My father summoned me to his office in March 1856, a month after I had been rejected by Fosters. A month after I had stopped believing I would ever be anything other than myself.
“No white man will marry you,” he said bluntly. “That’s the reality. But you need protection. When I die, this estate will go to your cousin Robert. He’ll sell everything, give you a pittance, and leave you to support distant relatives who don’t want you.”
“Then leave me the fortune,” I said, knowing it was impossible.
“Virginia law doesn’t allow that. Women can’t inherit on their own, and certainly not…” He gestured at my wheelchair, unable to finish. “So what are you proposing?”
“Josiah is the strongest man on this property. He’s intelligent. Yes, I know he reads secretly. Don’t be surprised. He’s healthy, capable, and, I hear, gentle despite his size. He won’t leave you, because the law requires him to stay. He will protect you, care for you, and provide for you.”
The logic was terrifying and irrefutable.
“Did you ask him?” I asked.
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.”
“What if I refuse?”
My father’s face aged ten years in that moment. “Then I’ll continue searching for a white husband, and we’ll both know I won’t succeed, and you’ll spend your life after I die in boarding houses, dependent on charity from relatives who see you as a burden.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“Can I meet with him? Talk to him before you make this decision for both of us.”
“Of course. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, they brought Josiah home. I was standing at the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. The door opened. My father entered, and Josiah ducked—really ducked—to fit through the door.
Good God, he was huge. Over six feet of muscle and sinew, arms barely reaching his chest, hands scarred from forge burns that looked like they could crush stone. His face was tanned and bearded, and his eyes roamed the room, never settling on me. He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, like a slave in a white man’s household.
Brutal was an apt nickname. He looked like he could tear a house down with his bare hands. But then my father spoke.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s gaze flicked to me for half a second, then back to the floor. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet quiet, almost gentle.
“Ellaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understands that he will be responsible for your care.”
I found my voice, though it was trembling. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?”
Another quick glance at me. “Yes, ma’am. I’m supposed to be your husband, protect you, help you.”
“And you agreed to this?”
He looked confused, as if the idea that his consent meant anything was foreign to him. “The Colonel said I should, Miss.”
“But do you want to?”
The question caught him off guard. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a terrifying face. “I… I don’t know what I want, Mistress. I’m a slave. What I want usually doesn’t matter.”
The honesty was brutal and fair. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk privately. I’ll be in my office.”
He left, closing the door, leaving me alone with the six-foot-tall slave who would become my husband. Neither of us spoke for what felt like hours.
“Do you want to sit down?” I finally asked, pointing to the chair across from me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at his massive frame. “I don’t think this chair will support me, ma’am.”
„No to sofa.”
He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he towered over me. His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, covered in scars and calluses.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?”
“Should I?”
“No, ma’am. I would never hurt you. I swear.”
“They call you a brute.”
He shuddered. “Yes, ma’am. Because of my size. Because I look scary. But I’m not violent. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not on purpose.”
“But you could if you wanted.”
“I could.” He looked into my eyes again. “But I wouldn’t do that. Not you. Not anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
Something in his eyes—sadness, resignation, a gentleness that didn’t match his appearance—made me make a decision.
“Josiah, I want to be honest with you. I don’t want this any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I’m not marriageable. He thinks you’re the only solution. But if we’re going to do this, I need to know. Are you dangerous?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you cruel?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you want to hurt me?”
“Never, miss. I swear on everything I hold sacred.”
His sincerity was undeniable. He believed what he was saying.
“I have one more question. Can you read?”
The question surprised him. Fear flashed across his face. Reading was illegal for slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said quietly, “Yes, ma’am. I taught myself. I know it’s forbidden, but I… I couldn’t help myself. Books are gateways to places I’ll never reach.”
“What are you reading?”
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