And at that moment, the beast disappeared.
Instead, there was a man who could talk about Shakespeare in more depth than half the men who had rejected me.
We talked for two hours.
Of Ariel and freedom. Of being a prisoner in a body and in systems that defined you before you could define yourself.
When he said, “Anyone who can’t see beyond a wheelchair is an idiot,” something opened up inside me.
For the first time in fourteen years, I felt seen.
Neither compassionate. Nor tolerated. Seen.
It all started in April.
It wasn’t a legal marriage—that would have been impossible—but my father entrusted Josiah with the responsibility of taking care of me.
He moved into a room next to mine.
And little by little, clumsily, we built a life within an impossible structure.
He helped me get dressed—always asking permission.
He carried me when necessary—as if I weighed nothing.
He rearranged my bookshelves alphabetically only because I asked him to.
And in the afternoons, he would read me poetry.
Keats. Shakespeare. Milton.
Her voice enveloped the poems as if they had been waiting a lifetime to be heard.
I started spending time at the forge.
He taught me how to hammer. How to shape iron.
My legs weren’t working, but my arms were.
The first time I bent metal with my own hands, drenched in sweat and laughing uncontrollably, he looked at me as if it were a miracle.
Unacceptable.
Vista.
She was deemed unfit for marriage.
They told me I’d never get married. In four years, twelve men looked at my wheelchair and left. But what happened next surprised everyone, including me.
My name is Elellanar Whitmore, and this is the story of my journey, from rejection by society to the discovery of a love so powerful that it changed the course of history.
Virginia, 1856. I was 22 years old and considered disabled. My legs had been paralyzed since I was 8. A riding accident had fractured my spine and confined me to this mahogany wheelchair that my father had made.
But this is what no one understood. It wasn’t the wheelchair that made me incapable of marriage. It was what I represented: a burden. A woman who couldn’t accompany her husband to parties. A person who, in principle, couldn’t have children, take care of the house, or fulfill any of the duties expected of a Southern wife.
Twelve arranged marriage proposals from my father. Twelve rejections, each one more brutal than the last.
“She can’t get married.” “My children need a mother to take care of them.” “What’s the point if she can’t have children?” This last rumor, completely unfounded, spread like wildfire through Virginian society. A doctor began speculating about my fertility without even examining me. Suddenly, I wasn’t just disabled. I was defective in every way that mattered in America in 1856.
When William Foster, a fat, drunken man in his fifties, rejected me even though my father had offered him a third of our annual inheritance earnings, I knew the truth. I would die alone.
But my father had other plans. Plans so radical, so shocking, so completely alien to social norms that, when he told me about them, I was sure I had misunderstood him.
—I commend Josiah to you— she said. —The blacksmith. He will be your husband.
I stared at my father, Colonel Richard Whitmore, owner of 5,000 acres and 200 enslaved people, convinced that he had lost his mind.
—Josiah—I whispered. —Father, Josiah is a slave.
“Yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
What I didn’t know, what no one could have predicted, is that this desperate solution would turn into the most beautiful love story I have ever experienced.
Let me first tell you about Josiah. They called him the Brute. He stood over 8 feet 9 inches tall, or less than 4 inches. He weighed 150 pounds of pure muscle, the result of years in the blacksmith shop. He had hands capable of bending iron bars. His face made even the toughest men recoil when he entered a room. He terrified everyone. Slaves and free men alike kept their distance. White visitors to our plantation would stare and whisper, “Did you see how big he is? Whitmore created a monster in the blacksmith shop.”
But this is what no one knew. This is what I was about to discover. Josiah was the kindest man I had ever met.
My father summoned me to his office in March 1856, a month after Foster’s refusal. A month after I had stopped believing I could ever change on my own.
“No white man will want you,” he 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 a pittance, and leave you at the mercy of distant relatives who don’t want you.”
—Then leave me the inheritance —I said, even though I knew it was impossible.
“Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit on their own, much less…” She gestured to my wheelchair, unable to finish the sentence. “So, what do you advise?”
Josiah is the strongest man in the area. He’s intelligent. Yes, I know he secretly reads. 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’s legally obligated to stay. He’ll protect you, provide for you, and take care of you.
