“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 he’ll fix it without any problems.”
He placed my wheelchair next to the anvil, heated a small piece of iron until it was malleable, placed it on the anvil, and then gave me a lighter hammer.
“Hit right there. Don’t worry about the force. Just feel how the metal moves.”
I struck a blow. The hammer hit the iron with a soft, dull thud. It barely left a mark.
“Again. Turn your back on him.”
I hit it harder. Better shot. The iron bent slightly.
“Good. Again.”
I hammered repeatedly. My arms burned. My shoulders felt heavy. Sweat ran down my face. But I was doing physical work, shaping the metal with my own hands. When the iron cooled, Josiah lifted the slightly bent piece.
“Your first project. It’s nothing special, but you pulled it off.” She put down the iron. “You’re stronger than you think. You always have been. You just needed the right business.”
From that day on, I spent hours at the forge. Josiah taught me the basics: how to heat the metal, how to hammer it, how to shape it. I wasn’t strong enough for heavy work, but I could make small objects: hooks, simple tools, decorative pieces.
For the first time in 14 years, since the accident, I felt physically capable of doing something. My legs wouldn’t respond, 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 a different revelation. One afternoon we were in the library. Josiah was reading Keats aloud. His reading had improved to the point where he could understand complex texts. His voice was perfect for poetry: deep, resonant, able to give weight to each verse.
“A beautiful thing is an eternal joy,” Less said. “Its beauty increases. It will never fade 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 fade, but the memory of beauty remains.”
What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
He was silent for a moment. Then: “Yesterday at the forge, covered in soot, sweating, laughing as you hammered that nail. It was beautiful.”
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, physically beautiful.” Her voice grew more proud. “The twelve men who rejected you were blind idiots. They saw a wheelchair and looked away. I 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 having broken legs. They didn’t see any of this because they chose not to.”
I reached out and took his hand, his enormous, scarred hand, capable of bending iron, yet holding mine as if it were made of glass. “Do 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 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. There was no place in society for what I felt.
“Ellaner,” she said carefully. “You can’t. We can’t. If anyone knew, they would know…”
“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 think this agreement is dictated by affection rather than obligation.”
“I don’t care what people think.” I stroke his face with my hand, reaching out to touch him. “What matters is how I feel. And for the first time in my life, I feel love. I feel that 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 marvelous things with iron, and who treats me with more kindness than any free man has ever received.”
“If your father knew.”
“My father fixed everything. He 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 confused. But I needed to tell you.”
He was silent for a long time. I thought I’d ruined everything. Then: “I’ve loved you since our first real conversation. When you asked me about Shakespeare and actually listened to my answer. When you treated me like 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, shouldn’t have existed for me, in a library surrounded by books that would condemn 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 facade of devoted protégé and designated guardian. But in private, we were simply two people in love.
My father either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore it. He saw that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that the situation was working. He didn’t question the time we spent alone. The way Josiah looked at me, the way I smiled in his presence.
In those five months, we built a life together. I continued learning the art of blacksmithing, creating increasingly complex pieces. He continued reading, devouring books from 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, attentive to my well-being, with a reverence that made me feel loved and not used.
By October, we had created our own world within the impossible space to which society had forced us to confine ourselves. We were happy in a way neither of us had ever imagined possible.
Then my father discovered the truth and everything fell apart.
December 15, 1856. Josiah and I were in the library, lost in each other, kissing with the freedom of those who believe they are alone. We did not hear my father’s footsteps. We did not hear the door open.
“Elellaner.” Her voice was icy.
We separated abruptly. Guilty. Exposed. Terrified. My father stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of surprise, anger, and something else I couldn’t quite decipher.
“Father, I can express myself.”
“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 dangerously calm. My vision. “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 that the feeling is mutual. I was the one who initiated our first kiss. I was the one who pursued this relationship. If you have to punish someone, punish me.
My father’s face went through 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 study changed everything, but not in the way I expected.
“Do you understand 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 fell in love with property, with a slave. Elellaner, if this were known, you would be hopelessly ruined. They would say you were crazy, that you had flaws, that you were perverse.”
“They already say I’m a troublemaker and unsuitable for marriage. What does it matter?”
“The difference lies in the protection. I gave you Josiah to protect you, not… not for this.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought us together,” she shouted, years of frustration finally exploding. “You shouldn’t have married me off to someone intelligent, kind, and sweet 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 passes to your cousin? Do you think Robert will let you have a slave husband? He’ll sell Josiah the day I’m buried and lock you up in some institution.
“Then free him. Free Josiah. Let’s go. We’ll go north. Do you want to…?”
“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. Do you think your life is difficult now? Try living as a couple in a job interview.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Well, yes. I am your father, and I have spent my whole life trying to protect you, and I will not allow you to be 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 a chair, suddenly appearing his 56 years. “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 what he said shocked me more than anything that had ever happened before. “I could sell him,” my father said quietly. “Send him down South. Make sure you never see him again.”
