Skip to content 
They said I’d never marry. In four years, twelve men looked at my wheelchair and walked away. But what happened next shocked everyone, including me. My name is Iloner Whitmore, and this is the story of how I went from being rejected by society to finding a love so powerful it changed history itself. Virginia, 1856.
I was 22 and considered defective goods. My legs had been useless since I was 8. A horseback riding accident had fractured my spine and trapped me in that mahogany wheelchair my father had commissioned. But here’s what no one understood. It wasn’t the wheelchair that made me unfit for marriage. It was what it represented: a burden.
A woman who couldn’t be with her husband at parties. A woman who, it seems, couldn’t have children, couldn’t manage a household, couldn’t fulfill any of the duties expected of a Southern wife. Twelve marriage proposals arranged by my father. Twelve rejections, each more brutal than the last. She can’t walk down the aisle. My children need a mother who can run after them.
What’s the point if you can’t have children? This last rumor, completely false, spread like wildfire through Virginia society. Some doctors speculated on my fertility without even examining me. Suddenly, I wasn’t just disabled. I was flawed in every way that mattered to America. When William Foster, fat, drunk, fifty, rejected me despite my father offering him a third of our estate’s annual profits.
I knew the truth. I would die alone. But my father had other plans. Plans so radical, so shocking, so completely outside of all social norms, that when he told me, I was sure I had misunderstood. “I will marry you to Josiah,” he said, “the blacksmith. He will be your husband.” I stared at my father, Colonel Richard Whitmore, owner of 50 acres and 2,100 slaves, certain he had lost his mind.
“Joseph,” 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, was that this desperate solution would turn into the greatest love story I’d ever experienced. But first, let me tell you about Josiah. They called him the brute, seven feet tall, weighing three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, the fruit of years of labor in the forge.
Hands capable of bending iron bars, a face that made grown men recoil as he entered a room. Everyone was terrified. Slaves and freemen alike kept their distance. White visitors to our plantation stared at him and whispered, “Did you see how big he is?” Whitors had created a monster in the forge. But here’s what no one knew. Here’s what I was about to find out.
Josiah was the kindest man I’d ever met. My father called me into his study in March 1856. A month after Foster’s refusal, a month after I’d stopped believing I’d ever be anything but alone, “No white man will marry you,” he said bluntly, “that’s the truth. But you need protection.”
When I die, this estate will go to your cousin Robert. He’ll sell everything, give you a pittance, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t want you.” “Then leave me the estate,” I said, knowing it was impossible. Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit independently, especially not in this case. She pointed to my wheelchair, unable to finish her sentence.
So what do you suggest? Josiah is the strongest man on this estate. He’s intelligent. Yes, I know he reads secretly. Don’t look 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, take care of you.
The logic was terrifying and unassailable. Have you asked him? I insisted. Not yet. I wanted to tell you before. And if I refuse, my father’s face aged ten years in that instant. Then I’ll continue to look for a white husband, and we’ll both know I’ll fail, and you’ll spend your life after my death in boarding houses, dependent on the charity of relatives who consider you a burden.
He was right. I hated him. He was right. Can I meet him? Talk to him seriously before making this decision for both of us. Sure, tomorrow. The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was near the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. The door opened. My father came in, and then Josiah ducked down.
I actually ducked to get through the door. My God, he was huge. Six feet ten inches of muscle and rump. His shoulders barely touched the doorframe, his hands, marked by forge burns, looked as if they could shatter stone. His face was weathered, bearded, and his eyes darted around the room, never settling on me. He stood with his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped, the posture of a slave in a white man’s house, and the nickname fit the brute perfectly.
He looked like he could demolish the house with his bare hands. But then my father spoke. “Josiah, this is my daughter, Ilaner.” Josiah’s eyes rested on me for half a second, then returned to the floor. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet soft, almost gentle. “Elaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understands he will be responsible for your care.”
I managed to speak, though I was shaking. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing to me?” Another quick glance. “Yes, miss. I will be your husband, I will protect you, I will help you, and you have consented.” He looked confused, as if the concept of his consent mattering was foreign to him. The colonel said, “I should, miss, but do you want it?” The question took him by surprise.
His eyes met mine, dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome face. “I don’t know what I want, young lady. I’m a slave. What I want usually doesn’t matter.” The honesty was brutal yet sincere. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk in private. I’ll be in my study.” He left, closing the door and leaving me alone with the enslaved man who, presumably, would become my husband.
Neither of us spoke for what seemed like an eternity. “Would you like to sit down?” I finally asked, gesturing to the armchair across from me. Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at his imposing figure. “I don’t think that armchair would hold me,” he said. “I don’t have a sofa.” Then he carefully sat down on the edge; even sitting, he towered over me.
His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, marked and callused. Are you afraid of me, miss? Should I be? No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear they call you the brute. He flinched. Yes, miss. Because of my size. Because I look scary. But I’m not brutal. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not on purpose. But you could, if you wanted to.
I could. He looked me in the eyes again. But I wouldn’t. Not with you. Not with anyone who didn’t deserve it. Something in his eyes. Sadness, resignation, a sweetness that didn’t suit 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 not fit for marriage. 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. Will you hurt me? Never, Miss. I promise that on everything I hold sacred. His sincerity was undeniable. He truly believed what he said.