The Strong Girl

By Molly Hurford

In the 1860s, opportunities for a young farm girl on the outskirts of Montreal are slim and 12-year-old Lizzy has two choices: Take an apprenticeship and save her family farm, or run away to save herself from the life that's been decided for her. When the circus comes to town, the choice is easy-but she quickly realizes that no decision is black

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strong Girl Publishing
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781778205774

Molly Hurford

Molly Hurford is the founder of Strong Girl Publishing and has been called a chronic book writer by her friends. She's a journalist by trade, writing and speaking about all things cycling, running, nutrition and movement-related. She's the author of multiple books including 'Fuel Your Ride' and the Shred Girls series. When not actually outside, she's probably writing about being outside and healthy habits of athletes and interviewing world-class athletes and scientists for The Consummate Athlete podcast and website. She runs and rides in Ontario, where she lives with Peter, her husband, and DW, her mini-dachshund, who she definitely used as a character in the Shred Girls books. She's a little obsessed with getting people-especially girls-psyched on adventure and being outside. Those passions combined are what prompted her to start Strong Girl Publishing, in order to reach more young girls and help them find and stay in sports and outdoor adventuring.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I hold my breath, then slowly let it out, surveying the crowd far, far beneath my feet, all waiting, all holding their breath as they watch to see if I’ll fail in front of them. I won’t. I rock back and firth between my heels and the balls of my feel, clench and unclench my fists, and bend my knees slightly. It’s now or never. I raise my right arm, acknowledging the crowd with a wave, giving them a small, smug smile—I know I’m going to nail this trick, and they know it too, even if they’re secretly hoping that I don’t make it.

A whistle pierces the air, and I’m off, running forward on a platform that drops off into space. Three steps, four steps, and then I’m flying, reaching forward, grasping, straining to find purchase on the bar, and then, just as even I think I’m about to crash, I grab it. I’m swinging back and forth, whipping my body up and down as though I’m swinging from a normal swing, but I’m holding on with my hands, and it’s my entire body curving into a C-shape, and then reversing the direction to keep me swinging higher, faster, farther.

I prepare for my greatest trick yet, the double somersault with a standing finish on the landing. A little more height, and I know I’m at the perfect angle. My hands leave the bar and my body flies through the air, completely unencumbered. I tuck my knees into my chest and rotate once, twice.

BAM. I’m no longer airborne, and the wind is knocked out of my lungs.

Luckily, as usual, I’ve crashed directly into a massive hay pile. The crowd goes wild—meaning three chickens flap and cluck and try to flee the barn, and the cow who was grazing at said hay pile gives a sharp, unimpressed moo only inches from my face. And before I can stand up, another face appears above mine, and it looks angry.

Lizzy! my mother shrieks. What on earth do you think you’re doing? She pulls me up and out of the hay, frantically dusting me off. I glance upwards, but the rope ladder has stopped swaying from my efforts and is hanging straight down, looking innocent. There’s a chance that Mother didn’t catch my full act, and just caught me lying down after the jump.

I was supposed to be milking the cow.

I was just taking rest, I say, trying to act nonchalant. I pull some hay out of my hair, hoping she doesn’t notice that I’m sweating and red as well as lazy.

Luckily, she buys it. You’re too old to be acting this irresponsible, she says sternly, and slams the milk bucket into my hands. Bring that in full, and do it fast, before you’re late for breakfast.

She huffs her way out of the barn, snagging eggs from the startled chickens who’ve abandoned their nests, tucking them into her apron front as she goes. And get that hay off of your dress, she calls over her shoulder.

Phew. That was a close call. I do a quick pat down, shaking the hay out from over (and under) my dress, then cautiously stretch to make sure that I didn’t damage anything other than my pride in the fall. Other than a slight sore spot on my hip where I connected with something harder in the hay pile on my landing, I think I’m all right. It might bruise later, but that will just add to the number of bruises that are in various stages of healing all up and down my legs and sides. Thank goodness for long dresses, even in the summer. Being a girl in 1868 might not be particularly, but at least it’s relatively simple to keep some things private.

Before I get back to milking, though, I quickly climb back up to the loft at the top of the barn, and pull the rope ladder back in, securing it to the top of the loft so it’s out of sight. I have a corner tucked away up here, since I’m the only one who bothers visiting this old, rickety section of the barn and it’s my space for my treasures.

