A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions

by Sheena Boekweg

Genres: Young Adult; YA Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A teen girl, backed by a secret society of powerful women, competes to make an 18-year-old future President fall in love with her in Sheena Boekweg's compelling new YA novel, A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions.

Behind every powerful man is a trained woman, and behind every trained woman is the Society. It started with tea parties and matchmaking, but is now a countrywide secret. Gossips pass messages in recipes, Spinsters train to fight, and women work together to grant safety to abused women and children. The Society is more than oaths—it is sisterhood and purpose.

In 1926, seventeen-year-old Elsie is dropped off in a new city with four other teenage girls. All of them have trained together since childhood to become the Wife of a powerful man. But when they learn that their next target is earmarked to become President, their mission becomes more than just an assignment; this is a chance at the most powerful position in the Society. A life more influential than they had ever before dared to dream possible. All they have to do is make one man fall in love with them first.

Release date: June 1, 2021

Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

Print pages: 346

Sample

CHAPTER ONE


A storm cloud rumbled above the rooftops, the salted wind tossing a newspaper across an empty street as we parked the Model A two block away from our target—the house at 127 Adams Street. In the seat next to mine, Mira clenched the steering wheel so tightly she creased her leather driving gloves. Well, mine actually. She’d borrowed those gloves from me. But I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

There wasn’t supposed to be a car in the driveway.

I folded the advert in fourths. The coded message clearly stated it was only supposed to be a Chat, an assessment of the safety of the family who lived at 127 Adams. We’d done those plenty of times before.

Behind me, Bea cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should notify the Matrons?”

Thunder rumbled above us.

The Matrons were the leaders of our society, but this was just one car, and one man. There were five of us, and we’d been trained.

“There’s no call for that,” I said. “The advert said the Spinsters and Gossips are watching our backs. One quick Chat and we’ll be home before supper.”

“Meadow Lark?” Iris suggested. She was the Spinster assigned for up-close protection for this assignment, and a dear friend whose usual smiling eyes were focused and deadly as she scanned the street.

I bit my lip. Meadow Lark was a reliable plan, but with children in the home … “That could get messy. We need eyes closer. It’ll have to be Saint Sebastian.”

“Do you think this is a test, Elsie?” Bea asked. With her wide brown eyes she looked younger than she was; her brown hair longer than was fashionable, tucked in two braids, freckles across her upturned nose. A stray shadow darkened her plump cheeks. “Ada told me—”

“Ada was just trying to get under your collar,” Mira said. “I’m glad that milquetoast’s married and minding her own beeswax.”

“Watch your slang,” Greta said in the back seat, squashed nearly against the window as though she thought poor was catching. With her blond curls combed out, she looked like a sunflower or a movie starlet; either way she followed the light and the light loved her back. She stared out the window like she was bored. “It’s unladylike.”

“Yes, Mother,” Mira, Bea, and I muttered in unison. At twenty-two, Greta was the oldest of us Wives-to-be, and we never let her forget it.

I stared at the house beyond the car as if wishing this would go well would make it so.

Mira let go of the steering wheel. “I say we blow the house up and go find a soda fountain.”

Bea pressed her palms together. “Or a bakery.”

Mira grinned back. “Wouldn’t pie be luxurious?”

“Oh pie,” I squealed

“There are children in there,” Greta said with genuine concern.

I fought a laugh. Greta didn’t always understand our sense of humor. I reached over the seat and tapped her knee. “You’re right. I guess explosions aren’t the answer this time.”

“One day they will be.” Mira pulled off my gloves and adjusted her short hair in the rearview mirror. “And I’ll be ready.” Mira was the bravest of us, the first to adopt the garçonne fashions, the first to bob her hair. She wore trousers, a collared shirt and vest, while I stuck to dresses and stockings rolled at my knees. I kept my hair to my shoulders, curled up to be closer to fashionable, while Mira’s dark, slicked-back hair was so short she had the barber take a razor to her neck. Short hair didn’t tend to get stuck in the car engines she liked to tinker with. According to her stories, she’d hot-wired a car, a plane, and the box of explosives they’d used in our training.

But Mira’s stories were fairy tales wilder than the ones I had on my shelves.

“We’re starting to gain attention,” Iris said.

“I’ll act as cover,” Greta said as she opened her door, her bright eyes sparked with worry as she glanced down at her delicate heels. “Those trees will do.”

“I’ve got my work boots in the basket,” Bea offered.

“No offense, Bea,” Greta said with a look, “but I’d rather die than wear boots you wore in a pasture full of cows.”

Mira turned around in her seat. “You can’t just say no offense before you say something really offensive.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Greta quipped back. “Bea’s fine! Aren’t you?”

Bea offered a quick smile and shrug. “Of course.”

“Besides, she knows her station in life, so bringing it up won’t hurt her feelings.”

“No.” Bea’s smile faded. “Not the first time anyway.”

“Greta,” I started.

Greta looked at me like I’d just scolded her. “Well, I’m sorry for speaking the truth. Bea’s family doesn’t have money. We all know it. You three can’t always be so sensitive about everything. She said she was fine.”

“It’s starting to hurt a little, actually,” Bea said. Mira and I glared at Greta.

Greta rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine in my T-straps; thank you kindly for offering what little you have.” She pressed the door open. “If it won’t hurt anyone else’s feelings, I’d like to go climb a tree now.”

I sighed and followed Greta out of the car. We’d parked the Model A under a patch of willow trees, which seemed drenched and drooping already, though the storm hadn’t broken yet. Soon though. Even the air smelled of rain about to fall. I pressed down the silk chiffon of my flower-print day dress to smooth out wrinkles, lowered the brim of my cloche hat to cover my eyes, and adjusted my wool coat. My pearl earrings were too tight, but I tried to ignore the pinch. This wasn’t a neighborhood I’d like to lose an earring in.

Greta opened the basket, looked both ways, and then pulled out her twin-barrel Beretta OVP Modello 1918. The gun was Italian, sleek as a pair of pumps, and could fire over a thousand rounds a minute. Greta was the best shot, so it made sense, in a way, to have her cover our backs, while Iris kept close to handle anything that got past her. Though it felt odd as possible to see the wealthiest of us climb up a tree with a rifle over her shoulder. Maybe it was because Greta and her friends liked to go on and on about how much money their families had, or about how herlast name was on the new wing of the university I was dying to get into, or that my coat was from two seasons ago, and Bea’s was homespun, and Mira’s belonged on an old man, as if that made Greta and her friends better than the rest of us.

I grumbled some of that under my breath, but then I focused on our mission. The line of sight was good from the tree line, only about two hundred yards to the house. I’d seen Greta nail a can from farther.

“We need someone to cover the back route,” Iris said, looking between Mira and Bea.

Mira glanced at Bea and then ducked her chin. “I’ll do it,” Mira said. “Whistle twice and I’ll flash the rescue signal.”