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He gestured toward the comfortable room. Living here, caring for someone who treats me like a human, having access to books and conversation. It’s not a deprivation, but you’re still a slave. Yes, but I’d rather be a slave here with you than free but lonely somewhere else. He returned to the books. Is that wrong to say? 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 sense something, something impossible, something dangerous. By the end of April, we’d settled into a routine. In the mornings, Josiah would help me get ready, then carry me to breakfast.
Later, he returned to the forge while I took care of the household accounts. In the afternoons, he returned and we spent time together. Sometimes I watched him work, fascinated by how he transformed iron into useful objects. Sometimes he read to me, and his reading skills 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, dreams of freedom that seemed unattainable. And I talked about my mother.
who died when I was born. Of the accident that paralyzed me, of the feeling of being trapped in a body that didn’t work and a society that didn’t want me. We were two rejected people 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, surprised. Try what? Forgework. Hammering something. Elenor, it’s hot and dangerous, and I’ve never done anything physically demanding in my life because everyone thinks I’m too fragile, but maybe with your help. He studied me for a long time, then nodded.
Okay, let me get everything set up safely. He positioned my wheelchair near the anvil. He heated a small piece of iron until it was workable. He placed it on the anvil, then handed me a lighter hammer. Strike right there. Don’t worry about the force. Just feel the metal moving. I struck. The hammer struck the iron with a faint thud. It barely left a mark.
Put your shoulders to it. I hit harder. Better hit. The iron bent slightly. Good again. I hammered again and again. My arms burned. My shoulders were seared, sweat was pouring down my face. But I was doing physical labor, shaping the metal with my own hands. When the iron cooled, Josiah lifted the slightly bent piece.
Your first project wasn’t much, but you did it. He put down the iron. You’re stronger than you think. You’ve always been strong. You just needed the right activity. From that day on, I spent hours at the forge. Josiah taught me the basics. How to heat metal, how to hammer, how to shape. I wasn’t strong enough for heavy work, but I could make small objects, hooks, simple tools, decorative pieces.
For the first time in the 14 years since the accident, I felt physically capable of doing something. My legs didn’t work, 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 evening we were in the library. Josiah was reading Keats aloud.
His reading ability had improved to the point where he could tackle complex texts. His voice was perfect for poetry. Deep and resonant, he gave weight to every line. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. He read that its beauty increases. It will never fade into nothingness. Do you believe that? I asked. That beauty is permanent. I believe that beauty and memory are permanent.
The thing itself may fade, but the memory of beauty endures. What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? He was silent for a moment. Then you at the forge yesterday, covered in soot, sweating, laughing as you hammered that nail. That was beautiful. My heart leaped. Josiah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have known.
I pulled the wheelchair closer to where he was sitting. Say it again. You were beautiful. You are beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful, Elanar. The wheelchair doesn’t change that. Your broken legs don’t change that. You’re intelligent, kind, brave, and yes, physically beautiful too. His voice tightened. The twelve men who rejected you were blind idiots.
They saw a wheelchair and stopped looking. They didn’t see you. They didn’t see the woman who learned Greek just because she could, who read philosophy for pleasure, who learned to forge iron despite having nonfunctional legs. They didn’t see any of this because they didn’t want to. I reached out and took her hand, her enormous, scarred hand that could bend iron, but which gripped mine as if it were made of glass.
Do you see me, Josiah? Yes, I see all of you, and you are the most beautiful person I have ever known. The words were 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 1085.
There was no room in society for what I felt. Elanor, he said carefully, you can’t, we can’t. If someone knew, what would happen? We already live together. My father has already married me to you. What difference does it make if I love you? The difference is security. Your security. My security. If people think this arrangement is affection rather than obligation, I don’t care what they think.
I caressed his face with my hand, reaching out to him. I care about what I feel, and for the first time in my life, I feel love. I feel someone sees me. Really 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, creates wonderful things with iron, and treats me with more kindness than any free man.
If your father knew my father had arranged all this, he was the one who 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’m just lonely and confused, but I needed to tell you. She was silent for so long. I thought I’d ruined everything.
I’ve loved you since our first real conversation, when you asked me about Shakespeare and truly listened to my answer. When you treated me like my thoughts mattered. I’ve loved you every day since I read Ila Leoner. I never thought I’d be able to say it. Say it now. I love you. We kissed. My first kiss at 22 with a man who, according to society, shouldn’t have existed, 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 1008 156. 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 obedient protégé and designated protector. But in private, we were simply two people in love. My father either didn’t notice, or chose not to.
He noticed that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that our relationship was working. He didn’t question me about the time we spent alone. About the way Josiah looked at me, the way I smiled in his presence. In those five months, we built a life together. I continued to learn the blacksmith’s craft, creating increasingly complex pieces. He continued to read, devouring books he borrowed from the library.
