“Believable and bittersweet…The author’s style drew me in from the start with its spare elegance.” Char Jones, The Literary Redhead
She is going to be the greatest orator of the Civil War.
Eighteen-year-old abolitionist Anna Dickinson is nothing like the women around her, and she knows it. Gifted with a powerful voice, a razor-sharp wit, and unbounded energy, the diminutive curlyhead sets out to surpass the men of her day as she speaks out against injustice. Only two things that can bring her downfall—the entangling love she has for her devoted companion, Julia, and an assassin’s bullet.
Former mill girl, Julia Pennington fights her growing attraction to the fiery orator while protecting her from the onslaught of the press. When a vengeful reporter sets out to assassinate Anna, Julia must risk her life to save the woman she loves.
Book 1 in the Forgotten Women Series
Loosely based on the life of forgotten orator, feminist, and lesbian, Anna Dickinson, That Dickinson Girl is the story of one woman’s rise to fame and fortune at the expense of love during the political and social turmoil of the American Civil War.
Anna Dickinson, like Icarus, soared high for quite a while but after rumors and innuendos shadowed her name, she plummeted from the clouds in the annals of history. Again, Ms Koster’s passion for bringing Anna to life, as well as the fictional account of Julia’s life, is quite evident in the narrative. D. K. Marley, Historical Fiction Company
Recognition for That Dickinson Girl
Finalist in the 2022 Romance through the Ages Contest
An early version of That Dickinson Girl long-listed in the Mslexia Novel Competition.
“The author took a non- fictional character from a difficult time in history and created a relatable and tear- jerking story.” Jayy Jacobs, Beta reader
Read an Excerpt of That Dickinson Girl
Chapter 1
Julia Pennington glanced at her sister, shivering in the chilly February dawn. Her washed, thin cotton dress was better suited to the heat of a Philadelphia summer, her coat outgrown years ago. Julia would do anything for her, even wait in the frosty shadows for politicians to spout idiocies. But they risked illness by standing here, and they couldn’t afford that.
She touched Gracie’s arm. “Lincoln’s late, and you’re cold. I say we go.”
Her sister brushed her hand away. “No, I want to hear what he has to say; find out if he will be a President we can trust. Someone who’ll do what’s right for this country.” Gracie rose on her tiptoes and peered over the shoulders of the two carters in front of them, their mud-splashed coats stiff in the cold. “Shouldn’t be much longer—the militia is clearing a space around the platform.”
Julia’s empty stomach grumbled. “We can read his speech in the paper tomorrow.”
“That’s not the same. Newsmen twist the truth of things. I need to hear the words from the President-elect’s own lips.”
“Well, let’s pray he arrives soon. I can’t bear to see you shivering so. Here.” She pulled off her shawl and draped the tattered woolen several times around Gracie’s neck, tucking the fringe inside the coat front in a futile attempt to shield her from the raw wind gusting between the buildings surrounding Independence Square. “Stand close to me. We’ll keep each other warm.”
Julia snuggled her sister’s bone-thin body under her arm and resolved to flirt back the next time Richard Tucker stopped to inspect her loom and leaned in too close, no matter that the idea of marriage turned her stomach. Not all men were like her father.
Cold slithered down her neck and seeped beneath her stays. Overhead, the sky lightened, and the first rays of the sun struck the cupola of Independence Hall. She wrapped her arms tightly around the person whom she loved most in the world and waited as bright fingers of warmth inched closer, chasing away the long indigo shadows of the night and illuminating the wispy exhalations of broken-backed laborers and slump-shouldered clerks, hovering freedmen and posturing merchants, hoop-skirted housewives and nimble-fingered beggars, all come to celebrate the twenty-ninth anniversary of Washington’s birthday and to calculate the worth of their new leader-in-chief.
Finally, sunlight splashed over her, but it did nothing to relieve the cold inside. She nuzzled her chin in Gracie’s hair, soft and fine as cotton sliver, and inhaled the fresh, buttery scent of childhood that clung, despite the years of hard living.
Her sister deserved more than a bleak future working for pennies in the mill, inhaling the lint and dust that had stolen their mother’s breath and laid her in a Potter’s Field. It was time to stop waiting for ghosts to come to their rescue.
Gracie would finish school and go on to medical college, even if it meant Julia must marry a man she could never love. She’d promised her mother to care for her sister, no matter what, and she kept her promises.
She tugged her sister closer and whispered in her ear, “I’ve been thinking. I want you to stay in school. Finish out the year and apply to the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania, like Mama wanted.”
Gracie jerked away. “What? That’s impossible. The college charges tuition. And there’s the books. And the carfare. We can’t afford that on what you earn. We barely survive now.” She tucked her hands into her sleeves and tipped up her chin. “I’m nearly seventeen; older than you when you quit school and started working. It’s not the end of the world. You do it. Mama did it.”
“It killed Mama.”
“Mama was already sick when Papa abandoned us. I’m strong and healthy.”
“So am I, but a body can’t do that work forever. The noise is deafening. Fingers get crushed every day. You suck in cotton until every breath is agony. There’s no future in it. Listen, all I am asking is for you to graduate and then apply. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a turn of luck. At worst, with a diploma from Girls’ High, you could teach.”
Gracie looked at her. “Oh, Julia, I can hear your stomach growling. If you get any thinner, you’ll disappear. It’s not worth being hungry.” She held out her hands, the fingertips reddened from the cold, and studied them. “Mama always said I’ve the healing touch, but I can do any work I set my mind to.” She dropped them to her sides. “Not all dreams come true. Not Mama’s. Not Papa’s. So, why mine? Anyway, if someone’s dream ought to come true, it should be yours. You’ve sacrificed too much for my schooling already.”
