing."
"No thanks necessary, Mrs. Custis. I spoke the truth."
"Still. You didn't have to involve yourself. My troubles are not your concern."
Washington was quiet for a moment.
"I've been thinking," he said finally, "about our conversation at Mount Vernon. About government and rights and the nature of power."
"Yes?"
"You asked me what a government might look like if it was designed from scratch. Without the accumulated weight of centuries." He stopped walking and turned to face her. "I've been thinking about that question ever since."
Seeds. The seeds are starting to grow.
"And what have you concluded?"
"That it's a dangerous question. Revolutionary, in the truest sense." Washington's eyes were intense. "But also... necessary. Because you're right. The current system is failing us. Parliament doesn't listen. The King doesn't care. We're being taxed and restricted and controlled by people who have no understanding of our lives."
"And what do you propose to do about it?"
"I don't know. Not yet." He paused. "But I know I want to keep talking to people who ask the right questions. People like you."
Amara felt something shift in the air between them—not romantic, exactly, but something. A recognition. An alignment.
"Then perhaps we should keep talking, Colonel."
"I would like that, Mrs. Custis." Washington smiled—a rare expression, but genuine. "I would like that very much."
They walked back toward the house, the future unspooling before them like a road through unfamiliar country.
That night, Amara sat alone in her study, writing in her journal.
Washington is on my side. Truly on my side. Not just as a political ally—though he's that too—but as someone who sees what I see. Who questions what I question.
The seeds are taking root.
Now I just have to keep them growing. Through the years to come. Through the crises I know are coming. Through the war that will change everything.
It won't be easy. Nothing about this has been easy. But for the first time, I can see a path forward.
History is not a script. But maybe—maybe—I can help write a better one.
She closed the journal and looked out the window at the dark grounds.
Somewhere out there, eighty-four people were sleeping in cabins that were slightly warmer than they'd been a year ago. Eating food that was slightly more plentiful. Living lives that were still enslaved but slightly less brutal.
It's not enough. It will never be enough.
But it's a start.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New enemies. New impossible choices.
But tonight, she allowed herself to hope.
[End of Chapter 31]