I stared at my father, Colonel Richard Whitmore, owner of 5,000 acres and 200 enslaved people, who had clearly lost his mind.
—Josiah—I whispered. —Father, Josiah is a slave.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
What I didn’t know, what no one could have predicted, was that this desperate solution would turn into the greatest love story I would ever experience.
First, let me tell you about Josiah. They called him the brute. He was eight feet ten inches tall, or maybe even less than six feet ten inches. About 200 pounds of pure muscle, the result of years in the blacksmith’s shop. Hands capable of bending iron bars. A face that made even the biggest men back away when he entered a room. Everyone feared him. Slaves and free men alike kept their distance. White visitors to our plantation would stare at him and whisper, “Did you see how big he is? Whitmore has created a monster in the blacksmith’s shop.”
But this is what no one knew. This is what I was about to discover. Josiah was the kindest man I had ever met.
My father summoned me to his studio in March 1856, a month after Foster’s refusal. A month after I had stopped believing I would ever be different on my own.
“No white man will marry you,” she said bluntly. “That’s the reality. But you need protection. When I die, this inheritance will go to your cousin Robert. He’ll sell everything, give you a pittance, and leave you at the mercy of distant relatives who don’t want you.”
“Then leave me the inheritance,” I said, even though I knew it was impossible.
