And I talked about my mother, who died when I was born. About the accident that paralyzed me, about feeling trapped in a body that didn’t work and a society that didn’t want me. We were two rejected people who found solace in each other’s company.
In May, something changed. I watched Josiah at work in the forge, heating iron until it glowed orange, then shaping it with precise blows.
“Do you think I could try?” I asked suddenly.
He looked surprised. “Try what?”
“Working at the forge. Forging something.”
“Eleanor, it’s hot and dangerous and…”
“—and I’ve never done anything physically demanding in my life because everyone assumes I’m too delicate, but maybe with your help.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay, let me set this up safely.”
He placed my wheelchair near the anvil, heated a small piece of iron until it was workable, placed it on the anvil, and then handed me a lighter hammer.
“Hit it right there. Don’t worry about the force. Just feel the metal move.”
I swung. The hammer struck the iron with a soft thud. It barely made an impression.
“Again. Flex your shoulders.”
I swung harder. Hit better. The iron bent slightly.
“Okay. One more time.”
I hammered again and again. My hands burned. My arms ached. Sweat poured down my face. But I was doing physical labor, shaping the metal with my hands. When the iron cooled, Josiah lifted the slightly bent piece.
“Your first project. It’s not much, but you did it.” He put down the iron. “You’re stronger than you think. You always were strong. You just needed the right thing to do.”
From that day on, I spent hours at the forge. Josiah taught me the basics: how to heat metal, how to forge, how to shape it. I wasn’t strong enough for heavy work, but I could create small objects. Hooks, simple tools, ornaments.
For the first time in the 14 years since my accident, I felt fully recovered. My legs weren’t strong enough, but my arms and hands were working. And that was enough in the forge.
But something else was happening. Something I couldn’t control.
June brought another revelation. One evening we were in the library. Josiah was reading Keats aloud. His reading had improved to the point where he could handle complex texts. His voice was perfect for poetry. Deep, resonant, giving weight to each line.
“Beauty is a joy forever,” he read. “Its beauty grows. It will never fade into nothingness.”
“Do you believe this?” I asked. “This beauty is permanent.”
“I believe that beauty in memory is lasting. Beauty itself may fade, but the memory of beauty endures.”
“What is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”
He was silent for a moment. Then: “Yesterday in the forge, covered in soot, sweating, laughing, hammering that nail. It was beautiful.”
My heart leapt. “Josiah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
“No.” I moved the stroller closer to where he was sitting. “Say that again.”
“You were beautiful. You are beautiful. You have always been beautiful, Elellanar. A wheelchair won’t change that. Your crippled legs won’t change that. You are intelligent, kind, brave, and, yes, physically beautiful.” His voice became menacing. “The twelve men who rejected you were blind idiots. They saw a wheelchair and stopped looking. They didn’t see you. They didn’t see the woman who learned Greek just because she could, who read philosophy for pleasure, who learned to forge iron despite having crippled legs. They didn’t see any of this because they didn’t want to.”
I reached out and took his hand, his enormous, scarred hand that could bend iron, and it held mine as if it were made of glass. “Do you see me, Josiah?”
“Yes, I see you all. And you are the most beautiful person I have ever known.”
The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The silence that fell was deafening. Dangerous words. Impossible words. A white woman and a black slave in Virginia in 1856. There was no place in society for what I felt.
“Ellaner,” he said carefully. “You can’t. We can’t. If anyone knew, they would…”
“—what would they do? We already live together. My father already gave me to you. What difference does it make if I love you?”
“The difference is safety. Your safety. My safety. If people think it’s a feeling and not an obligation.”
“I don’t care what people think.” I cupped his face in my hand, reaching out to touch him. “I care what I feel. And for the first time in my life, I feel love. I feel like someone sees me. Really sees me. Not a wheelchair. Not a disability. Not a burden. You see Ellanar. And I see Josiah. Not a slave. Not a brute. A man who reads poetry, creates beautiful things from iron, and treats me with more kindness than any free man.”
“If your father only knew.”
“My father arranged this. He brought us together. Whatever happens is partly his responsibility.” I leaned forward. “Josiah, I understand if you don’t feel the same way. I understand it’s complicated and dangerous. Maybe I just feel lonely and lost. But I had to tell you.”
He was silent for so long. I thought I’d ruined everything. Then: “I’ve loved you since our first real conversation. Since you asked me about Shakespeare and really listened to my answer. Since you treated me as if my thoughts mattered. I’ve loved you every day since then. Elellanar. I just never thought I’d be able to say it.”
“Say it now.”
“I love you.”
We kissed. My first kiss at 22, with a man society considered nonexistent, in a library full of books condemning our actions. It was perfect.
But in Virginia in 1856, perfection didn’t last long. Not for people like us.
For five months, Josiah and I lived in a bubble of stolen happiness. We were cautious, never showing affection in public, maintaining the appearance of a dutiful ward and designated guardian. But in private, we were simply two people in love.
My father either didn’t notice or chose not to. He saw that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that the arrangement was working. He didn’t ask about the time we spent alone, about the way Josiah looked at me, the way I smiled when I approached him.
We built a life together in those five months. I continued learning the forge, creating increasingly complex works. He continued reading, devouring library books. We talked endlessly about dreams of a world where we could be together openly, about the impossibility of fulfilling those dreams, about finding joy in the present despite an uncertain future.
And so, we became close. I won’t describe what happens between two people in love. But I will say this: Josiah approached physical intimacy the same way he approached everything with me—with extraordinary gentleness, concern for my comfort, and a respect that made me feel loved, not exploited.
By October, we had created our own world in the impossible space society had forced us into. We were happy in ways neither of us imagined possible.
Then my father discovered the truth and everything fell apart.
