“I see Caliban as a human being, treated as subhuman, but human nonetheless.” His voice trailed off. “Like… like slaves.”
“I’m finished.”
“Yes, miss.”
We talked for two hours about Shakespeare, books, philosophy, and ideas. Josiah was self-taught; his knowledge was fragmentary, but his mind was sharp and his thirst for learning evident. And as the conversation progressed, my fear dissipated.
This man was not a brute. He was intelligent, kind, loving, trapped in a body that society considered monstrous.
“Josiah,” I finally said, “if we do this, I want you to know something. I don’t think you’re a thug. I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re a person trapped in an impossible situation, just like me.”
Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, miss.”
“Call me Elellanar. When we’re alone, call me Elellanar.”
“You shouldn’t, miss. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Nothing is fair in this situation. If we become husband and wife, or whatever the agreement is, you should use my last name.”
She nodded slowly. “Elellanar.” My name and her deep, soft voice resonated like music.
“So you should know something too. I don’t think you’re unfit for marriage. I think the men who rejected you were fools. A man who can’t see beyond the wheelchair, who can’t see the person inside, doesn’t deserve you.”
It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in four years.
“Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you accept my father’s plan?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “I will protect you. I will take care of you. And I will do everything I can to be worthy of you.”
“And I’m going to try to make the situation bearable for both of us.”
We sealed the agreement with a handshake; his enormous hand enveloped mine, warm and surprisingly soft. My father’s radical solution suddenly seemed less impossible.
But what happened next? What did I discover about Josiah in the following months? That’s when this story takes an unexpected turn.
The agreement officially came into effect on April 1, 1856.
My father held a small ceremony, not a legal marriage, since slaves were not allowed to marry, and certainly not a marriage that white society would have recognized, but he gathered the servants, read a few verses from the Bible, and announced that Josiah would be taking care of me from now on.
“Speak on my behalf for Eleanor’s well-being,” my father told the assembly. “Treat her with the respect her position deserves.”
An adjoining room was prepared for Josiah, connected by a door but separate, to maintain appearances. There he moved his few personal belongings from the slave quarters: some clothes, books he had secretly collected, and his forge tools.
The first few weeks were awkward. Two strangers trying to manage an impossible situation. I was used to having domestic help. He was used to hard work. Now, he was responsible for intimate tasks: helping me dress, carrying me when my wheelchair broke down, attending to needs I would never have imagined discussing with a man.
But Josiah always showed extraordinary discretion. When he had to come and get me, he asked my permission. When he helped me dress, he looked away as much as possible. When I needed help with personal matters, he preserved my dignity, even in the most indecent situations.
“I know it’s a delicate situation,” I told her one morning. “I know you didn’t choose it.”
“Neither do you.” I was reorganizing my bookshelf. I’d told him I wanted it alphabetized, and he’d taken care of that. “But we’ll manage.”
” Actually ? ”
He looked at me, his imposing figure, paradoxically harmless, kneeling beside the bookshelf. “Ellaner, I have been a slave all my life. I have done backbreaking hard labor in sweltering heat. I have been flogged for my mistakes, sold, and rejected by my family, treated like a beast of burden.” He gestured to the comfortable room. “To live here, to be cared for by someone who treats me like a human being, to have access to books and conversation… This is not suffering.”
“But you are still a slave.”
“Yes, but I’d rather be a slave here with you than free and alone somewhere else.” He resumed his reading. “Is it wrong to say that?”
“I don’t believe it. I think he’s sincere.”
But this is what I didn’t tell her. What I still couldn’t admit to myself. I was starting to feel something. Something impossible. Something dangerous.
By the end of April, we had settled into our routine. In the mornings, Josiah would help me with the preparations and then take me out to lunch. Afterward, he would return to the blacksmith shop while I took care of the household accounts. In the afternoons, he would come back and we would spend time together.
Sometimes I watched him work, fascinated by the way he transformed iron into useful objects. Other times he would read me stories, and his reading improved considerably thanks to access to my father’s library and my private lessons. In the evenings, we talked about everything: his childhood on another plantation, his mother being sold when he was ten, and his dreams of freedom, which seemed unattainable to him.
And I spoke of my mother, who died giving birth to me. Of the accident that paralyzed me, of that feeling of being trapped in a dysfunctional body and in a society that rejected me. We were two outcasts who found solace in each other.
In May, something changed. I had seen Josiah working at the forge, heating the iron until it was red-hot and then shaping it with precise movements.
“Do you think I could try it?” I asked suddenly.
He looked up, surprised. “Try what?”
“The work of the forge. Hammering something.”
“Eleanor, it’s hot and dangerous and…”
“—and I’ve never done anything physically demanding in my life because everyone thinks I’m too frail, but maybe with your help I could.”
