They brought Josiah to the main house the very next morning. I had positioned my wheelchair with deliberate care beside the tall parlor window, seeking the fragile comfort of the morning sunlight, when I heard it. A slow, heavy, profoundly deliberate cadence of footsteps echoed down the polished hardwood of the central hallway. The delicate brass handle of the parlor door turned, and the heavy wood swung inward. My father stepped into the room first, his posture rigid, and then Josiah materialized in the doorframe.
He actually had to fold his massive frame downward, tucking his chin to his chest, simply to clear the height of the entrance.
Seeing him up close for the first time took the breath entirely out of my lungs. The man was a towering monument of sheer, concentrated power. He was seven feet of pure sinew and bone, possessing broad, heavy shoulders that seemingly eclipsed the doorway. His hands, hanging awkwardly at his sides, were marked by a chaotic map of pale scars from years of forge burns, and they looked entirely capable of crushing river stones into powder. His face was weathered and deeply lined, framed by a thick, dark beard. As he entered, his dark eyes darted cautiously around the opulent, silk-lined room, meticulously avoiding my gaze.
He took a single step inside and stopped, keeping his head slightly bowed and his massive hands clasped tightly in front of his waist. It was the deeply ingrained, defensive posture of an enslaved man forced into the terrifying epicenter of the master’s domain. Watching him stand there, wrapped in the heavy, suffocating silence of the parlor, the cruel nickname of the county gossips seemed chillingly accurate. He looked physically capable of tearing the ornate plaster from the ceiling with his bare hands.
“Josiah,” my father said, slicing through the heavy tension. “This is my daughter, Eleanor.”
Josiah’s dark eyes flicked in my direction for the fraction of a second before immediately dropping back to study the intricate weave of the Persian rug. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.
His voice was an absolute revelation. I had expected a harsh, grating sound, but it was deep and flawlessly resonant, vibrating with a surprisingly soft, rumbling cadence.
“Eleanor, I have thoroughly explained the parameters of this situation to Josiah,” my father continued, his tone brisk and entirely businesslike. “He understands that he will be assuming total responsibility for your physical care.”
I forced myself to speak, though my throat was impossibly dry and my words carried a faint, betraying tremor. “Josiah… do you actually comprehend what my father is proposing?”
Another lightning-fast glance darted my way. “Yes, miss. I am to be your husband. To protect you. To assist you with your daily needs.”
“And you have agreed to this arrangement?” I pressed, leaning forward slightly against the leather of my chair.
He looked genuinely perplexed, his brow furrowing deeply. It was as if the very concept of his personal consent carrying any actual weight was an entirely foreign language to him. “The Colonel informed me that I should, miss.”
“But do you want to?”
The direct nature of the question clearly startled him. For the very first time since crossing the threshold, he lifted his heavy chin, and his dark eyes locked directly onto mine. They were a rich, profound shade of brown, harboring an unexpected, aching gentleness that stood in jarring contrast to his fearsome physical architecture.
“I… I do not know what I want, miss,” he answered, his rumbling voice steadying in the quiet room. “I am an enslaved man. What I want does not generally matter to anyone.”
The sheer, unvarnished honesty of his statement struck me like a physical blow to the chest. It was a brutal, ugly truth, yet entirely accurate. Beside him, my father cleared his throat, shifting his weight uneasily, clearly repulsed by the raw emotional turn the conversation had instantly taken.
“Perhaps the two of you should speak privately,” my father announced, hastily backing toward the hallway. “I will be waiting in my study.”
He stepped backward and pulled the heavy doors firmly shut. I was left entirely alone in the quiet expanse of the parlor with a seven-foot-tall enslaved blacksmith who was, according to my father’s frantic machinations, poised to become my husband.
Neither of us dared to move. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, lasting for what felt like hours. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the mahogany grandfather clock in the corner.
“Would you care to sit?” I finally asked, gesturing toward a delicate, antique chair upholstered in pale yellow silk directly across from me.
Josiah looked at the fragile, spindly legs of the furniture, then looked down at his own massive, heavy body. “I do not believe that chair would hold me, miss,” he noted, a faint, deeply buried trace of dry humor coloring his tone.