With my trapeze-slash-ladder stowed, I quickly look over at the poster that I most recently added to my small collection of belongings. I saw it on my walk into the city to sell a few bundles from our herb garden: A poster for the circus that’s coming to Montreal next week. The poster is in full color, and I felt guilty stealing it from the signboard it was stuck to, but I desperately needed it. The image is of a man lifting up four women perched on a bench, while another woman flies over top of him on a trapeze and another man breathes fire into the word, CIRCUS. It’s the most magical, wonderful thing that I’ve ever seen, especially when I look up close at it. The girl on the trapeze is small and compact, and she’s wearing what looks like a tight bathing costume and nothing else. The drawing shows that she has big arms and legs that look strong, and I can see muscles bulging through the torso of her costume. She’s nearly as muscular as the man who’s lifting the bench, and even though it’s just a drawing, the confidence that comes out of it, from her expression to the way she holds herself, I can tell that she’s completely comfortable—and happy—to be just the way she is.

And when I look over at my other treasure—a shard of a broken mirror that I liberated from a trash pile on the road side last year—I see myself in a new way. The same muscles as the girl in the drawing has are reflected back at me in the looking glass, but for the first time since finding the mirror, after seeing that girl, I no longer see a beast in the glass, I see potential. I see power. I see me.

And that’s why I simply must see this circus when it comes. I have to know if this girl really exists, or if she’s just in the poster. I’ve nailed it to the wall next to the mirror piece, and before I leave it for the day, I easily shove an old chest of drawers that was abandoned up in the attic years ago in front of it. The heavy wood makes it awkward to move, but I won’t risk Father coming up to get something from the loft and finding my things. They’re too precious to be left sitting out in the open, so I push the drawers over to cover them, then head back down to quickly milk the cow. She’s not thrilled about it, but frankly, neither am I, so she’ll just have to live with it.

By the time I bring the milk in, carrying that heavy pail in one hand and another filled with water from the well in the other, I can smell the eggs that Mother has cooked sizzling on the stove with onions from the garden and a pat of fresh butter. I put the milk into the cold box and set the water down on the counter for her before sitting down at the table across from Father, who gives me a nod. There isn’t any bread on the table today, which means he must not have gotten as much as he had hoped on his trip to town to sell some of our vegetables. I know better than to ask—and eggs are plenty for breaking a fast anyway, especially with fresh milk to go along with them.

As usual, breakfast is silent, but at least when we tidy up afterwards, I don’t need to get ready to leave for school. I finished just a couple of weeks ago, and normally, summer is an exciting chance to play in the woods between chores, but right now, I know I’m on a deadline. Father has been working to find me an apprenticeship, since I’ve finished as much school as most girls here get, and I’m waiting to see what my future will look like. It’s weighing heavily on me: They don’t talk about it much, but I’m their only child, and money is in short supply. The farm barely keeps afloat, and I’ve heard them discussing (quietly, so I won’t hear) how they don’t know how much longer they can afford to keep our home. But if I can apprentice with someone who can pay a good wage to them, and I can get a good job afterwards (and marriage, though that thankfully remains unmentioned), the farm may be able to stay in the family. Without that, I don’t think they know what we’ll do.

It’s not exactly a warm notion, the idea that any day now, Father will come home and tell me what the rest of my life will be. And I’ll have little choice in the matter, especially if I want to ensure that our family stays together and keeps our home. The waiting is driving me absolutely bonkers, but at the same time, I’m hoping that the moment never comes. For better or worse, he doesn’t mention it over breakfast, and I don’t bring it up.

After breakfast, I tell Mother I’ll be back to help with more chores later, and I burst out the door and into the sun. I feel like I need to soak up every second that I can of time outside, because I don’t know how much longer it will last. My body feels like it’s constantly buzzing, vibrating with underused energy, and I worry that if this is how I feel now, I’ll be slowly dying if I’m tucked into some small room working on a trade, likely as a seamstress if Father’s offhanded comments about my hemming skills are any indication, sitting for hours each day. In the worst case scenario, I’ll end up working long hours in a mill as a cotton weaver, if Father can’t find an apprenticeship that would suit. I need a way to make it in the world. No matter where I end up, it won’t be free, I won’t be able to roam. That’s my greatest fear. It’s unlikely that I’ll find any other type of work, since it’s rare that girls are put in any kind of position that lets them play and run outside. I don’t have a lot of experience with city life, but whenever we are in Montreal, the streets are crowded and claustrophobic, so much so that even the boys who are allowed to wander the alleys seem like they’re trapped. And it’s rare to see a girl walking or running at all, unless they’re accompanied by a chaperone.

