The Story of Elellanar Whitmore and Josiah Freeman

Virginia, 1856

They said I would never marry.

Twelve men in four years looked at my wheelchair, bowed politely, and walked away as though my disability were contagious. I was twenty-two years old, a Southern belle considered “damaged goods” in a world where perfection was the currency of womanhood. My mahogany wheelchair — the one my father had commissioned after the riding accident that shattered my spine at eight — became my public identity. Not Elellanar Whitmore, daughter of Colonel Richard Whitmore. Not the girl who learned Greek at fifteen or who devoured philosophy books in secret.
No. I was simply the crippled one.

And in 1856 Virginia, a crippled woman was a burden, a liability, a womb presumed useless by rumor and ignorance.

A doctor I’d never met once speculated — loudly, publicly, and incorrectly — that I was infertile. The rumor burned through plantation society like oil on fire.

Too weak.
Too broken.
Unmarriageable.

Even William Foster — fat, drunk, fifty, and willing to marry anything with a dowry — rejected me despite my father offering him a third of our estate’s annual profits.

That was the day I accepted my fate:
I was going to die alone.

But my father had other plans — plans so radical, shocking, and socially impossible that when he told me, I thought I had misheard.

“I’m giving you to Josiah,” he said.
“The blacksmith. He’ll be your husband.”

I stared at him, certain he had gone mad.

“Father… Josiah is enslaved.”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

What I didn’t know — what no one could have predicted — was that this desperate decision would become the greatest love story I would ever live.

They called him the brute.

Seven feet tall if he was an inch. Three hundred pounds of hardened muscle from years at the forge. His shoulders barely fit through door frames. His hands were scarred from burns and stronger than iron itself. White visitors whispered in awe and fear:

“Whitmore’s got himself a monster in the smithy.”

But they didn’t know him.

Nobody knew him.

Not yet.

THE FIRST MEETING

My father arranged our meeting the next morning.

I heard his footsteps first. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of steps that made floors creak and men swallow their breath.

When Josiah ducked through the parlor doorway, he seemed carved from the very beams of the house — enormous, intimidating, otherworldly. But his posture was humble, head bowed, hands clasped, the classic stance of an enslaved man standing before a white family.

“Josiah,” my father said, “this is my daughter, Elellanar.”

He lifted his eyes for only a moment — dark brown, unexpectedly gentle — before lowering them again.

“Yes, sir,” he said softly. His voice, shockingly, did not match his body. It was quiet. Calm. Almost tender.

I asked him if he understood my father’s proposal.

His answer broke my heart.

“I don’t know what I want, miss. I’m a slave. What I want doesn’t usually matter.”

When my father left us alone, I invited him to sit. He glanced at the delicate parlor chair as though it might collapse beneath him.

“The sofa, then,” I suggested.

He sat on the very edge, careful not to lean back.

“Are you afraid of me, miss?” he asked.

“Should I be?”

“No, miss. I would never hurt you.”

Then he flinched when I mentioned his nickname — the brute.

He wasn’t a brute.
And within an hour, he proved it.

Because when I asked if he could read — a dangerous question for an enslaved man — he admitted the truth.

“Yes, miss. I taught myself.”

And then he began to speak of Shakespeare with a depth and intelligence that stunned me.

Caliban. Prospero. Freedom. Power. Humanity.

For the first time in years, I found myself smiling. Engaged. Fascinated.

He wasn’t a monster.

He was brilliant.

He was kind.

He was gentle.

And he was trapped in a body society looked at and saw only fear.

“Josiah,” I told him, “I don’t think you’re a brute. I think you’re a person forced into an impossible situation… just like me.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you… Elellanar.”

It was the first time he spoke my name.

And I knew then:
This might just work.

On April 1st, 1856, my father held a small ceremony. Not a legal marriage — enslaved people could not marry — but a declaration:

“Josiah is responsible for my daughter’s welfare. He speaks with my authority.”

A room was prepared for him beside mine.

The early weeks were awkward. He helped with intimate tasks. He carried me when the wheelchair wouldn’t reach. He handled everything with reverence, asking permission each time he touched me.

