But here's what no one knew. Here's what I was about to find out. Josiah was the kindest man I'd ever met.
My father called me into his study 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 dependent on distant relatives who don't want you."
“Then leave me the estate,” I said, even though I knew it was impossible.
“Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit independently, especially not…” He pointed to my wheelchair, unable to finish his sentence. “So what do you suggest?”
“Josiah is the strongest man on this estate. He's intelligent. Yes, I know he reads secretly. Don't look so 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, take care of you.”
The logic was terrifying and flawless.
“Did you ask him?” I insisted.
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you before.”
"What if I refuse?"
At that moment, my father's face aged ten years. "Then I'll continue to look for a white husband, we'll both know I'll fail, and you'll spend your life after my death in boarding houses, dependent on the charity of relatives who consider you a burden."
He was right. I hated that he was right.
"Can I meet him? Talk to him before making this decision, for both of our sakes."
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was standing near the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. The door opened. My father entered, and then Josiah bent down—really bent down—to fit through the door.
My God, he was enormous. Six feet ten inches of muscle and curvaceousness, shoulders barely touching his frame, hands marked by forge burns that seemed capable of shattering stone. His face was weathered, bearded, and his eyes darted around the room, never resting on me. He stood with his head bowed slightly, his hands clasped, the posture of a slave in a white man's home.
That brute was a fitting nickname. He looked like he could demolish 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 returned to the floor. "Yes, sir." His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet soft, almost gentle.
“Ellaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understood that he would be responsible for your care.”
I managed to speak, even though I was shaking. "Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing to me?"
Another quick glance at me. "Yes, miss. I will be your husband, I will protect you, I will help you."
"And you agreed to this?"
He looked confused, as if the concept that her consent might matter was foreign to him. "The colonel said I should, miss."
"But do you really want it?"
The question took him by surprise. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome face. "I... I don't know what I want, miss. I'm a slave. Usually what I want doesn't matter."
The honesty was brutal and ruthless at the same time. My father cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should talk in private. I'll be in my study."
He left, closing the door and leaving me alone with a seven-foot-tall slave man who was supposedly 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, then at her imposing figure. "I don't think that chair would hold me, miss."
“So, the sofa.”
He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he towered over 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 I be?”
"No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear."
"They call you the brute."
He winced. "Yes, miss. Because of my size. Because I look scary. But I'm not brutal. I've never hurt anyone. Not on purpose."
“But you could if you wanted to.”
"I could." He looked me in the eye again. "But I wouldn't. Not with you. Not with anyone who doesn't deserve it."
Something in his eyes – sadness, resignation, a sweetness that didn’t suit 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 a good match for marriage. 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?"
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