We talked endlessly about our dreams of a world where we could be together openly, the impossibility of those dreams, and how to find joy in the present despite the uncertainty of the future. And yes, we became intimate. I won’t go into the details of 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 gentleness, with concern for my well-being, with a reverence that made me feel loved rather than used. By October, we had created our own world within the impossible space society had forced us into. We were happy in ways neither of us could have 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 didn’t hear my father’s footsteps. We didn’t hear the door open. Elaner, her voice was icy. We pulled apart abruptly, guilty, exposed, terrified. My father stood in the doorway, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and something else I couldn’t decipher. Father, I can explain.
You’re in love with him. Not a question, an accusation. Josiah immediately fell to his knees. Lord, please. It’s my fault. I never should have. Silence, Josiah. My father’s voice was dangerously calm. He looked at me. Elellaner, 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.
He would have saved me and condemned Josiah to torture and death. I couldn’t do it. Yes, I love him and he loves me. And before you threaten him, know that the feeling is mutual. I was the one who initiated our first kiss. I was the one who cultivated 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 now. Don’t come out until I send for you, sir. Now Josiah left, giving me a distressed look. The door closed, leaving me alone with my father. What happened next? What my father said in that study changed everything, but not in the way I expected. Do you understand what you’ve done? my father asked softly.
I fell in love with a good man who treats me with respect and kindness. You fell in love with property, a slave. Elanor, if this got out, you would be irreparably ruined. They would say you were crazy, flawed, perverse. They already say I’m damaged and unfit for marriage. What’s the difference? The difference is protection.
I gave you to Josiah to protect you, not for this. You shouldn’t have brought us together then. I was screaming, years of frustration pouring out. You shouldn’t have given me 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 caught in a scandal. I’m safe, safer than ever.
Josiah would rather die than allow anyone to harm me. And what will happen when I die? When the estate passes to your cousin? Do you think Robert will let you keep a slave husband? He’ll sell Josiah the very day I’m buried and lock you up in some institution. Then free him. Free Josiah. Let’s go. All right, let’s go north. Isn’t the north a promised land? Illaner, a white woman with a black man, former slave or not, will face prejudice everywhere.
Think your life is hard now? Try living as an interracial couple. I don’t care. Well, actually, I do. I’m your father, and I’ve spent your whole life trying to protect you, and I won’t let you get into 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’m loved.
I’m appreciated for who I am, not for what I can’t do. And you want to take that away from me because society says it’s wrong. My father slumped into a chair, suddenly looking his full 56 years. What do you want me to do, Elon? Bless this. Accept it. 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 fell 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 else. I could sell him, my father said softly. Send him to the Deep South. Make sure I never see him again.
My blood ran cold. Father, please, let me finish. He raised his hand. I could sell him. That would be the right solution. Separate you. Pretend it never happened. Find another arrangement. Please don’t do it, but I won’t. A spark of hope flashed in my chest. Father, I won’t do it because I’ve been watching you these last 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 the way he looks at you, as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He rubbed his face, suddenly looking ancient. I don’t understand. I don’t like it. It goes against everything I was raised to believe. But he paused.
But you’re right. I brought you together. I created this situation. Denying that you could have a genuine connection was naive. So what are you saying? I’m saying I need time to think of a solution that won’t separate you. Unhappy or broken, he remained there. But Alillaner, you have to understand. If this relationship continues, there’s no place for it in Virginia, in the South.
Maybe not anywhere. Are you ready for this reality? If it means being with Josiah? 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 consuming me. Josiah called back an hour later. I told him what my father had said.
He slumped into a chair, overwhelmed. He won’t sell me. He won’t sell you. He’ll help us. He’ll help us. How? He said he’d try to find a solution. Josiah ran his hands through his hair and cried uncontrollably, shaking between sobs of relief and disbelief. I held him as tightly as I could from my wheelchair, and we clung to the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, my father would make the impossible possible.
But none of us could have predicted what would happen next. The decision my father made two months later would change not only our lives, but history itself. My father spent two months reflecting. Two months during which Josiah and I lived in anxious uncertainty, awaiting his decision. We continued our routines, baking, reading, and talking, but everything seemed temporary, contingent on whatever solution my father had devised.
In late February 1857, he called us both into his study. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said without preamble. We sat across from him, me in my wheelchair. Josiah curled up in a small chair. We held hands, despite the inappropriateness of the situation. “There’s no way this could work in Virginia or anywhere in the South,” my father began. “Society won’t stand for it.”
The laws strictly forbid it. If I keep Josiah here, even if he’s your declared protector, suspicions will grow. Sooner or later, someone will investigate, and you’ll both be ruined. My heart sank. It seemed like a prelude to separation. Then she continued, “I’m offering you an alternative.” She looked at Josiah. “Josiah, I will release you legally and formally with papers that will be valid in any court in the North.”
I couldn’t breathe. Elaner, I’ll give you $150, enough to start a new life. And I’ll provide you with letters of introduction to abolitionist contacts in Philadelphia who can help you settle there. You’re freeing him. Yes. And you’ll let us go north together. Yes. Josiah made a sound, half sob, half laugh. Lord, I can’t. You can.