She was deemed unfit for marriage, so in 1856 her father married her to the strongest slave, Virginia.

They said I’d never get married. Twelve men in four years looked at the wheelchair and walked away.

My name is Elisabeth Wetmore, and this is the story of my journey from social rejection to the discovery of a passionate love that changed the course of history.

Virginia, 1856. I was twenty-two years old and considered myself disabled.

I lost the use of my legs at the age of eight, after a fall from a horse that broke my spine, forcing me to use this mahogany wheelchair my father had ordered for me.

But no one understood that it wasn’t the wheelchair that made me “unmarriageable,” but what it represented: a burden.

A woman who can’t be with her husband at parties, a woman who shouldn’t have children, who can’t manage a household and, at the same time, fulfill all the duties expected of a Southern wife.

The twelve proposals my father developed ended with the same number of rejections, each more difficult than the last.

“She can’t walk down the aisle.” “My kids need a mother to chase them.” “So what if you can’t have kids?” This latest rumor, completely false, has spread like wildfire through the Virginia community.

Doctors speculate about my fertility, even though I’d been tested. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a disabled person, but a disabled person in every sense, which was important in 1856 America.

When William Foster, a fat, drunken fifteen-year-old, rejected me despite my father offering him a third of our annual inheritance, I knew the truth: I would die alone.

But my father had other plans. Radical, shocking, and completely outside the bounds of social convention, so much so that when he told me, I thought I’d misunderstood him. He said, “You will marry Josiah, the blacksmith. You will be his wife.”

I looked at my father, Colonel Richard Whittemore, owner of 5,000 acres of land and 200 slaves, and was sure he was crazy.

First, let me tell you about Josiah. I called him “the monster.” He was eight feet tall and weighed 300 pounds of rock-solid muscle, sculpted from years of hard labor in the forge.

His hands could bend iron bars, and his face struck terror into anyone who entered the room. People feared him, slaves and free men alike.

The white boys on our farm would stare at him and whisper, “Did you see how big that man is?” And Timor has a monster in his forge.

But here’s what no one knew, what I was about to discover: Josiah was the kindest man I knew.

My father summoned me to his office in March, 1856, a month after Foster’s refusal and a month after I had given up all hope of being left alone.

 He told me bluntly, “A white man will never marry you.” It’s true. But you need protection.

When I die, the inheritance will go to your cousin Robert.

He’ll sell everything, give you a few cents, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t care about you. I said, knowing it was impossible, “Then leave me an inheritance.”

“Virginia law doesn’t allow it.” Women can’t inherit alone, especially…” She pointed to the wheelchair and couldn’t finish her sentence.

“So what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man in this heresy.” He’s intelligent; yes, I know he reads the secrets, so don’t be surprised. He’s healthy, fit, and, from what I’ve heard, has a good heart, despite his size.

He won’t abandon you because he has a legal obligation to stay. He will protect you, meet your needs, and care for you.

The logic was terrifying and unyielding. I asked him, “Have you asked him?” He replied, “Not yet.” I wanted to tell you first. “What if I refuse?”

At that moment, my father’s face seemed to age ten years. “I’m still trying to find you a white husband, and we both know I can’t.”

And you will spend your life after my death as an adopted child, dependent on the charity of relatives who consider you a burden. He was right.

 I hated his reasoning. “Can I see him?” Talk to him, really, before we make this decision on our own? “Of course.” Tomorrow.

The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened and my father entered, then Josiah had to bend down, literally, to squeeze under the doorframe.

Oh my, he was huge! He was almost two meters tall, muscular and well-built, his arms barely touching the doorframe, and his hands bore the burn marks of a forge that looked like it was crushing rocks.

He had a wrinkled face, a thick beard, and his eyes looked around the room, paying no attention to me.

He stood there with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the pose of a slave in a white house. The nickname “Beast” was more than deserved: he looked like he could tear a house to pieces with his bare hands.

Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilapar.” He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet calm, even gentle. “Elilapar, I explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.

“He’ll take care of you.” My voice returned, albeit shaky.

“Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?” He gave me another quick glance. “Yes, miss.” I will be your husband. I will protect you, I will help you.

 “And you consented to this?” He looked confused, as if the concept of consent was foreign to him. The choirboy added, “I had to, miss.” “But do you really want this?” The question sent shivers down his spine.

His eyes met mine, dark brown, surprised and kind, and his face was helpless. “I… know what I want, Mistress.” I’m a slave. I have no habits. The truth is harsh and just.

My father closed the door and said, “Perhaps it would be better if we talked alone. I’ll be in my study.” Then he left and closed the door, leaving me alone with the enormous seven-legged slave who would become my husband. We didn’t speak for hours.

Finally I asked him, pointing to the chair in front of me: “Do you want to sit down?”

Josiah glanced at the delicate piece of furniture. He lifted the embroidered cushions, then looked down at his enormous frame. “I don’t think this chair will hold me, ma’am.”

“And then the sofa.” He sat down carefully on the edge. Even sitting down, he was considerably taller than me.

His hands were resting on his knees, and each finger was a small, hardened, visible nodule.

“Are you afraid of me, ma’am?” “Should I be?” “No, ma’am.” I won’t hurt you, I swear. “I’ll call you a monster.” I shivered. “Yes, ma’am.” Because of my size and because I look terrifying.

I’ve never hurt anyone, but it’s obvious. “But you can, if you want.” “I can,” he looked at me again, “but I won’t.” Not for you. Not for someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Something in her eyes—sadness, resignation, a softness that didn’t match her appearance—convinced me. “Josiah, I want to be honest with you.” I don’t want him any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I’m unmarriageable.

But if we’re going to do this, I need to know: Are you dangerous? “No, ma’am.” “Are you cruel?” “No, ma’am.” “Will you hurt me?”

“Absolutely not, ma’am.” I swear on everything I hold dear. His seriousness was undeniable; I believed what he was saying. Then I have another question.

“Can you read?” The question made him shiver. Fear crossed his face; reading was forbidden to slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said calmly, “Yes, ma’am.” I said to myself, “I know it’s forbidden, but… I couldn’t help it.”

Books are gateways to places I will go.

“What are you reading?” “Anything I can find.” Old newspapers and sometimes books I borrow. I read slowly, but I don’t study well, but I read. “Have you read Shakespeare?”

His eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am. There’s an old copy in the library that no one touches.

I read it at night, when everyone else is asleep.” “What are his works?” “Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest.” Her voice brightened involuntarily.

“The Tempest is my favorite.” Prospero rules the island with magic, Ariel loves freedom, Caliba is treated like a monster, but perhaps he’s more human than anyone else. He stopped short. “Excuse me, ma’am.

I talk a lot.” “No.” I smiled, a genuine smile for the first time in that strange conversation. “Go on. Tell me about Calib.”

And then something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the giant slave known as the Beast, began discussing Shakespeare with an intelligence that would have impressed college professors.

He stated: “Calibas is called a beast, but Shakespeare shows us that he was a slave, that his island was stolen from him, and that he was deprived of the presence of his mother.”