My blood ran cold. “Father, please…”
“Let me finish,” he said, raising a hand. “I could sell it. That would be the right solution. Separate from you. Pretend it never happened. Meet you somewhere else.”
“Please, do not do that.”
“But I won’t.” A glimmer of hope flickered in my chest. “Father?”
“I won’t do it because I’ve watched you these past nine months. I’ve seen you smile more in 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 looking old. “I don’t understand it. I don’t like it. It goes against everything I was taught. But…” He paused. “But you’re right. I brought them together. I created this situation. To deny that they would form a genuine bond was naive.”
“So what are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is, I need time to think, to find a solution that won’t leave either of us unhappy or destructive.” She stood up. “But Elellanar, you have to understand. If this relationship continues, it has no place in Virginia, in the South, maybe anywhere. 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 what it is yet, but I’ll find a way.”
He left me in the library, my heart pounding, hope and fear battling within me. Josiah was called an hour later. I told him what my father had said. He slumped into a chair, overwhelmed.
“He won’t sell me out. He won’t sell you out. He will help us.”
“How can we help you?”
“He said he would try to find a solution.”
Josiah ran his hands through his hair and sobbed, his deep, trembling sobs 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 history itself.
My father pondered for two months. Two months in which Josiah and I lived in agonizing uncertainty, awaiting his decision. We continued with our routines: working in the blacksmith shop, reading, talking, but everything seemed temporary, contingent on the solution my father had in mind.
At the end of February 1857, he called us both to his study.
“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, both holding hands despite the inappropriateness of the situation.
“This isn’t going to 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 declare him your protector, suspicions will only grow. Sooner or later, someone will investigate, and you’ll both be ruined.”
My blood ran cold. It seemed like the prelude to a breakup.
“Then,” he continued, “I offer you an alternative.” He looked at Josiah. “Josiah, I will release you legally, formally, with documents that will be valid in any court in the North.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Elellaner, I will give you $50,000, enough to start a new life, and I will provide you with letters of introduction 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 makes a sound, half sob, half laugh. “Lord, no… I can’t.”
“You can. And you will.” My father’s voice was firm, but not cruel. “Josiah, you protected my daughter better than any white man. You made her happy. You gave her confidence and skills I thought she’d 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 this?
“Safer than any other place I’ve ever been.”
“Happiness”.
Josiah’s voice was filled with emotion. “Lord, I will dedicate the rest of my life to making sure that Elellanar never regrets this. I will protect her, I will provide for her, I will love her. I swear it.”
My father nodded. “Then let’s proceed.”
But this is what he didn’t tell us. Something we would discover 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 with the right to travel without permits or authorizations. He arranged our wedding through a compassionate pastor in Richmond, who officiated the ceremony in a small church with only my father and two witnesses present.
Josiah and I exchanged vows before God and the law. I became Eleanor Whitmore Freeman, keeping both surnames, 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 arranged. Our personal belongings were in two trunks: clothing, books, blacksmithing tools, and the papers of liberty that Josiah carried with him as sacred objects.
My father hugged me before he left. “Send me a message,” he said. “Let me know you’re okay. Let me know you’re happy.”
“I will, Father. I… I know it… 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 farther from slavery and closer to freedom. Josiah expected someone to stop us, ask for our papers, and question our marriage. But the papers were valid, and we crossed the Pennsylvania border without incident.
In 1857, Philadelphia was a bustling city of 300,000 inhabitants, including a large community of free Black people in neighborhoods like Mother Bethl. The abolitionist contacts my father had provided helped us 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. Within a year, Freeman’s blacksmith shop became one of the busiest in the area.
I handled the administrative side: I did the bookkeeping, managed clients, and drafted contracts. My education and intelligence, which Virginia society considered useless, 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 healthy and perfect. And when I saw Josiah hold our son for the first time—that gentle giant cradling a newborn with infinite affection—I knew we had made the right decision.
But our story doesn’t end there. What happened next? What we discovered about love, family, and building a legacy… well, that’s when everything made sense.
After Thomas, four more children were born: William in 1860, Margaret in 1863, James in 1865, and Elizabeth in 1868. We raised them in freedom, teaching them to be proud of their ancestors and sending them to schools that accepted black children.
And my legs. In 1865, Josiah designed an orthopedic device: metal splints that attached to my legs and connected to a brace around my waist. With these splints and crutches, I could stand, I could walk—with difficulty, but I could walk.
For the first time since I was 8 years old, I walked.
“You’ve given me so much,” I told Josiah that day, standing in our house with tears streaming down my face. “You’ve given me love, confidence, and children. And now, you’ve literally made me walk.”
“You’ve always walked, Ellaner.” He watched me as I followed my uncertain steps. “I just gave you different tools.”
