I was told I would never get married. For four years, twelve men turned a blind eye to my wheelchair. But what happened next stunned everyone, myself included. My name is Elellanar Whitmore, and this is the story of my journey from societal rejection to discovering a love so powerful it would change the course of history.
Virginia, 1856. I was 22 years old and considered a wreck. My legs had been unusable since I was 8. A riding accident had fractured my spine and condemned me to this mahogany wheelchair my father had made. 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 unable to stand beside her husband at social gatherings. A woman who, supposedly, couldn’t have children, keep a house, or fulfill any of the duties expected of a Southern wife. Twelve arranged marriage proposals by my father.
Twelve rejections, each more cruel than the last. She can’t even get married. My children need a mother who can run after them. What good is it if she can’t have children? This last rumor, completely unfounded, spread like wildfire in Virginia. A doctor made assumptions about my fertility without even examining me.
Suddenly, I was no longer just a disabled person. I was defective in every way that mattered to America in 1856. At the time, William Foster, fat, drunk, and fifty years old, rejected me, despite my father’s offer to give him a third of our estate’s annual income. I knew the truth. I was going to die alone. But my father had other plans. Plans so radical, so shocking, so utterly unconventional that when he told me about them, I was certain I had misunderstood. « I entrust you to… »
« Josiah, » he said. « The blacksmith. He will be your husband. » I stared at my father, Colonel Richard Whitmore, lord of 5,000 acres and 200 slaves, convinced I had lost my mind. « Josiah, » I whispered. « Father, Josiah is a slave. » « Yes, I know perfectly well what I’m doing. »
Leave a Comment