The brute was an accurate nickname. He looked like he could tear down the house with his bare hands. But then my father spoke.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s eyes flicked to me for half a second, then back to the floor. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, but quiet, almost gentle.
“Ellaner, I’ve explained the situation to Josiah. He understands he’ll be responsible for your care.”
I found my voice, though it trembled. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?”
Another quick glance at me. “Yes, miss. I’m to be your husband, to protect you, to help you.”
“And you’ve agreed to this?”
He looked confused, as if the concept of his agreement mattering was foreign. “The colonel said I should, miss.”
“But do you want to?”
The question startled him. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome face. “I—I don’t know what I want, miss. I’m a slave. What I want doesn’t usually matter.”
The honesty was brutal and fair. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you two should speak privately. I’ll be in my study.”
He left, closing the door, leaving me alone with a 7-ft enslaved man who was supposedly going to become my husband. Neither of us spoke for what felt like hours.
“Would you like to sit?” I finally asked, gesturing to the chair across from me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece with its embroidered cushions, then at his massive frame. “I don’t think that chair would hold me, miss.”
“The sofa, then.”
He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he towered over me. His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, scarred and calloused.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?”
“Should I be?”
“No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear that.”
“They call you the brute.”
He flinched. “Yes, miss. Because of my size. Because I look frightening. But I’m not brutal. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not on purpose.”
“But you could if you wanted to.”
“I could.” He met my eyes again. “But I wouldn’t. Not you. Not anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
Something in his eyes—sadness, resignation, gentleness that didn’t match his appearance—made me decide.
“Josiah, I want to be honest with you. I don’t want this any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I’m unmarriageable. He thinks you’re the only solution. But if we’re going to do this, I need to know. Are you dangerous?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you cruel?”
“No, miss.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“Never, miss. I promise on everything I hold sacred.”
The earnestness was undeniable. He believed what he was saying.
“Then I have another question. Can you read?”
The question surprised him. Fear flashed across his face. Reading was illegal for enslaved people in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said quietly, “Yes, miss. I taught myself. I know it’s not allowed, but I—I couldn’t stop myself. Books are doorways to places I’ll never go.”
“What do you read?”
“Whatever I can find. Old newspapers, sometimes books I borrow. I read slowly. I didn’t learn properly, but I read.”
“Have you read Shakespeare?”
His eyes widened. “Yes, miss. There’s an old copy in the library nobody touches. I’ve read it at night when everyone’s asleep.”
“Which plays?”
“Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest.” His voice gained enthusiasm despite himself. “The Tempest is my favorite. Prospero controlling the island with magic. Ariel wanting freedom. Caliban being treated as a monster, but maybe being more human than anyone.” He stopped abruptly. “Sorry, miss. I’m talking too much.”
“No,” I was smiling. Genuinely smiling for the first time in this bizarre conversation. “Keep talking. Tell me about Caliban.”
And something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the massive enslaved man called the brute, began discussing Shakespeare with intelligence that would have impressed university professors.
“Caliban is called a monster, but Shakespeare shows us he’s been enslaved, his island stolen, his mother’s magic dismissed. Prospero calls him savage, but Prospero came to the island and claimed ownership of everything, including Caliban himself. So, who’s really the monster?”
“You see Caliban as sympathetic?”
“I see Caliban as human, treated as less than human, but human nonetheless.” He trailed off. “Like—like enslaved people.”
“I finished.”
“Yes, miss.”
We talked for two hours about Shakespeare, about books, about philosophy and ideas. Josiah was self-educated, his knowledge patchy, but his mind was sharp, his hunger for knowledge obvious. And as we talked, my fear dissolved.
This man wasn’t a brute. He was intelligent, gentle, thoughtful, trapped in a body society looked at and saw only a monster.
“Josiah,” I finally said, “if we do this, I want you to know something. I don’t think you’re a brute. I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re a person forced into an impossible situation, just like me.”
His eyes suddenly welled with tears. “Thank you, miss.”
“Call me Ellanar. When we’re alone, call me Elellanar.”
“I shouldn’t, Miss. That wouldn’t be proper.”
“Nothing about this situation is proper. If we’re going to be husband and wife or whatever this arrangement is, you should use my name.”
He nodded slowly. “Elellanar.” My name and his deep, gentle voice sounded like music.
“Then you should know something, too. I don’t think you’re unmarriageable. I think the men who rejected you were fools. Any man who can’t see past a wheelchair to the person inside doesn’t deserve you.”
It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in four years.
