She was deemed unmarriageable, so her father married her off to the strongest slave, Virginia, in 1856.

But here’s what no one knew, what I was about to discover: Josiah was the kindest man I knew.

My father summoned me to his office in March 1856, a month after Foster’s rejection and a month after I had lost all hope of being alone.

He told me point blank, “A white man won’t marry you off.” It’s true. But you need protection.

When I die, the inheritance will go to your cousin Robert.

He’ll sell everything, give you pennies, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t care about you. I said, knowing it was impossible, “Then leave me an inheritance.”

“Virginia law doesn’t allow that.” Women can’t inherit on their own, especially…” She gestured to the wheelchair and couldn’t finish the sentence.

“So what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man in this heresy.” He is intelligent; yes, I know he reads secrets, so don’t be surprised. He is healthy, fit, and from what I’ve heard of him, he has a good heart, despite his size.

He won’t abandon you because he has a legal obligation to stay. He will protect you, meet your needs, and care for you.

The logic was terrifying and unyielding. I asked him, “Have you asked him?” He replied, “Not yet.” I wanted to tell you first. “What if you reject me?”

My father’s face seemed to age ten years in that moment. “I’m still trying to find you a white husband, and we both know I won’t succeed.”

And you will spend your life after my death as an adopted man, dependent on the charity of relatives who see you as a burden. He was right.

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I hated his reasoning. “Can I see him?” Talk to him, really, before we make this decision on our behalf? “Of course.” Tomorrow.

The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened and my father walked in, and then Josiah had to bend down—literally—to squeeze under the doorframe.

God, he was huge! He was six feet tall, muscular and muscular, his arms barely touching the doorframe, and his hands bore burn marks from a forge that seemed to be crushing stone.

He had a wrinkled face, a thick beard, and his eyes looked around the room, paying no attention to me.

He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the pose of a slave in a white man’s home. The nickname “beast” was well deserved; he seemed capable of tearing a house apart with his bare hands.

Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilapar.” He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet calm, even gentle. “Elilapar, I explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.