Excerpt from Stories from Suffragette City by M.J. Rose, Fiona Davis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Ash can't help but worry as they travel on, the countryside flattening and becoming less familiar, the farms crowding closer together, then disappearing into town after town. Each time, the town is larger, the buildings taller, until finally the buildings don't end. They tower over the road on both sides like the tall rock walls of a canyon. And there are people. So many people! Wagons and harnessed teams, and cars, and pushcarts loaded with fruits, loaves of bread, fish, hams, sausages. Everywhere, there is noise. Voices and horses, bells ringing and wheels clattering, men yelling and dogs barking, engines chugging out smoke and trains whistling by on high bridges, with caves underneath for wagons and autos to pass through. Traffic clogs the roads and slows the way, and the reverend sounds the Model T's horn, adding its voice to all the rest as they pass into the city.

"Move along! Move out of the way!" she shouts. "Make haste! Make haste!" Over and over, she checks the pretty gold watch she wears on a chain around her neck. She grumbles and murmurs about the late hour of the day. "We'll miss it. We'll miss it." She complains, her face anxious and moist, "They'll be starting soon."

And then later, "Oh, by now they've begun. We've still so far to go."

And as even more time passes, the light dims between the buildings, and the evening sharpens the icy edges of cold autumn wind, "They've been under way for over an hour now. Oh! It's too long," the reverend frets. "Surely, it's too long. We are so very late."

Rising onto her knees, Ash leans over the car door. "Out of the way!" she calls. "Move along!"

In the back, the twins echo her chorus. "Move 'long! Move 'long!"

Clarey takes up the call in her own language, as well.

Their efforts are of no help. Dusk presses in as the Tin Lizzie inches onward, working its way over bridges and through streets, each more congested than the last.

"Look! The crowds!" The reverend points down an alley when finally they've reached the heart of the city. "There are spectators in place yet!"

"I hear somethin'!" Dab rises in the back seat and leans out, and Clarey grabs the little girl's dress to pull her down.

"I hear it, too!" Blue agrees. "Somebody's singin' someplace."

"It's a band," the reverend corrects, turning an ear toward the rhythmic sound. "Oh, a band playing. In the parade. They are still here! We might make our way, after all. Hold tight, children. The autos are last in the parade."

Inch by inch, foot by foot, they count down the distance together, as the music of one band fades and another strikes up. Voices echo along alleys and bounce off walls, the shouts from countless mouths they cannot see.

"Votes for women!"

"A vote for suffrage is a vote for justice!"

"Women suffrage in New York now!"

"Women suffrage in New Jersey now!"

When finally they reach East Eleventh Street, moving only as fast as any one of them could have walked, the old woman releases the steering wheel and throws her hands up, then grips the wheel again.

"Glory be! There they are!" she cheers. Ahead, dozens of automobiles sit parked and ready, their metal skins adorned with yellow flags and banners, their occupants milling about in coats and blankets, struggling to keep warm as the moon crests the tall buildings, and electric lights flicker to life overhead. "We have arrived, after all," the reverend cries out, seizing Ash's hand and lifting it triumphantly into the air. "My dears, we have arrived. I couldn't have made it without you. Thank you for helping an old woman accomplish one more mission."

Ash takes in the cold, weary-looking yet determined crowd as a woman guides the reverend's automobile into place at the rear of the line. For a time, the five of them sit quietly, catching their breath and gazing down the long row of automobiles, dozens upon dozens. More than Ash would have imagined there were in the entire world. Drivers and passengers cluster around the cars impatiently, rubbing their hands and jumping up and down to stay warm.

Excerpted from Stories from Suffragette City by M.J. Rose and Fiona Davis. Copyright © 2020 by M.J. Rose and Fiona Davis. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.