She was deemed unfit for marriage.

The agreement formally came into force on 1 April 1856.

My father performed a small ceremony, not a legal wedding since slaves were not allowed to marry, and certainly not one that white society would recognize, but he gathered the servants, read some Bible verses, and announced that Josiah would henceforth take care of me.

“Speak with my authority regarding Eleanor’s welfare,” my father told everyone present. “Treat her with the respect her position deserves.”

A room adjacent to mine was prepared for Josiah, connected by a door but separate, so as to maintain a semblance of decorum. He moved his few personal effects from the slave quarters there: a few clothes, some secretly accumulated books, the tools from the forge.

The first few weeks were awkward. Two strangers trying to navigate an impossible situation. I was used to having housekeepers. He was used to heavy labor. Now he was responsible for intimate tasks. Helping me get dressed, carrying me when the wheelchair didn’t work, attending to needs I’d never imagined discussing with a man.

But Josiah handled everything with extraordinary sensitivity. When he had to pick me up, he asked permission first. When he helped me dress, he averted his gaze whenever possible. When I needed help with personal matters, he preserved my dignity even when the situation was intrinsically indecent.

“I know it’s an uncomfortable situation,” I told him one morning. “I know you didn’t choose it.”

“Neither do you.” He was reorganizing my bookshelf. I’d mentioned wanting it alphabetized, and he’d taken on the task. “But we’re managing.”

“Are we?”

He looked at me, his imposing figure somehow nonthreatening as he knelt beside the bookshelf. “Ellaner, I’ve been a slave all my life. I’ve worked grueling labor in heat that would kill most men. I’ve been whipped for my mistakes, sold and cast out by my family, treated like a voiced ox.” He gestured around the comfortable room. “Living here, caring for someone who treats me like a human, having access to books and conversation… This isn’t suffering.”

“But you’re still a slave.”

“Yes, but I’d rather be a slave here with you than free but lonely somewhere else.” He went back to reading his books. “Is it wrong to say that?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s sincere.”

But here’s what I didn’t tell him. What I still couldn’t admit to myself. I was starting to feel something. Something impossible. Something dangerous.

By the end of April, we’d settled into a routine. In the morning, Josiah would help me with the preparations, then take me to breakfast. Afterwards, he’d return to the forge while I took care of the household accounts. In the afternoon, he’d return and we’d spend time together.

Sometimes I watched him work, fascinated by how he transformed iron into useful objects. Sometimes he read to me, and his reading improved significantly thanks to access to my father’s library and my private lessons. In the evenings we talked about everything: his childhood on another plantation, his mother who had been sold when he was ten, and his dreams of freedom that seemed unattainable.

And I talked about my mother, who died when I was born. About the accident that paralyzed me, about the feeling of being trapped in a body that didn’t work and in a society that didn’t want me. We were two outcasts who found comfort in each other’s company.

In May, something changed. I had watched Josiah work at the forge, heating the iron until it was red hot, then shaping it with precise strokes.

“Do you think I could try?” I asked suddenly.

He looked up in surprise. “Try what?”

“The work of forging. Hammering something.”

“Eleanor, it’s hot and it’s dangerous and—”

“—and I’ve never done anything physically demanding in my life because everyone thinks I’m too fragile, but maybe with your help I could.”

He looked at me for a long time, then nodded. “Good, now I’ll fix it safely.”