He stared at me for a long time and then nodded. “Good, now I’ll fix it safely.”
He placed my wheelchair next to the anvil, heated a small piece of iron until it became malleable, placed it on the anvil, and then gave me a lighter hammer.
“Just hit it there. Don’t worry about the force. Just feel how the metal moves.”
I struck. The hammer hit the iron with a dull thud. It barely left a mark.
“One more time. Turn your backs on him.”
I hit it harder. I hit it better. The iron bent slightly.
“Okay. One more time.”
I hammered relentlessly. My arms burned. My shoulders ached. Sweat streamed down my face. But I was doing physical work, shaping the metal with my own hands. Once the iron had cooled, Josiah lifted the slightly warped piece.
“Your first project. It’s nothing special, but you did it.” She put down the iron. “You’re stronger than you think. You always have been. You just needed the right client.”
From that day on, I spent hours at the forge. Josiah taught me the basics: how to heat the metal, hammer it, and shape it. I wasn’t strong enough for heavy work, but I could make small objects: hooks, simple tools, decorative items.
For the first time in fourteen years, since the accident, I felt physically capable of doing something. My legs no longer worked, but my arms and hands did. And in the forge, that was enough.
But something else was happening too. Something I couldn’t control.
June brought another revelation. One afternoon, we were in the library. Josiah was reading Keats aloud. His reading had improved so much that he understood complex texts. His voice was perfect for poetry: deep, resonant, able to give weight to each verse.
“Beauty is an eternal joy,” she read. “Its beauty increases. It will never disappear into nothingness.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked. “That beauty is eternal.”
“I believe that beauty in memory is eternal. The object itself may disappear, but the memory of beauty remains.”
What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
She remained silent for a moment. Then: “Yesterday, in the forge, covered in soot, sweating, laughing as I hammered that nail. It was magnificent.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Josiah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
“No.” I moved the wheelchair closer to where he was sitting. “Say it again.”
“You were beautiful. You are beautiful. You always have been, Elellanar. The wheelchair doesn’t change that. Broken legs don’t change that. You are intelligent, kind, brave, and, yes, exceptionally beautiful.” Her voice grew more proud. “The twelve men who rejected you were blind. They saw a wheelchair and looked away. They didn’t see you. They didn’t see the woman who learned Greek simply because she could, who read philosophy for pleasure, who learned to forge iron despite her broken legs. They didn’t see any of that because they didn’t want to see it.”
I reached out and took his hand, his enormous hand marked by scars, capable of bending iron, but holding mine as if it were made of glass. “Can you see me, Josiah?”
“Yes, I see them all. And they are the most beautiful people I have ever met.”
The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could even stop them. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Dangerous words. Impossible words. A white woman and a Black man enslaved in Virginia in 1856. Society had no place for what I felt.
“Ellaner,” she said cautiously. “You can’t. We can’t. If anyone knew, they’d…”
“What would they want? We already live together. My father already married me off to you. What does it matter if I love you?”
“The difference lies in security. Your security. My security. If people believe this agreement is dictated by affection rather than obligation.”
“I don’t care what people think.” I stroked his face, reaching out to touch it. “What matters to me is how I feel. And for the first time in my life, I feel love. I feel like someone sees me. That someone truly sees me. Not the wheelchair. Not the disability. Not the burden. You see Ellanar. And I see Josiah. Not the slave. Not the brute. The man who reads poetry, who creates wonders with iron, and who treats me with more kindness than any free man has ever received.”
“If your father knew…”
“My father arranged everything. He’s the one who brought us together. Whatever happens, it’s partly his fault.” 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 alone and lost. But I needed 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. When you asked me about Shakespeare and listened carefully to my answer. When you acted as if my thoughts mattered. I’ve loved you every day since then, Elellanar. I never thought I’d say this.”
“Say it now.”
“I love you.”
We kissed. My first kiss at 22, with a man who, according to society, should never have existed for me, in a library surrounded by books that would have condemned what we were doing. It was perfect.
But perfection doesn’t last long in Virginia in 1856. 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 devoted protégé and his appointed guardian. But in private, we were simply two people in love.
My father didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He saw that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that everything was fine. He didn’t question the time we spent alone. Nor did he question the way Josiah looked at me, or my smile in his presence.
During those five months, we built a life together. I continued learning the art of blacksmithing, creating increasingly complex pieces. He continued reading, devouring the books in the library. We talked endlessly about our dreams of a world where we could be together openly, about the impossibility of those dreams, about how to find joy in the present despite the uncertainty of the future.
And yes, we had an intimate relationship. I won’t go into details about 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 sensitivity, paying close attention to my well-being, and with a respect that made me feel loved, not used.
By October, we had created our own world within that impossible space where society had confined us. We were happy in a way neither of us could have ever imagined.
Then my father discovered the truth and everything fell apart.
