He was deemed unsuitable for marriage.

I stared at my father, Colonel Richard Whitmore, owner of 5,000 acres of land and 200 slaves, certain he had lost his mind.

“Josiah,” I whispered. “Father, Josiah is a slave.”

“Yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

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.