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

"She's our stepma," Dabine blurts.

Ash snaps, "Hush up, Dab."

The woman widens her eyes and shakes her head, and Ash is quick to tell her, "Our pa, he's busy in the orchard, of course. Once we get all these apples sold—which ought not to take us long—we'll go back and help pick some more. Awful fine season for apples this year."

"Oh, my. I hope—" Whatever else the woman says is lost in the noise as an automobile roars around the corner and startles the mule. It's all Clarey and the wagon brake can do to hold him in place. A man in a leather bonnet and eye goggles sits at the wheel, and in the back ride three women young enough to wear their hair loose over their shoulders. White ribbons stream from their white hats, floating like tail feathers on the breeze.

The twins cover their ears and stand with their mouths open, their faces catching a fine spray of mud. They've hardly ever seen an automobile, except in magazine drawings, where fancy-looking men in tall hats and tailcoats hold the gloved hands of beautiful women in long, pretty gowns and lovely hats.

The women in the automobile are like the ones in those pictures, like butterflies and birds, something too fleeting and beautiful to be seen fully before it takes wing again and sweeps away.

Ash wheels about and sprints after them, dodging mudholes and ruts, keeping a view as long as she can. A yellow blanket, tied across the back of the auto, puffs in the breeze. Big, black words are painted on, but she can't read them before the rumbling beast rounds a curve and is gone, its polished skin flicking back splinters of sunlight.

When she returns to the wagon, Blue's mouth is still hanging open, and his eyes are as big as tin dinnerplates. "Woweee! A oh-doough-mobile."

"Automobile," Ash corrects. She reads to the twins, when they can find the time to play pretend. In their games, she's the pretty teacher and they're the little hill kids who've come down to her school to learn things that can't be known up on the mountain.

"Ff f f," the farm wife spits under her breath. "Suffragettes." Brushing the mud-spatter from her dress as she clutches an apple-filled apron, she scowls at the now-quiet road, her face narrow and red. The angry sweat breaking out over her cheeks doesn't match the coolness of the day.

Ash fidgets uncomfortably, wondering if the woman might change her mind about the apples. Having grown up always watching for the signs of Pa's mood going sour, Ash knows how to read the clues. Fists clenching, hands slapping, tools banging, red skin, eyes that scrunch up and turn hard.

Time to run for the orchard, if you can get away with it.

"We best settle up and be on our way, I expect." Ash holds her arms stiff at her sides, fingers clenched over wads of her threadbare dress.

"Votes for women," the farm wife grumbles, staring off down the road yet. "A travesty, that's what that is. What in heaven's name would a woman want with a vote? She'll only have to do what her husband pleases with it."

Ash sends the twins to the wagon with only the slightest twitch of her head. They have their signs, the three of them. Things no one else can see. Ways of warning each other that there might be trouble.

"Well, won't she?" the woman demands, crooking her head to regard Ash.

"I guess so," Ash says, and hopes it's the right answer. The one that won't upend the apple sale.

"Shamefulness, I tell you. No decent woman would go about in such a way." Cradling her apron load like a pregnant belly, the farm wife sweeps off toward the house. "Come along!" she snaps when Ash doesn't follow.

Ash trots after her into the yard, then hurries ahead to hold open the door, hoping that might sweeten the farm wife's bad mood. Ash's stomach grumbles and knots up as she gently lets the door close, then waits on the porch, crossing her fingers behind her back, praying the woman's apple money is enough to provide something better than walnuts and persimmons to eat tonight. Maybe they can buy some buckwheat flour, even. Fried buckwheat flour cakes would taste as good as cream straight off the milk right now. Better, even.

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.