December 15, 1856. Josiah and I were in the library, lost in each other, embracing with the freedom of those who believe themselves to be alone. We did not hear my father’s footsteps. We did not hear the door open.
“Ellelaner.” Her voice was icy.
We separated abruptly. Guilty. Exposed. Terrified. My father stood in the doorway, his face etched with shock, anger, and something else I couldn’t quite decipher.
“Father, I can explain.”
“You’re in love with him.” That’s not a question, it’s an accusation.
Josiah immediately knelt down. “Lord, please. It’s my fault. I should never have…”
“Silence, Josiah.” My father’s voice was eerily calm. He looked at me. “Elellanar, is it true? You’re in love with this slave?”
I could have lied. I could have claimed that Josiah had raped me, that I was a victim. That would have saved me and condemned Josiah to torture and death. But I couldn’t.
Yes, I love him and he loves me. And before you threaten him, you should know it’s mutual. I initiated our first kiss. I wanted this relationship. If you have to punish someone, punish me.
My father’s face reflected a series of expressions: anger, disbelief, confusion. Finally: “Josiah, go to your room immediately. Don’t come out until I call you.”
“Gentleman-”
“No.”
Josiah left, giving me one last anxious look. The door closed, leaving me alone with my father. What happened next? My father’s words in that office changed everything, but not in the way I had imagined.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” my father asked in a low voice.
“I fell in love with a good man who treats me with respect and kindness.”
“You have fallen in love with a possession, with a slave. Elellaner, if this were known, you would be hopelessly ruined. You seem crazy, flawed, perverse.”
“People already say I’m a troublemaker and unsuitable for marriage. What does it matter?”
“The difference lies in the protection. I entrusted you to Josiah to protect you, not… not for that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have married us off!” I shouted, years of frustration finally overflowing. “You shouldn’t have married me off to someone intelligent, kind, and lovely if you didn’t want me to fall in love with him!”
“I wanted you to be safe, not at the center of a scandal.”
“I’m safe. Safer than ever. Josiah would rather die than let anyone hurt me.”
And what will happen when I die? When the inheritance goes to your cousin? Do you think Robert will let you have a slave husband? He’ll sell Josiah on the day of my funeral and have you locked up in an asylum.
“Then free him. Free Josiah. Let’s go. We’ll head north. Will…”
“The North is not a promised land, Elellanar. A white woman with a Black man, whether or not he is a former slave, will face prejudice everywhere. Is life difficult for you now? Try living as an interracial couple.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Yes, indeed. I am your father, and I have dedicated my entire life to protecting you, and I will not allow you to end up in a situation that will destroy you.”
“Being without Josiah will destroy me. Don’t you understand? For the first time in my life, I’m happy. I feel loved. I’m valued for who I am, not for what I can’t do. And you want to take all that away from me because society says it’s wrong?”
My father slumped into an armchair, suddenly appearing 56 years old. “What do you want me to do, Ellanar? Bless him? Accept him?”
“I want you to understand that I love him, that he loves me, and that no matter what you do, that won’t change.”
Outside, silence reigned between us. The December wind rattled the windows. Somewhere in the house, Josiah waited to learn his fate.
Finally, my father spoke, and his words struck me more than anything that had ever happened before. “I could sell him,” he said quietly. “Send him down South. Make sure I never see him again.”
I shuddered with fear. “Father, please…”
“Let me finish,” she said, raising her hand. “I could sell it. That would be the ideal solution. You two could go your separate ways. Pretend nothing happened. Meet somewhere else.”
“Please, do not do that.”
“But I won’t.” A glimmer of hope crossed my heart. “Father?”
“I won’t do it because I’ve watched you these past nine months. I’ve seen you smile more in these nine months with Josiah than in the previous fourteen years. I’ve seen you become confident, capable, happy. And I’ve seen how he looks at you, as if you were the most precious thing in the world.” He rubbed his face, suddenly aged. “I don’t understand it. I don’t like it. It goes against everything I’ve been taught. But…” He paused. “But you’re right. I’m the one who brought you together. I created this situation. To deny that a genuine connection could form between you was naive.”
“So, what do you say?”
“What I’m saying is, I need time to think, to find a solution that won’t leave you unhappy or devastated.” He stood up. “But Elellanar, you have to understand. If this relationship continues, it has no place in Virginia, in the South, and perhaps anywhere else. Are you prepared to face that reality?”
“If that means being with Josiah, then yes.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll find a way. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way.”
He left me in the library, my heart pounding, torn between hope and fear. Josiah was called an hour later. I told him what my father had said. He slumped into a chair, devastated.
“He has no intention of betraying me. He has no intention of betraying you. He’s going to help us.”
“How can we help you?”
“He said he would try to find a solution.”
