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When the woman comes back, she offers Ash a small muslin bundle, tied up with a piece of string. "Here's four slices of bread and a bit of cheese. You share it with the others," the farm wife says. When Ash tucks the gift in one elbow and holds out her hands, the woman drops in three silver nickels, as well. "Now, you won't get five cents a pound from most other people you meet, but don't take less than four. Those are fine apples. You'd do well to go on south toward the crossroads to Patterson and Quaker Hill. It's early in the day yet, and fools will be traipsing off to catch the train to New York City, I suppose … so as to see those suffragette women make a spectacle of themselves this afternoon in their silly parade."
Fastening her gaze to the bundle and the coins, Ash nods, swallows the water in her mouth and the prickly swelling in her throat. The food smells good, and kindness is a thing so far back in her memory that its sudden presence makes her feel dizzy and uncertain.
"And take care you don't end up like that girl in the wagon with you. There's no good to come from marrying so young." Propping her fists on her hips, the farm wife towers over Ash. "You hill girls. Honestly. You can't help it, I suppose."
The sweet taste in Ash's mouth turns sour.
"Well, get on with your troubles, now," the woman commands. "I have wash to hang. If you hurry down the road, you'll likely catch some business yet."
Ash does as she's told, tucking the coins safely in her pocket and returning to the wagon. Giving the food bundle to the twins to divide, she prods the mule into a trot, hurrying on toward the crossroads, where, if the farm wife is right, they might find people who have money and need apples.
Real bread and bites of cheese improve everyone's mood, except the mule's, and help to make short work of the trip downcountry to the junction.
When they arrive, there's a woman in the road. Tall, and thin, and straight, she seems at first like a strange, wandering spirit, standing there in her white dress and hat. Her arms stretch skyward, hands extended all the way through the fingertips, as if she means to grab on to a cloud and float away.
The mule slows, unsure, or perhaps Ash pulls him up as she tries to make sense of the woman. Maybe she bounced out of the automobile and it drove on without her? The white dress is smudged and mud-spattered, and her hat hangs off-center in a way that says something's gone wrong with her day. Her long yellow silk scarf has fallen from one shoulder, its tip trailing in the mud.
The wagon is almost upon her before the rattle and squeal cause her to lower her arms and shuffle in a slow, unsteady turn that shows she can't be one of the young women who raced by earlier. Even before strands of gray hair come into view beneath the crooked hat, this woman's age is clear.
Not one of those from the automobile, Ash is relieved to realize. Not one of the terrible kind the farm wife didn't like.
"Praise be! You've come!" The stranger staggers impatiently over the muddy ground to meet them as Ash pulls on the mule. "I am the Reverend Octavia Rose, and I must have your help."
"We don't know you," Ash answers, but her throat is dry and the words come out weak and small. Pa never trusts strangers, and the few times one ever came up the mountain, he didn't take it well. Twice after Brother died, somebody named "Reverend" rode up and Pa turned that man away with a gun. Said nobody calling themselves "Reverend" was welcome. Ever.
"We just came to sell our apples here. To folks passing by," Ash lets her know. "You have need of some good apples? If not, we'd best get on with our work. Blue, Dab, hold some apples up so she can see."
The old woman doesn't even wait for the twins to scramble around and uncover the baskets. "I'll buy all of them," she says. "If you will kindly bring them to my automobile and assist me in righting it on the road. I've had an accident, but only a slight one. Even so, the poor thing can't seem to make its way out of the ditch. It's most important that I continue on my way as quickly as possible. I must be in the city by three o'clock for the parade."
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.
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