The news arrived in March.
A rider came from Williamsburg carrying a bundle of newspapers and letters—the usual monthly delivery of information from the wider world. Amara was in the study when Breechy brought them in.
"The Gazette, Mistress. And several letters."
She took the papers absently, her mind still on the week's accounts. Then a headline caught her eye.
PARLIAMENT PASSES STAMP ACT
All Colonial Documents to Bear Revenue Stamps
Effective November 1st
Amara's hands went still.
The Stamp Act. It's happening.
She read the article twice, her historian's mind cataloging every detail. The act required stamps on all legal documents, newspapers, pamphlets, even playing cards. The revenue would go to pay for British troops stationed in the colonies.
This is the first real push. The first tax that Parliament imposed directly, without colonial consent. The first spark.
In ten years, there will be a revolution.
"Mistress?" Breechy's voice, concerned. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Just... news from London." She set down the paper. "Parliament has passed a new tax. It's going to cause trouble."
"Trouble for who?"
For everyone. For the colonies. For the empire. For the world.
"For everyone," she said.
The reaction in Virginia was immediate and furious.
Over the following weeks, Amara watched as the political temperature rose. Letters poured in from merchants and planters, all complaining about the new tax. Newspapers published increasingly angry editorials. In Williamsburg, there were rumors of protests, of boycotts, of men talking openly about resistance.
George Mason visited in April.
"It's worse than we thought," he said, pacing her parlor. "The tax will cripple commerce. Every legal document—every deed, every contract, every court filing—will require a stamp. And the stamps must be purchased with hard currency, which no one has."
"What are people saying?"
"That Parliament has overstepped. That they have no right to tax us without our consent." Mason stopped pacing. "There's talk of organizing. A formal response. Some of the younger men are pushing for more... direct action."
"And Washington? What does he think?"
"George is cautious. He's always cautious. But even he's angry." Mason looked at her directly. "He's been asking about you, you know. Wanting to know your thoughts on the situation."
He's thinking about me. About what I said. About the questions I asked.
"Tell him I'd welcome his visit. If he has time."
"I'll pass along the message."
Washington came two weeks later.
He arrived alone this time—no Martha, no entourage. Just the Colonel himself, travel-worn and tense, his usual composure frayed around the edges.
"The situation is deteriorating," he said, once they were settled in the study with the doors closed. "The merchants in Alexandria are organizing a boycott. The House of Burgesses is drafting resolutions. Patrick Henry is making speeches that would have gotten him hanged twenty years ago."
"And you?"
"I'm trying to decide what I believe." Washington stood at the window, looking out at the grounds. "I've always considered myself a loyal British subject. I fought for the Crown. I was proud to serve."
"But?"
"But this..." He turned to face her. "This is different. They're treating us like children. Like colonials who exist only to generate revenue for the mother country. They don't consult us. They don't listen to us. They simply... decree."
This is the moment. The turning point. He's questioning everything he thought he knew.
"What would you do differently?" Amara asked. "If you had the power to change things?"
Washington was quiet for a long moment.
"I would listen," he said finally. "I would understand that the people who live in a place know it better than distant legislators ever could. I would trust them to make their own decisions about their own affairs."
"That's a radical idea, Colonel."
"Is it? It seems like common sense to me."
Common Sense. Thomas Paine won't publish that pamphlet for another ten years. But the ideas are already here, waiting to be born.
"Perhaps," Amara said carefully, "the problem isn't radical ideas. Perhaps the problem is that we keep trying to work within a system that wasn't designed to include us."
Washington looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that petitions and protests only work if the people in power are willing to listen. If they're not—if they've already decided that our voices don't matter—then we're just shouting into the void."
"And the alternative?"
Revolution. Independence. A new nation built on principles that won't be fully realized for centuries.
But she couldn't say that. Not yet. It was too soon.
"The alternative is to keep building. Keep organizing. Keep asking the questions that need to be asked." She paused. "And be ready, when the time comes, to do what needs to be done."
Washington studied her face.
"You speak like someone who knows what's coming."
I do. I know exactly what's coming. I just can't tell you.
"I speak like someone who reads history, Colonel. And history tells us that empires don't last forever. Eventually, they all fall. The only question is what comes next."
The summer brought protests.
Amara heard reports from Williamsburg, from Boston, from New York. Stamp distributors were being hanged in effigy. Mobs were destroying the homes of tax collectors. The words "Liberty" and "No Taxation Without Representation" appeared on walls and banners across the colonies.
And through it all, she watched. Listened. Waited.
This is just the beginning. The Stamp Act will be repealed next year—but it won't matter. The damage is done. The colonists have tasted resistance. They won't forget.
She wrote letters. To Washington. To Mason. To the few other contacts she'd cultivated. Careful letters, measured letters, planting seeds without revealing too much.
Ask questions. Encourage thinking. Let them believe they're reaching their own conclusions.
That's how you change history. Not with grand gestures, but with a thousand small nudges.
In September, James came with news.
They met in the usual place—the clearing behind the old mill—with Elias standing guard nearby.
"There's a man," James said. "On the Harrison plantation. His name is Solomon. They're planning to sell him south—to the Georgia traders. His family is here. His wife, his children. If he goes, he'll never see them again."
Amara's stomach tightened. "When?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less."
"Can we help him?"
"Maybe." James's voice was careful. "There's a route. Through Maryland to Pennsylvania. If we can get him out before the sale..."
"What do you need?"
"Money. For bribes, for supplies. And a distraction—something to draw attention away from his disappearance."
Money I have. A distraction...
"I might be able to arrange something. A social event, perhaps. Something that keeps the Harrisons occupied."
James nodded. "It could work. But Mrs. Custis—" He hesitated. "If this fails, it won't just be Solomon who pays the price. Everyone involved will be at risk. Including you."
I know. I've always known.
"Do what you need to do. I'll handle the rest."
The escape happened on a Thursday night.
Amara hosted a small dinner party—the Harrisons, the Pembertons, a few other neighbors. She smiled and made conversation and poured wine, all while knowing that somewhere in the darkness, a man was running for his life.
The news came the next morning. Solomon was gone. The Harrisons were furious. Patrols were being organized.
But Solomon was already across the Potomac, moving north through Maryland, one step closer to freedom.
One man. One family. That's what I've managed to save.
It's not enough. It will never be enough.
But it's something.