A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. To hear my father use the word “property” about the man who read me Shakespeare made my stomach turn, but Josiah simply looked at the paper, his eyes ablaze with a sharp, brilliant calculation.
“Colonel,” Josiah said softly, his voice steady. “If I am Miss Eleanor’s property… then under Virginia law, my actions are legally her liabilities. And her assets are protected by my physical custody.”
My father blinked, a faint smile of respect touching his dying face. “Yes, boy. Exactly.”
Two weeks later, my father passed away.
The funeral was barely over before the carriage of my cousin, Silas Whitmore from Georgia, rolled up the gravel driveway. He stormed into the grand living room, flanked by two armed overseers, looking at my mahogany wheelchair with a predatory smirk.
“Well, cousin Eleanor,” Silas sneered, pulling a copy of the estate will from his coat. “A tragedy about Uncle Richard. But as a fragile, unmarried woman in your condition, you clearly cannot manage five thousand acres of cotton. We’ve already drawn up the papers to place the estate under my trusteeship. You will be provided a quiet room in Richmond. As for this… this giant brute you keep by your side…” Silas glared at Josiah. “He’s a valuable piece of muscle. He goes on the auction block tomorrow.”
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