Julia untied her bonnet ribbons then retied them tighter. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have no dreams.”
“Those were merely lies, then, that you whispered in my ear at night when we were growing up? To help free the slaves? Start a school? Recompense for Papa’s foul deed?”
“I was a child.” Julia pushed away the memory of her father reading to her the adventures of The Swiss Family Robinson and The Three Musketeers. That coddled child had thought the world full of heroes, heroines, and happy endings. She’d never imagined she’d be forced to drop out of school to care for a dying mother and a twelve-year-old sister.
A lump gathered in the back of her throat, bitter and thick with the dregs of the mill.
A Black laundress stood in front of her, clad in a stained dress, the cloth threadbare across the shoulders, the hem unraveled. The woman’s hands, cracked and raw, slid up and down her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself.
Julia swallowed hard. She had no right to complain. Life could be much worse. And soon, it would be better.
She turned back to her sister. “The floor manager’s sweet on me. I’m thinking he might propose.”
Gracie popped her head up. “Propose? You have a beau and never told me?” She grabbed Julia’s hands and squeezed. “Finally, my sister in love.”
Julia yanked herself away. “It’s not like that.”
Gracie’s smile disappeared. “Not like what?”
“Like a Southworth romance. Like those sonnets of Browning’s you’re always reading.”
Gracie pursed her lips. “Marriage is forever. There has to be love.”
“Don’t be naïve. Richard Tucker’s an upstanding man with a good income. He’ll take care of us. That’s all that matters.”
“I see.” Gracie moved away and kicked at a clump of frozen grass. “Another sacrifice so I can finish school and become a doctor.”
“A doctor? A noble ambition,” a woman said, filling the yawning space between them like a shadow that the sun had forgotten.
Julia eyed the intruder. Half a head shorter, more girl than woman, she wore a drab dress under a plain cloak. No ribbon or jewel relieved the narrow white collar. No ruffle or crinoline spoiled the fall of the skirt. Her upright stance and the quality of cloth reeked of the morality and righteousness Julia knew all too well. A Quaker, for sure.
Their eyes met. She glimpsed a smooth cheek and long; dark lashes; a wide, smiling mouth; and a square chin partially hidden beneath black curls cut so short that she could see the girl’s neck peeking above the stiff collar, pink as the dawn-tinted clouds. She wanted to rest her palm on that vulnerable bit of skin, pull her close, and steal her warmth.
Julia pressed the pendant she hid beneath her dress, the sting of cold metal against her racing heart suitable punishment for her wayward thoughts.
The stranger lifted her skirt and gave a sideways bow like an actress at the Arch Theater. “Anna Dickinson, at your service.” She swung her attention to Gracie. “And who is this who wants to become a doctor?”
Julia twisted her fingers in the faded ribbon of her bonnet and stifled the impulse to drag Gracie away. Her independent sister would hate that. Besides, it didn’t matter; Little Miss Quaker would be gone as soon as she heard their last name. Every member of the Society of Friends knew the sordid tale of the man who’d stolen money from Arch Street Meeting.
Her sister stuck out her hand. “Gracie Pennington.”
Julia waited for the girl’s smile to fade and that oh-so-respectable personage to flee.
Instead, the Quaker wrapped both hands around Gracie’s and smiled. A do-gooder then, set on some charitable work for a ragged schoolgirl with aspirations beyond her station in life. Julia knew where that would end.
She stepped closer. “And I’m Julia. Julia Pennington.”
“Ah yes, the vigilant older sister. Don’t worry; I won’t steal her.” She tapped Gracie on the nose. “So, what’s stopping you from pursuing an illustrious medical career?”
Gracie toyed with the unraveling fringe of the shawl. “We’ve no money—”
“Is that all?” the girl said. “A mere pebble in your road, my child. If you truly want something, you’ll find a way, no matter how many pebbles and rocks they throw at you. We make our own chances in life. Takes hard work, though. A medical degree requires a mind sharper than a milliner’s needle.”
Pebbles? Julia scrutinized the thick weave of the girl’s woolen cloak and the toe of the polished half-boot poking out from under her skirts. Little Miss Quaker had to be younger than Julia’s own nineteen years. What experience did this privileged girl have ducking pebbles or piercing cloth with a needle?
She yanked on the interloper’s sleeve. “Gracie’s top of her class. She doesn’t need a busy-body do-gooder sticking her nose into something she doesn’t know beans about. She’s not your child. She’s my sister. I take care of her.”
The girl ran a finger down the frayed collar of Gracie’s too-small coat. “Well then, that is a shame. Makes me want to weep, seeing ambition denied”—the corners of her mouth turned up—“by beans.”
Julia latched on to her sister’s arm. “Leave her alone. Go do … whatever you do. We don’t want trouble.”
The girl laughed. “But trouble is my middle name.”
“That Dickinson Girl depicts the Abolition movement as it probably actually was, with factions not always in agreement and supporters with their share of human failings. On the one hand is the undeniable truth that slavery would not have been ended without the Civil War; on the other is the tragedy of men persuaded to fight that war by sometimes specious oratory. There are no absolutes here, though there is a villain and also a love story. It’s an interesting and unusual look at a period which rarely gets a clear-eyed examination in a novel.” Kathleen Buckley, historical fiction author