Excerpt
Chapter 1: Who Was Emmeline?
The wind in Manchester had a way of tugging at coats and sneaking into boots. But Emmeline Goulden didn’t mind. Even as a young girl, she liked the feeling of walking quickly through the chilly streets, her thoughts moving just as fast. There was always something to think about, something to wonder. Her mind buzzed with questions most kids didn’t ask. Why do some people sleep in warm beds while others shiver on stone steps? Why are boys allowed to say more in school? Why do the rules never seem fair?
She didn’t talk much in class, but she noticed everything.
The Goulden house was always busy. Emmeline’s parents had a lot of children—ten in all—but the house never felt quiet or ordinary. Her father was full of strong opinions and her mother had a mind sharp enough to slice through any argument. Conversations at the dinner table could start with how someone’s day went and end in a heated discussion about what needed to change in the country. Grown-up words like “justice” and “reform” were tossed around like spoons.
Sometimes, when her younger siblings were playing, Emmeline would listen in as her parents talked with visitors about politics. She didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough. Her father believed in fairness. Her mother believed that girls should have every right boys did. Nobody told Emmeline to believe those things. She just did.
Books lined the walls in the house. Big, heavy books with gold letters and tiny ones with pages curled at the corners. Emmeline read as many as she could. Her favorites weren’t fairy tales. They were real stories—stories about brave people who stood up against unfairness, who didn’t wait for someone to give them permission to speak. She loved stories where the hero didn’t wear armor or carry a sword but used words and ideas instead.
Even though she was young, Emmeline had a kind of seriousness about her. Teachers noticed. She didn’t giggle during lessons or doodle in the margins. She raised her hand when it mattered. She asked the kind of questions that made the classroom go quiet. Once, during a history lesson, the teacher said women in the past had always stayed home because they didn’t want to be involved in politics. Emmeline frowned. Her hand shot up. “How do you know they didn’t want to?” she asked. The teacher didn’t have an answer.
That night, Emmeline asked her mother why women weren’t allowed to vote. Her mother didn’t laugh or brush it off. She looked her daughter straight in the eye and said, “That’s one of the biggest problems in the world today. But it won’t stay that way forever.”
That sentence stuck. It turned into something heavy that Emmeline carried with her, but not in a bad way. It gave her purpose. It made her feel like there was something waiting for her to do—something big. She didn’t know yet what it was, but it was out there.
She was eleven when her parents took her to her first public meeting. It was about women’s rights, and the hall was crowded. The speaker stood on a wooden platform, her voice loud and clear. She talked about laws that didn’t make sense and how women were treated like they didn’t matter. Emmeline’s hands clenched in her lap. Not because she was nervous—because she was angry. Angry in a sharp, focused way. She didn’t want to grow up in a world where those things were still true.
When the meeting ended, her parents talked excitedly with friends about what they had heard. Emmeline didn’t say much. She was thinking again. But later that night, when her little sisters were asleep and the house had quieted down, she whispered to herself, “I’ll help change that.” It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No lightning. No big music. Just a quiet promise that she tucked into the back of her mind.
School was easy for her, but she didn’t love it. Girls weren’t expected to go very far with education back then. They learned enough to be polite and proper, but not enough to lead, or change laws, or stand in front of crowds. Emmeline wanted more. She wanted to know everything boys were allowed to learn. Her mother encouraged her to study, to read more, to think critically. She never said, “That’s not for girls.” Not once.
Sometimes, when Emmeline looked out the window of her classroom, she didn’t see trees or carriages passing by. She saw people who had no voice. She saw rules that were written without asking half the population what they thought. She saw unfairness sitting in plain sight, and she wondered why so many people acted like it wasn’t there.
One afternoon, walking home from the grocer’s with her mother, they passed a factory. Women and girls came out with their heads down, hands rough from work. Their clothes were thin, their feet tired. Emmeline stared. She asked her mother why those girls had to work all day while others—like her—got to go to school. Her mother’s answer was short: “That’s something else we need to fix.”
As Emmeline grew older, she began noticing even more. Not just the big problems, but the small ones that added up. When a man interrupted her mother mid-sentence, and no one said anything. When newspapers ignored what women had to say. When she overheard someone laugh at the idea of a woman giving a speech in public.
She stored all of it like puzzle pieces. Her mind was always working, even when she didn’t realize it.
There was a fire starting in her—a quiet one at first. It didn’t look like yelling or stomping. It looked like reading late at night by candlelight. It looked like asking questions grown-ups weren’t used to answering. It looked like walking a little taller when someone tried to talk over her.
Manchester could be a noisy place—factories clanking, horses clopping, men shouting deals in the market. But inside her, something different was starting to grow. Not noise. Not confusion. A kind of stillness. A kind of strength. The kind that doesn’t go away when things get hard. The kind that builds, step by step, until one day it turns into action.