The logic was terrifying and flawless.
“Did you ask him?” I insisted.
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you sooner.”
“What if I refuse?”
At that moment, my father’s face aged ten years. “So I’ll keep looking for a white husband, we both know I won’t find one, and after I die you’ll spend the rest of your life in boarding schools, depending on the charity of parents who consider you a burden.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“Can I meet with him? Talk to him before making this decision, for both of your sakes.”
“Of course. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, Josiah was brought home. I was near the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened. My father came in, and then Josiah ducked—he really ducked—to get in.
My God, how imposing he was! Two meters and ten centimeters of pure muscle and curves, his shoulders barely touching his body, his hands marked by forge burns that looked capable of breaking stone. His weathered, bearded face scanned the room with his gaze, never lingering on me. He stood with his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped, in the posture of a slave in a white man’s house.
That nickname, “brute,” suited him perfectly. He looked like he could demolish the house with his bare hands. But then, my father intervened.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s gaze rested on me for half a second, then returned to the ground. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, and yet delicate, almost tender.
“Ellaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understood that he would be responsible for your care.”
I managed to speak, despite my trembling. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?”
Another quick glance in my direction. “Yes, miss. I will be your husband, I will protect you, I will help you.”
“And you accepted that?”
He seemed perplexed, as if the idea that his consent might matter was foreign to him. “The colonel said I had to do it, miss.”
“But do you really want it?”
The question took him by surprise. Our eyes met. Dark brown eyes, surprisingly kind for such an imposing face. “I… I don’t know what I want, miss. I’m a slave. Usually, what I want doesn’t matter.”
His honesty was brutal and ruthless. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk in private. I’ll be in my office.”
He left, closed the door, and left me alone with a slave over two meters tall who was supposed to be my husband. We remained silent for what seemed like hours.
“Would you like to sit down?” I finally asked, pointing to the chair in front of me.
Josiah observed the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, and then his imposing figure. “I don’t think this armchair can support me, miss.”
“Then, the sofa.”
He sat down carefully on the edge of the precipice. Even seated, he was taller than me. His hands rested on his knees; each finger looked like a small club, marked with scars and calluses.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?”
“Should it be?”
“No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear.”
“They call you the brute.”
He grimaces. “Yes, miss. Because of my height. Because I’m scary. But I’m not brutal. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not intentionally.”
“But you could if you wanted to.”
“I could.” He looked me straight in the eyes again. “But I wouldn’t. Not with you. Not with someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Something in her gaze—sadness, resignation, a sweetness that did not match her appearance—made me make a decision.
“Josiah, I want to be honest with you. I probably don’t want this any more than you do. My father is desperate. I’m not the right person. He thinks you’re the only solution. But if we have 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 swear on everything I hold sacred.”
His sincerity was undeniable. He truly believed what he was saying.
“I have another question. Can you read?”
The question took him by surprise. A flicker of fear crossed his face. In Virginia, slaves were forbidden to read. But after a long silence, he said softly, “Yes, miss. I taught myself. I know it’s not allowed, but… I couldn’t help it. Books are gateways to places I’ll never visit.”
“What are you reading?”
“Anything I can find. Old newspapers, sometimes borrowed books. I read slowly. I haven’t learned well, but I read.”
“Have you ever read Shakespeare?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, miss. There’s an old copy in the library that no one touches. I read it last night, when everyone was asleep.”
“What works?”
“Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest.” Her voice rose involuntarily. “The Tempest is my favorite play. Prospero ruling the island through magic. Ariel yearning for freedom. Caliban treated as a monster, and yet, perhaps more human than anyone.” She stopped abruptly. “Excuse me, miss. I talk too much.”
“No,” I said, smiling. For the first time in this strange conversation, I was genuinely smiling. “Go on. Tell me about Caliban.”
And then something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the enormous slave nicknamed Bruta, began to speak about Shakespeare with an intelligence that would have impressed university professors.
Caliban is branded a monster, but Shakespeare shows us that he was a slave, that his island was stolen from him, and that his mother’s magic was ignored. Prospero calls him a savage, but it was Prospero who came to the island and took everything, including Caliban. So, who is the real monster?
“Do you consider Caliban a character you can empathize with?”
