“Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit independently, especially not…” She gestured to my wheelchair, unable to finish the sentence. “So what do you suggest?”
Josiah is the strongest man on this estate. He’s intelligent. Yes, I know he secretly reads. Don’t be surprised. He’s healthy, capable, and from what I’ve heard, kind despite his size. He won’t abandon you because he’s legally obligated to stay. He’ll protect you, provide for you, and take care of you.
The logic was terrifying and flawless.
“Did you ask him?” I insisted.
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you sooner.”
“What if I refuse?”
At that moment, my father’s face aged ten years. “Then I’ll keep looking for a white husband, we’ll both know I’ll fail, and after I die you’ll spend the rest of your life in boarding houses, depending on the charity of relatives who will owe you a burden.”
He was right. I hated the fact that he was right.
“Can I meet with him? Talk to him before making this decision, for both of your sakes.”
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, he brought Josiah home. I was standing by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened. My father came in, and then Josiah ducked—he really ducked—to get through.
My God, he was enormous. Six foot nine of pure muscle and curves, his shoulders barely touching his body, his hands scarred by forging burns that looked like they could break stone. His weathered, bearded face and his eyes scanned the room without stopping at me. He stood with his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped, the posture of a slave in a white man’s house.
That brute was perfect for him. He looked capable of demolishing the house with his bare hands. But then my father spoke.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s eyes rested on me for half a second, then lowered back to the ground. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet gentle, almost soothing.
“Ellaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understood that he would be responsible for your care.”
I managed to speak, though I was trembling. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?”
Another quick glance at me. “Yes, miss. I will be your husband, I will protect you, I will help you.”
“And you accepted this?”
He seemed confused, as if the idea that her consent might matter to him was foreign. “The colonel said you must do it, miss.”
“But do you really want it?”
The question surprised him. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly kind for such a fearsome face. “I… I don’t know what I want, young lady. I’m a slave. Usually, what I want doesn’t matter.”
The honesty was both brutal and ruthless. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk in private. I’ll be in my study.”
He left, closed the door, and left me alone with a six-foot-six enslaved man who was possibly going to be my husband. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
“Do you want to sit down?” I finally asked, pointing to the chair in front of me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, and then at her imposing figure. “I don’t think that chair will hold me, miss.”
“Then, the sofa.”
He sat down carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he was taller than me. His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, marked with scars and calluses.
Are you afraid of me, miss?
“Should it exist?”
“No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear.”
“They call you the brute.”
He grimaced. “Yes, miss. Because of my size. Because it looks intimidating. But I’m not brutal. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not on purpose.”
“But you could if you wanted to.”
“I could.” I look into his eyes again. “But I wouldn’t. Not with someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Something in her eyes—sadness, resignation, a sweetness that didn’t fit with her 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 a good marriage candidate. He thinks you’re the only solution. But if we’re going to do this, I need to know. Are you dangerous?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you cruel?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“Never, miss. I swear on everything I hold sacred.”
His sincerity was undeniable. He truly believed what he was saying.
“I have another question. Can you read?”
The question surprised him. A flash of fear crossed his face. Reading was illegal for slaves in Virginia. But after a long silence, he said softly, “Yes, miss. I taught myself. I know it’s not allowed, but… I couldn’t help it. Books are gateways to places I’ll never visit.”
“What are you reading?”
“Whatever I can find. Old newspapers, sometimes borrowed books. I read slowly. I haven’t learned much, but I read.”
“Have you ever read Shakespeare?”