Josiah ran his hands through his hair and wept, sobbing deeply and trembling, a mixture of relief and disbelief. I hugged him tightly from my wheelchair, and we clung to the fragile hope that, perhaps, somehow, my father could make the impossible possible.
But none of us could have predicted what would happen next. My father’s decision, two months later, would change not only our lives, but also the course of history.
My father thought about it for two months. Two months in which Josiah and I lived in uncertain anguish, waiting for his decision. We continued with our routines—working in the blacksmith shop, reading, talking—but everything seemed provisional, dependent on the solution my father had in mind.
At the end of February 1857, he summoned us both to his office.
“I’ve already made my decision,” he said without preamble. We were sitting facing each other, me in my wheelchair and Josiah in one of the two chairs, holding hands despite the inappropriateness of the situation.
“There’s no way this will work in Virginia or anywhere else in the South,” my father began. “Society won’t accept it. The laws explicitly forbid it. If I keep Josiah here, even if I name him your protector, suspicions will arise. Sooner or later, someone will investigate, and you’ll both be ruined.”
I felt a chill of dread. It seemed like the prelude to a separation.
“Then,” he continued, “I propose another solution.” He looked at Josiah. “Josiah, I will release you legally, officially, with documents valid in any court in the North.”
I couldn’t breathe anymore.
“Elellaner, I will give you $50,000, enough to start a new life, and I will provide you with letters of recommendation to abolitionist contacts in Philadelphia who can help you settle there.”
“Are you… are you setting him free?”
“Yes. What if we went north together?”
“YEAH.”
Josiah let out a sound, a mixture of sobs and laughter. “Lord, I can’t… I can’t.”
“You can. And you will.” My father’s voice was firm, but kind. “Josiah, you protected my daughter better than any white man. You made her happy. You restored her confidence and skills she thought were lost forever. In return, I give you freedom and the woman you love.”
—Father—I whispered, tears streaming down my face—. Thank you.
“Don’t thank me yet. It won’t be easy. There are abolitionist communities in Philadelphia that will welcome you with open arms, but you’ll still face prejudice. Elellanar, as a white woman married to a Black man… Yes, married. I’m arranging a legal marriage before you leave. Many will ostracize you. You’ll face economic, social, and perhaps even physical hardships. Are you sure you want that?”
“Safer than any other place I’ve ever been.”
“Josiah.”
Josiah’s voice was filled with emotion. “Lord, I will dedicate the rest of my life to making sure that Elellanar never regrets it. I will protect her, I will keep her, I will love her. I swear it.”
My father nodded. “Then let’s go.”
But this is what he didn’t tell us. Something we wouldn’t discover until much later. This decision would cost him everything.
The following week was a whirlwind. My father worked with lawyers to prepare the documents that would free Josiah, declaring him a free man, free of any property, and able to travel without permission or authorization. He arranged our wedding through a kind pastor in Richmond, who officiated the ceremony in a small church with only my father and two witnesses present.
Josiah and I exchanged our vows before God and the law. I became Eleanor Whitmore Freeman, keeping both surnames, thus honoring my father and embracing my new life. Josiah became Josiah Freeman, a free man married to a free woman.
We left Virginia on March 15, 1857, aboard a private carriage that my father had reserved. Our personal belongings were transported in two trunks: clothing, books, blacksmith’s tools, and the manumission papers that Josiah kept with him as sacred objects.
My father hugged me before he left. “Send me a message,” he said. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me you’re happy.”
“Yes, Father. I… know… I love you too, Ellanar. Now go and build your own life. Be happy.”
Josiah shook my father’s hand. “Lord, I will protect her.”
“Josiah, that’s all I ask.”
“With my life, sir.”
We traveled north through Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware. Every mile took us a little further from slavery and a little closer to freedom. Josiah expected someone to stop us, ask for our papers, and question our marriage. But our papers were in order, and we crossed the Pennsylvania border without incident.
In 1857, Philadelphia was a bustling city of 300,000, including a large community of free Black people in neighborhoods like Mother Bethl. The abolitionist contacts my father had provided us enabled us to find housing: a modest apartment in a neighborhood where interracial couples, while unusual, were not uncommon.
Josiah opened a blacksmith shop with the money my father had given him. His reputation grew quickly. He was skilled, reliable, and his imposing stature allowed him to perform tasks other blacksmiths couldn’t. In less than a year, Freeman’s blacksmith shop became one of the busiest in the region.
I handled administration, accounting, customer service, and contract drafting. My education and intelligence, considered useless by Virginian society, proved essential to our success.
We had our first child in November 1858. A boy we named Thomas, after my father’s middle name. He was born perfectly healthy and without defects. And when I saw Josiah hold our son in his arms for the first time—that gentle giant cradling a newborn with infinite tenderness—I knew we had made the right decision.
