“I love you.”
We kissed. My first kiss at 22, with a man who, according to society, shouldn’t have existed for me, in a library surrounded by books that would condemn what we were doing. It was perfect.
But perfection doesn’t last long in Virginia in 1856. Not for people like us.
For five months, Josiah and I lived in a bubble of stolen happiness. We were cautious, never showing affection in public, maintaining the facade of devoted protégé and designated guardian. But in private, we were simply two people in love.
My father either didn’t notice, or chose not to. He saw that I was happier, that Josiah was attentive, that the situation was working. He didn’t question the time we spent alone. The way Josiah looked at me, the way I smiled in his presence.
In those five months, we built a life together. I continued to learn the art of blacksmithing, creating increasingly complex pieces. He continued to read, devouring books from the library. We talked incessantly about our dreams of a world where we could be together openly, about the impossibility of those dreams, about how to find joy in the present despite the uncertainty of the future.
And yes, we became intimate. I won’t go into the details of what happens between two people in love. But I will say this: Josiah approached physical intimacy the same way he approached everything with me, with extraordinary sensitivity, attentive to my well-being, with a reverence that made me feel loved and not used.
By October, we had created our own world within the impossible space society had forced us into. We were happy in a way neither of us could have ever imagined possible.
Then my father discovered the truth and everything fell apart.
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