She was deemed unfit for marriage.

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.”