Page 2 of In These Hills

“I-I think so.” Josephine touched her temple and her fingers came away bloody—just as a group of men unleashed a volley of empty whiskey bottles and rotten eggs onto the stage.

Unsteady on her feet, Josephine attempted to shield Miss Anthony as they hurried from the platform. People ran screaming as glass shattered and rocks thudded against the heavy canvas backdrop. The putrid smell of rancid eggs hung in the air. Something hit Josephine in the back just as they reached the street, but her woolen coat helped soften the blow.

Her temple pounding, she ushered Miss Anthony around the corner of a building to protect her when she noticed a small cut on the woman’s jawline. “Oh, Miss Anthony, you’re hurt!”

“I’ve suffered far worse, Miss Dunham.” The older woman made a dismissive gesture. “You’re the one with the bloody temple. You, my dear, struck a nerve up there today. Well done. But you’ve never before spoken publicly?”

Josephine shook her head.

“You speak with such determination and confidence. Where did you acquire such skill?”

It was Josephine’s turn to smile. “My brother and I used to debate on all sorts of issues. Our parents actually encouraged it. My father was an attorney, and Todd and I would hold court and present different sides of an argument, whether we personally agreed with it or not. My parents were considerably older when my brother and I were born. They both lived through the Civil War—or the Rebellion, as they often referred to it. They were abolitionists. They strongly believed that those exchanges would teach us perspective, and respect, and open-mindedness.”

“Indeed.” Wonder swept the woman’s features. “My father, as you may know, believed women deserving of the same education as men and took my schooling upon himself. Thus the ideal was planted early. Even so, I learned much by eavesdropping on his conversations with clients and colleagues. Such opportunities for a girl to develop leadership of thought are rare.”

“Well, in all candor, my parents’ intent was for my brother to be the primary beneficiary of those exercises. But with us being the same age and the only two children, I was permitted to . . . eat the scraps that fell from the table, as it were.”

Josephine had attempted a more nonchalant tone, but Miss Anthony’s thoughtful nod encouraged her to continue.

“My father, though kind and generous in many ways—” Josephine paused, hearing another wave of angry voices and shattering of glass behind her. She felt pulled to rejoin her fellow suffragists, but this was Susan B. Anthony, the woman who had inspired them all. The opportunity to speak with her would likely not come again. “He was a very religious man and held steadfast to patriarchy. And my mother, she never once sought to challenge him. Not in word, or in deed. At least not in front of my brother or me. She taught me it was a wife’s duty to love, honor, and obey.”

Even now, the word rankled, and the shadow chasing across Miss Anthony’s countenance seemed to convey agreement. Either that or concern, Josephine couldn’t be sure. She so wished her mother had enjoyed greater liberty, both within her marriage and in her world. One thing Josephine knew for certain . . . She would never place herself in that kind of subservient role to a man. She wouldn’t marry until she could find a man who esteemed a woman as his equal in every way. Which meant she would never marry. And she’d accepted that.

“But . . .” Josephine continued, feeling Miss Anthony’s patient attention. “Somewhere along the way—”

“The brilliant, hungry mind of a young girl,” Miss Anthony interjected, “didn’t let stilted patriarchy or blind tradition stop her. She feasted upon the knowledge along with her brother, who, I sincerely hope, encouraged her to learn just as he himself was encouraged.”

“Oh, he did.” Josephine’s eyes watered. “Todd was my twin brother, and my champion in every way.”

“Was?” Miss Anthony questioned softly.

Josephine hesitated. “He was killed . . . two years ago. He’d been working on behalf of freedmen to uncover corruption in the Georgia prison system. Freedmen were being jailed on minor or trumped-up charges, then indentured to companies under brutal conditions. One night, following a meeting at the jail, Todd didn’t come home . . . They found his body the next morning behind a warehouse, only a few blocks from here. The officers said it was due to an attempted mugging, but . . .” Her gaze trailed toward that part of the city as memories of how he’d died—had been murdered—still haunted her. All the unanswered questions. “A handful of months later, my parents also died. As I shared, they were considerably older when Todd and I were born, and . . . I think Todd’s death just—” Her voice broke and she shrugged, letting the silence finish for her.

With a frail hand beneath Josephine’s chin, Miss Anthony urged her gaze back. “I am certain your brother and your parents—viewing this world from their current vantage point—are very, very proud of you.”

Josephine’s throat knotted.

“The older I get . . .” Miss Anthony searched her expression. “The greater power I seem to have to help the world. I am like a snowball . . .” She smiled. “The further I am rolled the more I gain. And I believe with all my heart that I am looking into eyes remarkably similar to those of my younger self.”

Josephine blinked and a tear escaped. “Thank you, Miss Anthony. I do want to help change things, but sometimes I don’t know how to do that. Or if what I’m doing is making any difference. There’s so much opposition.”

“Stay the course, my dear young woman. Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform. So forget conventionalisms, forget what the world thinks of your stepping out of your place. Think your best thoughts, speak your best words, work your best works, looking to your own conscience for approval. Trusting, of course, that your conscience is guided by God.”

“Miss Anthony!” a man called out, and they both turned.

One of the handful of men Josephine recognized as attending in support of suffrage raced toward them. “Make haste, ma’am. It’s not safe. The violence is escalating. We have your carriage waiting.”

“Yes, yes.” Miss Anthony’s steady voice belied the chaos. “Miss Dunham, you are most welcome to accompany us. In fact, I would encourage it.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I want to find my friends. Make sure they’re all right.”

“Very well. But promise me, no matter what comes, you’ll remember”—Miss Anthony gently grasped her shoulder—“we must prevail in this. Failure is impossible.”

Josephine nodded. “I’ll remember.”

As the two hurried away, she caught the boisterous laughter of men and walked back to the corner to see a group of them pelting suffragists with rotten eggs. The seasoned cluster of women stood shoulder to shoulder, placards held high, vigorously chanting the mantra, “Votes for women! Votes for women! Votes for women!”

Josephine’s resolve hardened even as her heart ached. This was not the change she’d hoped to inspire. Her parents, God rest them, had taken her and Todd to abolitionist rallies after coming of age, so she knew this kind of ignorant hostility. They’d taught her that words carried the power to change hearts, and that God Almighty could be trusted to work in his often-mysterious ways.