In These Hills

Chapter 1

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

“Remember, Miss Dunham, you’re an intelligent, independent young woman. Don’t let them intimidate you!”

“No, of course not.” Josephine followed the head of the local American Woman Suffrage Association to the foot of the makeshift outdoor stage, her insides thrumming with anticipation—and panic.

Crowds filled the street, women and men alike.

Far more than expected for so early in the morning and—judging by the hecklers—not all of them supportive of the cause.

She still couldn’t believe they’d invited her to speak, and on the heels of Miss Susan B.

Anthony herself. Even now, the venerated Miss Anthony, eighty-five years old, wearing her customary round-rimmed glasses and hair pulled back in a no-nonsense style, commanded the podium as she delivered her closing remarks.

“I wish I could live another century and see the fruition of all the work for women, including that of this next generation who joins the revolution with such unwavering enthusiasm and commitment. Like their foremothers, they have vowed to carry forth the fight for temperance, for voting rights for women, for equal pay for equal work . . .”

As Miss Anthony’s voice rose, so did the jeers.

A biting wind whistled through the alleyways between downtown brick buildings, sharpening the unseasonably cold spring air. Josephine turned up her coat collar and adjusted the Votes for Women sash she and her fellow suffragists wore to such gatherings.

The past week of canvasing Atlanta’s familiar streets and neighborhoods publicizing this event had made a real difference. Josephine took a deep breath. Now if only she could.

“Next we shall hear from Miss Josephine Dunham”—Miss Anthony motioned for Josephine to join her—“one of our young revolutionaries herself. So in conclusion, may I remind us all . . . There will never be complete equality until women themselves help make laws and elect lawmakers. Justice is better than chivalry—if we cannot have both!”

Triumphant cheers rose amid a wave of boos and hisses from men, and even some women, scattered throughout. “Go back home where you belong, you ol’ cow!” one man yelled. “Leave decision makin’ to men,” added another. “Y’all ain’t got the brains for it.”

Miss Anthony grasped Josephine’s hand, her gaze clear-eyed and determined. “Miss Dunham, their ignorance and chauvinism is no match for what we know to be true. God created all men and women to be equal. It is up to us to illuminate their minds, however narrow and dark they may be. Yes?”

“Yes,” Josephine whispered and stepped resolutely to the podium. The number of eyes staring back at her seemed to double. “Friends and fellow compatriots, I should feel exceedingly diffident to stand before you today as I am wholly unaccustomed to public speaking, but—”

“Then best learn your place and get back in the kitchen!” a young man close to the front called out. The men around him snickered, and a satisfied grin split his face.

“But,” Josephine continued, “I am driven by a moral sense of right and duty to speak to you today. To all of you, regardless of lack of decency—or intellect.” She drove a brief but well-aimed look at the young man whose grin swiftly faded.

“The time is long past for the question of woman’s wrongs to be laid before the public, and women alone can understand the length and breadth of that degradation.

We must speak for ourselves. We cannot depend on men to take up our cause.

Because they have been educated to believe themselves far superior. No, we—”

“That’s because we are superior, you dim-witted . . .”

The derogatory name he used drew gasps, but his brazenness only emboldened her, especially as she looked into the faces of women who had become the sisters she’d never had. Sarah, especially, who stood near the front, her confident nod fueling Josephine’s determination.

“In this gathering today are women who have endured beatings by drunken fathers and husbands. Women abused by men given to heavy drink. Property rightfully theirs by God’s moral law has been stolen and squandered, while others have been left to starve, along with their children, as wages meant for sustenance are frittered away on alcohol.

Some women in our midst have been burned in effigy for daring to state that a woman is equal to a man, and that she should be treated as such in the eyes of the law.

” She looked at Miss Anthony, thinking of all she and her compatriot, the late Elizabeth Cady Stanton, had endured.

“Our motto has been and always will be: ‘Men their rights and nothing more; women their rights and nothing less.’ So together with you, we, as the next generation, firmly take hold of the baton passed to us and vow to—”

Something struck her in the chest. And splattered.

The rank odor registered first, then the rancid taste in her mouth.

Wiping her lips, she looked down to see the broken eggshell.

The cocky smirk of the younger man who’d earlier yelled the obscenity identified him as the instigator.

But it was the little girl a few feet in front of him, no more than seven or eight years old, who drew Josephine’s full attention.

The child clutched a young woman’s hand and stared wide-eyed at Josephine.

In a blink, the tug of childhood wounds and years spent attempting to be enough threatened to undermine Josephine’s confidence.

But she refused to give in—to such a man, and to the cruel patriarchy he represented in the majority of men she’d known.

While she’d never endured a physical beating from her father or any other man, she understood paternal authority only too well.

And she still struggled to understand why some women, especially mothers with children, who suffered continual abuse from such men, didn’t seek to leave at all costs.

Some did and paid dearly—but in the end, they were free.

Others seemed paralyzed, unable to take that next step. Why, she would never know.

Of all the men in her life, only one had truly acknowledged her worth—her equality . . . Todd.

Her brother had been her dearest friend and closest confidant. While she’d realized early on that having a twin brother was special, she hadn’t known how lonely the world would be without him. Until a handful of months later when the world had shown her what lonely really was.

“As is so evident today,” she continued, drawing courage from Todd’s memory, “we cannot and must not depend upon the protection of man. Yes, some men have chosen to support our cause and for that we are most grateful. But they are few and greatly outnumbered. Instead, woman must be taught to protect herself. And the best way to protect women and children is not by trying to change men, but by giving women the right to participate in making the laws. And by granting them the right to vote!”

“Here, here!” women yelled, waving their placards high and chanting, “Votes for women! Votes for women! Votes for women!”

Resolution coursed through her. “Here we take our stand!” she shouted over the hubbub. “And here we shall remain unmoved until the time women are granted every right that men have so generously granted to themselves since the beginning of—”

The object registered in her peripheral vision, but she couldn’t react quickly enough. The rock struck her in the right temple, and she staggered back, dazed. Miss Anthony rushed to her side, followed by another fellow member.

“Miss Dunham, are you all right?” Miss Anthony’s arm came around her shoulder.

“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.