But slowly, we found comfort in each other.

He reorganized my bookshelves.
He carried me to the garden.
He read to me in the evenings.
He talked about his dreams.
He listened to mine.

Two discarded souls learning how to breathe again.

THE FORGE

In May, I asked to try blacksmithing.

At first he refused — dangerous, hot, exhausting — but when I insisted, he relented. He set up a small manageable task and placed a hammer in my hand.

My first strike was pitiful.
The second better.
The tenth stronger.

Sweat poured down my brow. My arms trembled.

But I was doing it.
I was shaping metal.
I was capable.

Josiah held up my first crooked piece of iron.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said.
“You’ve always been strong. You just needed the right tools.”

And I realized I was falling in love with him.

THE KISS

In June, he read Keats to me in the library. His voice seemed crafted for poetry.

When I asked what the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen was, he said:

“You. Yesterday at the forge, covered in soot, laughing while you hammered that nail.”

My heart shattered open.

“Do you see me, Josiah?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “I see all of you.”

And I told him the truth.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

He hesitated—
then confessed he had loved me since our Shakespeare conversation.

We kissed.

Dangerous. Forbidden.
Perfect.

FIVE MONTHS OF HAPPINESS

For five months, we lived in a stolen paradise.

We forged iron together.
We read books together.
We whispered dreams of freedom.
We discovered each other’s bodies with tenderness and care.

My father saw my newfound joy and asked no questions.

But in December, he walked into the library and found us kissing.

And our world ended.

THE CONFRONTATION

“What have you done?” he whispered.

I could have lied.
I could have blamed Josiah.
I could have saved myself and doomed him.

Instead, I said:

“I love him. And he loves me. If you punish someone, punish me.”

My father ordered Josiah away, then sank into his chair, aging ten years in minutes.

“I wanted you protected,” he said. “Not… this.”

“Then you should not have given me to someone kind and gentle.”

He stared at the wall.

“I could sell him,” he murmured.

My blood froze.

“Father—”

“But I won’t.”

Hope flickered.

“I’ve watched you,” he said. “You are happier than I’ve seen you since you were a child. I don’t understand this love… but I cannot destroy it.”

He needed time.

He needed a plan.

It would take two months.

And then he shocked us both.

FREEDOM

February 1857.

My father called us into his study.

“There is no future for this relationship in Virginia,” he began. “So I’m offering you another.”

He turned to Josiah.

“I am freeing you.”

Josiah stopped breathing.

“And,” my father continued, “I will provide $50,000 and abolitionist connections in Philadelphia so you may build a life there. Together.”

I burst into tears.

Josiah did too.

“I will arrange a legal marriage before you leave,” my father said. “The world may shun you, but you will face it together.”

We married in a small Richmond church.

Josiah Freeman.
Ellanar Whitmore Freeman.

We left Virginia on March 15th, 1857 — the same date I would one day die — carrying two trunks and a lifetime of hope.

PHILADELPHIA

Philadelphia embraced us.

Josiah opened Freeman’s Forge, quickly becoming one of the most respected blacksmiths in the city. I managed the business, my mind finally valued as it always should have been.

We had five children.
Thomas (1858), William (1860), Margaret (1863), James (1865), Elizabeth (1868).

In 1865, Josiah created metal braces that allowed me to stand — and walk — for the first time since childhood.

“You always walked,” he told me gently.

“I just gave you different tools.”

My father visited twice, witnessing our happiness firsthand. Before his death, he wrote me a letter:

Giving you to Josiah was the smartest decision I ever made.

We lived 38 beautiful yearstogether.

I died March 15th, 1895.

Josiah followed the next day.

Our children said his heart simply stopped.

We are buried together in Eden Cemetery beneath a shared headstone:

Ellanar & Josiah Freeman

Married 1857 – Died 1895

Love that defied impossibility

Our daughter Elizabeth published our story in 1920: My Mother, the Brute, and the Love That Changed Everything.

Historians still study our lives — the disabled white woman society called unmarriageable, and the enslaved black man they called a monster — who found in each other the freedom the world denied them.

This is our legacy.

This is our truth.

This is our love that changed history.