The wind in Manchester had a way of tugging at coats and sneaking into boots. But Emmeline Goulden didn’t mind. Even as a young girl, she liked the feeling of walking quickly through the chilly streets, her thoughts moving just as fast. There was always something to think about, something to wonder. Her mind buzzed with questions most kids didn’t ask. Why do some people sleep in warm beds while others shiver on stone steps? Why are boys allowed to say more in school? Why do the rules never seem fair?
She didn’t talk much in class, but she noticed everything.
The Goulden house was always busy. Emmeline’s parents had a lot of children—ten in all—but the house never felt quiet or ordinary. Her father was full of strong opinions and her mother had a mind sharp enough to slice through any argument. Conversations at the dinner table could start with how someone’s day went and end in a heated discussion about what needed to change in the country. Grown-up words like “justice” and “reform” were tossed around like spoons.
Sometimes, when her younger siblings were playing, Emmeline would listen in as her parents talked with visitors about politics. She didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough. Her father believed in fairness. Her mother believed that girls should have every right boys did. Nobody told Emmeline to believe those things. She just did.
Books lined the walls in the house. Big, heavy books with gold letters and tiny ones with pages curled at the corners. Emmeline read as many as she could. Her favorites weren’t fairy tales. They were real stories—stories about brave people who stood up against unfairness, who didn’t wait for someone to give them permission to speak. She loved stories where the hero didn’t wear armor or carry a sword but used words and ideas instead.
Even though she was young, Emmeline had a kind of seriousness about her. Teachers noticed. She didn’t giggle during lessons or doodle in the margins. She raised her hand when it mattered. She asked the kind of questions that made the classroom go quiet. Once, during a history lesson, the teacher said women in the past had always stayed home because they didn’t want to be involved in politics. Emmeline frowned. Her hand shot up. “How do you know they didn’t want to?” she asked. The teacher didn’t have an answer.
That night, Emmeline asked her mother why women weren’t allowed to vote. Her mother didn’t laugh or brush it off. She looked her daughter straight in the eye and said, “That’s one of the biggest problems in the world today. But it won’t stay that way forever.”
That sentence stuck. It turned into something heavy that Emmeline carried with her, but not in a bad way. It gave her purpose. It made her feel like there was something waiting for her to do—something big. She didn’t know yet what it was, but it was out there.
She was eleven when her parents took her to her first public meeting. It was about women’s rights, and the hall was crowded. The speaker stood on a wooden platform, her voice loud and clear. She talked about laws that didn’t make sense and how women were treated like they didn’t matter. Emmeline’s hands clenched in her lap. Not because she was nervous—because she was angry. Angry in a sharp, focused way. She didn’t want to grow up in a world where those things were still true.
When the meeting ended, her parents talked excitedly with friends about what they had heard. Emmeline didn’t say much. She was thinking again. But later that night, when her little sisters were asleep and the house had quieted down, she whispered to herself, “I’ll help change that.” It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No lightning. No big music. Just a quiet promise that she tucked into the back of her mind.
School was easy for her, but she didn’t love it. Girls weren’t expected to go very far with education back then. They learned enough to be polite and proper, but not enough to lead, or change laws, or stand in front of crowds. Emmeline wanted more. She wanted to know everything boys were allowed to learn. Her mother encouraged her to study, to read more, to think critically. She never said, “That’s not for girls.” Not once.
Sometimes, when Emmeline looked out the window of her classroom, she didn’t see trees or carriages passing by. She saw people who had no voice. She saw rules that were written without asking half the population what they thought. She saw unfairness sitting in plain sight, and she wondered why so many people acted like it wasn’t there.
One afternoon, walking home from the grocer’s with her mother, they passed a factory. Women and girls came out with their heads down, hands rough from work. Their clothes were thin, their feet tired. Emmeline stared. She asked her mother why those girls had to work all day while others—like her—got to go to school. Her mother’s answer was short: “That’s something else we need to fix.”
As Emmeline grew older, she began noticing even more. Not just the big problems, but the small ones that added up. When a man interrupted her mother mid-sentence, and no one said anything. When newspapers ignored what women had to say. When she overheard someone laugh at the idea of a woman giving a speech in public.
She stored all of it like puzzle pieces. Her mind was always working, even when she didn’t realize it.
There was a fire starting in her—a quiet one at first. It didn’t look like yelling or stomping. It looked like reading late at night by candlelight. It looked like asking questions grown-ups weren’t used to answering. It looked like walking a little taller when someone tried to talk over her.
Manchester could be a noisy place—factories clanking, horses clopping, men shouting deals in the market. But inside her, something different was starting to grow. Not noise. Not confusion. A kind of stillness. A kind of strength. The kind that doesn’t go away when things get hard. The kind that builds, step by step, until one day it turns into action.