“The sofa, then,” I offered.
He moved across the Persian rug with a surprising, fluid grace for a man of such immense scale. He sat down with extreme caution, balancing his weight entirely on the absolute edge of the sturdy velvet sofa. Even seated, he completely towered over my wheelchair. His massive hands rested heavily on his knees. Every single finger was as thick as a small club, thoroughly calloused and painted with the white lines of old, searing burns.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?” he asked quietly, reading the tension in my rigid posture.
“Should I be?”
“No, miss,” he answered instantly, his dark eyes radiating a fierce, undeniable earnestness. “I would never bring you harm. I swear that to you.”
“They call you the Brute,” I noted, watching his face closely for a reaction.
He flinched, a subtle but distinct tightening of his jawline. “Yes, miss. They do. Because of my size. Because I appear frightening to people who do not know me. But I am not a brutal man. I have never harmed anyone. Not on purpose.”
“But you could,” I pressed, needing to scrape away the polite veneer and find the absolute truth of the man sitting before me. “If you truly wanted to.”
“I could,” he admitted, meeting my gaze squarely, lacking even a single ounce of intimidation or malice. “But I would not. Not you. Not anyone who did not actively deserve it.”
There was something profoundly compelling anchoring his gaze—a complex mixture of deep sorrow, weary resignation, and a quiet, immovable dignity that completely shattered his intimidating exterior. It was in that exact, suspended moment that my internal resolve solidified. I made my decision.
“Josiah, I want to be completely honest with you,” I said, folding my hands tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. “I do not desire this arrangement any more than you likely do. My father is simply out of options. I am considered damaged and unmarriageable by our society. He firmly believes you are the only viable solution to keep me from rotting in a poorhouse when he dies. But if we are truly going to walk this path, I need to know exactly who you are. Are you a dangerous man?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you cruel?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you ever going to hurt me?”
“Never, miss,” he swore, his deep voice thick with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I promise you on everything I hold sacred in this world.”
His earnestness was a palpable force in the room; he believed every single syllable he uttered.
“Then I have another question for you,” I said, intentionally lowering my voice so it would not carry past the heavy doors. “Can you read?”
The question visibly shocked him. A sharp, undeniable flash of genuine terror crossed his weathered features. Reading was strictly, violently illegal for enslaved people in the state of Virginia; it was a crime frequently punished with the lash.
He hesitated, his eyes rapidly scanning my face for any sign of a trap or a cruel trick. After a long, agonizingly tense moment, he answered in a breathy near-whisper. “Yes, miss. I taught myself. I know it is strictly forbidden by the law, but I simply could not stop myself. Books… they are doorways to places I know I will never physically get to go.”
“What do you read?” I asked, completely fascinated by the revelation.
“Whatever discarded scraps I can manage to find. Old, forgotten newspapers. Sometimes actual books I manage to borrow in secret. I read very slowly. I did not learn the proper, formal way. But I read.”
“Have you ever read Shakespeare?”
His eyes widened in sheer, unguarded astonishment. “Yes, miss. There is an old, deeply dusty copy sitting in the plantation library that nobody ever seems to touch. I have read it late at night, by the light of a single candle, when the rest of the estate is fast asleep.”
“Which plays?” I pressed, leaning closer, having entirely forgotten the fear that had gripped me only minutes before.
“Hamlet,” he recited, a sudden, brilliant spark of life igniting in his dark eyes. “Romeo and Juliet. The Tempest.” His deep voice began to gather an enthusiastic, rhythmic momentum despite his obvious need for caution. “The Tempest is my absolute favorite. Prospero controlling the entirety of the island with his magic. Ariel desperately aching for freedom. Caliban… Caliban being treated as a terrifying, mindless monster, but maybe, just maybe, being more fundamentally human than anyone else on that island.”
He stopped abruptly, his jaw snapping shut, looking utterly horrified at his own sudden boldness. “I am sorry, miss. I am speaking far too freely.”
“No,” I said softly. I realized, with a profound shock of my own, that my cheeks were aching. I was smiling. It was the very first time I had genuinely smiled in months. “Keep talking, Josiah. Tell me everything you think about Caliban.”