Our heartfelt thanks to the Coffee Pot Book Club for selecting Feisty Deeds: Historical Fictions of Daring Women as the Gold Medal winner for Anthology Book of the Year, 2024.
Feisty Deeds is a collection of short stories by twenty-three authors. The stories are set in diverse periods and locations, from the fifteenth to the mid-twentieth centuries and from North America to Europe and Asia. They they all feature narratives of women who find themselves in situations that call for resistance, rebellion, stealth, or confrontation.
The anthology was conceived during weekly online discussions among members of the Women’s Historical Fiction group, an informal network of writers who are also members of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. While our novels are set in times and places that vary across history and the globe, all of us are intrigued with the possibilities of exploring the past by means of historical fiction. Both the diversity of our specialties and our mutual interest in women’s lives in times gone by led to the idea of assembling some of our short stories in a single volume. Five of us volunteered to spearhead the project; we are both editors and contributors to the volume. A complete list of contributors appears at the end of this post.
To tempt you to read Feisty Deeds, we append two excerpts from the volume. These are from the first and last stories that “bookend” the collection, and we hope you will read everything that comes between as well. The first is set in nineteenth century England, the second in mid-twentieth century California.
From “The Deadly Portrait” by Nina Wachsman
Suffolk, England, 10 May, 1853
My precious paint box in one hand, I was prepared to exit, when the carriage door banged open. My way was blocked by a young woman in a smart dark green travel hat.
“Excuse me,” I said, and when she did not move, I repeated again, in a louder voice.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and when she turned her full face to me, it was lovely. Her blue eyes opened wide, as if she was wondering who I was and why I was addressing her.
I gestured towards the door, “If you are coming in, perhaps you could do so with more alacrity, as I must depart before the train does.”
Her mouth formed a great round circle, as she uttered another, “Oh!”
Really! Annoyance must have been evident on my face, for she moved quickly aside, allowing me to descend. I was straightening my skirts and hat, when suddenly I was shoved aside, my paintbox flying from my grasp. Fortunately, it landed a few feet away, on the platform, and I was able to retrieve it without incident. When I turned round again to see who had been responsible for such behavior, I was witness to the disturbing scene of two men pulling the young lady from the compartment I had just abandoned. She clung to the door, but when the conductor passed by without comment or interference, she let go, and allowed herself to be ushered off the train by her assailants, like a wilted flower.
Inside, my blood boiled, but I reined in my feelings, as I always do. After all, it was no concern of mine. I had come to this bustling town on my own business, and though I was reluctant to take up this commission, I had no chance of refusing it.
“Excuse me, Miss, are you for Oakhaven?” asked an older grizzled gray man, standing before me with hat in hand.
At my acknowledgement, he placed the gray hat back on his head and attempted to take my paintbox, but I clutched it to my chest. “No, I shall retain this one, but you may see the porter for the rest of my luggage.”
Tipping his hat to me, he pointed out a black carriage, emblazoned with an impressive crest, to which I made haste.
Such was the inauspicious beginnings of my commission for the Earl of ________, which ended in a murder, that for once, I did not commit.
***
From “The Last Bus to Bakersfield” by Julie Mayerson Brown
Sacramento, California, 1958
The teller cast a concerned eye at my withdrawal slip. “Are you intending to close the account, Mrs. Burke?”
“No, I just want to withdraw the balance.” I clasped my hands to hide their shaking.
There was a total of $286 in the account, most of it earned by me taking in neighbors’ mending and working as a salesgirl in a dress shop downtown. There would have been twice that if not for my husband throwing our money away at bars and card clubs.
My mother had warned me about him. But back then, five years ago, I was twenty-eight and nearing spinsterhood. Roy was my last chance, and he did have a few good qualities—decent looks, a nice apartment, and a stable job with the utility company. And he was fun, too, even sweet sometimes. But my mother sensed he wasn’t what she called husband material. If she were still alive, I’d tell her she was right.
“In order to keep the account open, you need to leave a minimum of two dollars.” The teller, Mrs. Mayhew, remained expressionless. “Bank policy.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fine.” I wasn’t about to argue with bank policy.
“It’s also policy to require the primary account holder’s signature for a withdrawal of this size.” She paused and cocked her head. “Perhaps we should give Mr. Burke a call.”
My stomach churned. If I didn’t win over the skeptical teller, it would be the end of my meticulous plan. “My husband works nights and sleeps all day. I can’t begin to tell you how ugly it gets when his sleep is disturbed.”
Mrs. Mayhew’s mouth tightened. Traces of orange lipstick bled into the lines above her upper lip. My appeal to her as a fellow woman wasn’t working. I smoothed the front of my blue dress and straightened my bucket hat atop my brown curls. I hated to ruffle anyone’s feathers, but I had no choice. Spending one more day with a man whose violent temper had rendered me bruised and broken in body and spirt would destroy me.
“Is that your supervisor, Mrs. Mayhew?” I gestured toward a man in a brown suit who was shouting into the phone, scattering every employee within earshot. “Why don’t I speak with him?”
Well, that did the trick. Her superiority withered like a thirsty houseplant.
“No need to bother him, Mrs. Burke. Your name is on the account, after all. So, I can make an exception this one time.”
One time is all I need, I thought.
“As long as the amount withdrawn is only half of the account balance.”
I clenched my fists, wishing I could unleash my fury. How dare she hold my money hostage! But self-control was essential, even if it meant only partial success. “Half is fine,” I said, feigning satisfaction.
The teller opened her drawer and counted the bills. “Here you are, one hundred forty-three dollars.”
“Thank you.” I tucked the money into my purse and walked toward the exit, my sensible heels clicking on the tile floor. I was one step closer to freedom.
