“Speak with my authority regarding Eleanor’s welfare,” my father told everyone present. “Treat her with the respect her position deserves.”
A room adjacent to mine was prepared for Josiah, connected by a door but separate, so as to maintain a semblance of decorum. He moved his few personal effects from the slave quarters there: a few clothes, some secretly accumulated books, the tools from the forge.
The first few weeks were awkward. Two strangers trying to navigate an impossible situation. I was used to having housekeepers. He was used to heavy labor. Now he was responsible for intimate tasks. Helping me get dressed, carrying me when the wheelchair didn’t work, attending to needs I’d never imagined discussing with a man.
But Josiah handled everything with extraordinary sensitivity. When he had to pick me up, he asked permission first. When he helped me dress, he averted his gaze whenever possible. When I needed help with personal matters, he preserved my dignity even when the situation was intrinsically indecent.
“I know it’s an uncomfortable situation,” I told him one morning. “I know you didn’t choose it.”
“Neither do you.” He was reorganizing my bookshelf. I’d mentioned wanting it alphabetized, and he’d taken on the task. “But we’re managing.”
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