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

A chill travels Ash's body, but it's not the nippy fall wind at fault; it's the way the woman seems to look not at her, but through her. Into things Ash knows better than to tell.

Their eyes lock and hold.

Ash shakes her head a little to break the tie. Why is the woman watching her that way? What's the thing Ash should say? The words that will finish up their bargain?

"I simply must continue on to the parade," the woman mutters, tapping a knuckle to her chin. "I signed the participation pledge, and aside from that, it is the culmination of my life's work, this one final push in the fight to free women from their bondage, to give them the dignity of a voice in public affairs and the power of the vote."

"What would a woman want with a vote?" Ash echoes the farm wife's words in hopes of showing that she's not some little child. Not a baby like the twins. She knows things. "She just has to do what her husband tells her with it, anyway." As soon as it's in the air, Ash wishes she could take it back. The reverend's eyes go wide and fiery. Ash tucks her chin and ducks away. There's no mistaking that kind of look and what it means.

But the reverend doesn't strike. She doesn't slap, or grab hair by the handful, or clutch a skinny arm and twist it until it burns and stabs and goes numb. She only looks at Ash for a very long time.

"Transfer the apples to my automobile. Fill the splash apron in the back seat with as many as can possibly fit," she says finally, in a way that leaves no room for argument. "But leave the seats for yourselves. You will accompany me to the parade, in case I should need further assistance along the way. When we have completed our mission, I will pay you for the apples, as well as the day's work, and we will return to see about your wagon … and then we will see about you."

It's that last part that worries Ash. We will see about you. Those words cast a shadow over how exciting it'd be to get a ride in an automobile for the first time ever. "But … we've got our mule."

"There was a farm up the way I came, not more than a half mile." The reverend squints over her shoulder toward Quaker Hill. "No one was around the place when I tried for help there. We'll put your mule in the corral and leave a note on the fence explaining. We will manage the rest upon our return. Sometimes, my dear, we must do whatever is needed to seize the day while it is yet the day."

Within the hour, they've followed the orders of Reverend Octavia Rose, parked the wagon, secured the mule, and left a note signed by the reverend herself.

"Now, you children needn't worry about a thing," the old woman promises, as the twins, and then Clarey, scramble eagerly into the rear seat of the automobile and Ash slides uncertainly into the front. The reverend offers quilts to keep them warm. "Despite my slight miscalculation earlier, I am fully competent in the operation of a Tin Lizzie. In New York it may be uncommon for women to drive, but in Detroit where I am from, even the most common working families are now in possession of automobiles, thanks to Mr. Ford's affordable products, and the women operate them as well as the men. Even women of an age. I am a bit … out of practice, since a bout with pneumonia last winter brought me here to convalesce at my niece's home in Quaker Hill, that is all. But I believe the Lizzie and I are finding our stride, even as we speak." She adjusts various buttons and levers, places one foot on a floor pedal, and the Model T lurches forward.

"Verbluffend!" Clarey's squeal rises above the noise. "Ik kan dit niet geloven!"

The twins turn her way in surprise and the reverend lifts a brow, pausing to glance over her shoulder. "Ben je Nederlands, Clarey?"

"Ja," Clarey answers shyly, her downcast gaze lifting and fastening to the woman. "Mijn grootouders zijn Nederlands."

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.