My father summoned me to his office in March 1856, a month after being rejected by the Fosters. A month after I 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 estate,” I said, knowing it was impossible.
“Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit independently, and certainly not…” He gestured at my wheelchair, unable to finish. “So what do you propose?”
“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’ve heard, 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.
“Have you asked 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 the charity of 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.”
They brought Josiah home the next morning. 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, bearded, and his eyes roamed the room, never settling on me. He stood with his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped, like a slave in a white man’s house.
Brutal was an apt nickname. He looked like he could tear the house down with his bare hands. But then my father spoke.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s gaze flickered 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 trembled. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?”
Another quick glance at me. “Yes, ma’am. I am to be your husband, to protect you, to 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?”
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, miss. 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 the study.”
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.
“Would you like to sit?” I finally asked, gesturing to the chair across from me.
Josiah glanced at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at his massive frame. “I don’t think this chair will hold me, ma’am.”
“The sofa, then.”
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, ma’am?”
“Should I be?”
“No, ma’am. I would never hurt you. I swear.”
“They call you a brute.”
He flinched. “Yes, ma’am. Because of my size. Because I look terrifying. But I’m not violent. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not intentionally.”
“But you could, if you wanted to.”
“I could.” He looked me in the eye again. “But I wouldn’t. 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 mean to hurt me?”
“Never, ma’am. I swear by everything I hold sacred.”
His sincerity was undeniable. He believed what he was saying.
“I have one more question. Is
