I didn’t know, no one could have predicted, that this desperate solution would turn into the greatest love story I would ever experience.
First, let me tell you about Josiah. They called him the brute. He was eight feet ten inches tall, maybe even less than eight. He weighed about 200 pounds of pure muscle, the result of years spent in the forge. Hands capable of bending iron bars. A face that made even the biggest men recoil when he entered a room. Everyone feared him. Both slaves and free kept their distance. White visitors to our plantation stared and whispered, “Did you see how big he is? Whitmore created a monster in the forge.”
But no one knew that. This was what I was about to discover. Josiah was the kindest man I had ever met.
My father summoned me to his workshop in March 1856, a month after Foster’s refusal. A month after I stopped believing I could ever change 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 pennies, and leave you at the mercy of distant relatives who don’t want you.”
“Then leave me your inheritance,” I said, though I knew it was impossible.
“Virginia law doesn’t allow that. Women can’t inherit on their own, and certainly not…” She gestured to my wheelchair, unable to finish the sentence. “So what are you suggesting?”
Josiah is the strongest man on this estate. He’s intelligent. Yes, I know he’s secretly reading. 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 has a legal obligation to stay. He will 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 say no?”
At that moment, my father’s face aged ten years. “Then I’ll continue searching for a white husband, we’ll both know I won’t succeed, and after I die, you’ll spend the rest of your lives in boarding houses, at the mercy of relatives who consider you a burden.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“Can I meet with him? Talk to him before you make this decision, for both of you.”
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
They brought Josiah home the next morning. I was standing by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened. My father entered, and then Josiah ducked—really ducked—to fit through the door.
God, he was huge. 6’10” of pure muscle and curves, his arms barely touching his body, his hands covered in burn scars that looked like they could crush stone. His tanned, bearded face…
