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

Ash's heart upticks a bit. This is the sort of person the farm wife warned about.

But, if she might buy the whole load of apples …

"You one of them sufferin' women?" Blue pipes up, leaning around the wagon seat.

"Hush, Blue," Ash tells him, then turns back to business. "Now … we get four … I mean five cents a pound for our apples, and—"

"Yes, yes," the woman answers impatiently. "You may estimate the total pounds and we will settle on a price once the work is done. Is that a good, strong mule? And have you a length of chain or rope we might use to pull my automobile free? I don't believe much will be needed to set her right again. She's a good, sturdy Model T. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have dug her out myself."

"Haven't you got nobody with you?" Blue asks, and this time Clarey and Dab shush him together.

The Reverend Octavia Rose raises her chin and straightens her hat. "Young man, I have not, and I need not," she tells him. "I've traveled the length and width of a dozen states in my day. Served as one of the first ordained female ministers in this vast country and campaigned in the cause of justice for the female sex. I've not required the help of man or woman to make my way, and I won't begin now." Moving to the rear of the wagon, she braces her hands against the rough wooden bottom. Her breath comes in tattered gasps as she attempts to gain a seat there. "And … while … some … some well-meaning persons in the family may attempt to question … my competence … at this … this juncture, I will not be dissuaded … in today's mission. Not by anyone. Boy, find something I might stand on to hoist myself into this wagon, or gather your sisters and help me in. We haven't time to waste."

"Her and her are my sisters. That one's my stepma, Clarey," Blue offers up, then scampers off the wagon.

The woman studies the three of them, then sighs. "Merciful heavens!" Her eyes roll upward. "I am reminded of why we must fight this battle until we can stand on the field no longer." With a sudden rush of strength, she drags and wriggles herself sideways into the wagon bed. Her lacy dress catches on rough boards and loose nails as Blue rushes around to help and Dabine crawls over.

"No fussing over me," the reverend admonishes, as Dab recovers a bit of dislodged lace and tries to hand it over. "We must hurry to free my Tin Lizzie from the mud. With a bit of good fortune, I will still arrive at East Eleventh Street in time to be in line with the autos and join the parade."

But luck, as it turns out, isn't with them. The Model T is heavier and more thoroughly stuck than the woman said, and the traffic coming down the road from Quaker Hill isn't what the farm wife predicted. An hour passes as they dig around the tires, and try with the mule, and dig and try. As the last great pull wrenches the automobile free, and it roars onto the road, its tires spitting out a fan-shaped spray of mud, the mule's dry, worn harness snaps at the uptug strap.

The reverend inspects the damage with Ash and Clarey, while the twins circle the Model T, peeking over and under, surveying its untold wonders. "These harness leathers are on the verge of disaster throughout. You're fortunate to have made it this far with such an ill-kept rig." Drumming her fingers on the mule's collar, the reverend eyes the road impatiently. "I can't send you off in this condition."

"If you'd just pay us for the apples, we'll be on our way," Ash prods nervously. "We can load them in your car? All the apples, like you said?"

But the reverend won't look her way. "It will be on my soul if the lot of you should perish in a wreck."

"If we head back upcountry now, we'll make it home before dark."

"I do know my way around a harness." The reverend turns from the road, her blue eyes gauging each of the twins, then Clarey, and finally Ash. "I was a farm girl … once upon a time, long ago. Worked to the bone caring for eight brothers and sisters and a mother who'd long since broken down under the strain. I know my way around a rig, and a mule, and the sort of toil that is heaped on a girl much too young to withstand it."

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.