So while I can, I sprint across the field, chasing after the horses that are lazily standing in the meadows, savoring the feeling of wind and sun on my face. My hair streams out behind me and I can practically feel it tangling, but I don’t care. I just need to be moving.

At the edge of our farm’s borders is the dusty road that sees only a little traffic, and today it’s empty as usual, with the exception of the group of four children I recognize from school. As I run, I can see them walking demurely down the road, carrying fishing gear like they’re heading down to the river. I don’t even feel the slightest pang of envy as I watch them talking together though. The idea of sitting all day with a line in the water, waiting for the fish to do something instead of doing something for yourself sounds like misery to me. And I know they just use that as an excuse to sit around and gossip with each other. Still, I don’t begrudge them their summer fun, and I give a friendly wave.

It’s not returned. It never is. Instead, I hear one boy shout, Look at the freak! while one of the girls turns and whispers to the other. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that. For the last three years of school, I’ve been teased mercilessly by them and others. First, it was because I grew taller than the other girls when we were ten years old, and then, as my muscles started to develop, I got bigger too. The other girls in the class are, for the most part, dainty, perfect little girls who look just right in their simple dresses. They may live on farms, but none of them look like they work on farms. And they don’t. Their parents have help, whether from their sons, or from the hired hands that they bring on.

As for me, I do work on the farm, in part because I have to since there are no sons here and in part because I love it. In fact, as I’ve grown, I felt like don’t completely fit in my clothes or my body, and it seems like the undercurrent of energy I’d had since I was little is trying to explode out of me. One boy even challenged me and said I wasn’t a girl at all, which is the one time that I broke down and cried. Luckily, he’s not walking with the group on my road right now, or I would have hidden out of sight. These four aren’t nice, but at least I know what to expect from them. After all, they used to be my best friends, before I started growing and they started to see the difference between us.

When I cried about it to Mother, she hugged me and rocked me, and it was the one time I can recall her getting truly upset, but it didn’t change anything for me at school. It did change things at home, though. She asked if I wanted to stop doing so much work around the farm, thinking that maybe if I focused on the more feminine side of things, like embroidery and knitting, I would feel more like I belonged. But I told her that would only make things worse. Keeping all that energy boxed up, holding back all that movement? It would feel like even more of a trap. I may not want to look different, but I can’t help that I feel different. Mother understood, I think, and she never brought it up again—though it did seem like she started putting more energy into fixing my dresses so they fit just a little bit better, untucking hems and letting out the shoulders as I grew more. But her approval of my continuing to help in the barn helped keep me sane, relieving some of the energetic buildup. Still, watching the group walk merrily down the street towards the fishing spot, I feel a pang of envy. If only I was normal.

Chapter 2

The quiet at breakfast was too good to be true, and I can sense that something is coming as we sit down to dinner after chores are done and I’ve washed up. Mother doesn’t say much, but I can tell by how often she’s glancing between Father and I that she has something on her mind, and so does he.

Good news, Father says, setting down his spoon and looking at me over our dinner. I sit up straighter, even as my heart sinking because I know exactly what this means. I put my spoon down—who can eat when they’re about to hear their future?

What is it? I ask, and hold my breath.

I’ve secured you an apprenticeship in the city, he says. You’ll start on your 13th birthday.

I gulp. That’s so soon. I hoped maybe I would have the summer, at least. Who is it with? I ask. This should be a good thing, I should be pleased: It means I won’t be heading to the mills, like so many other young people my age who don’t have the connections to apprentice with someone in a trade. I should be relieved. Despite these shoulds, I’m anything but. It’s not just a one-year endeavor. Almost always, an apprenticeship means what you’ll be doing for the rest of your life.

The seamstress on the east side of the city, Father says. You’ll be with her for two years, and then you’ll be able to open your own shop, or get a job with any seamstress in the city. It’s a good position.

I don’t know what to say, so I just look down at my plate.

You’ll live with her for the two years, of course, he adds, and my head snaps up.

Live with her? In the city? And not be on the farm? You’re making me leave? I suppose I knew this was coming, but at the same time, it still stings. The city is intriguing, and it could be a grand adventure, but a position like that, and living with the woman I’ll be apprenticing under, means I won’t be enjoying the city. I’ll be lucky if I have enough space to have a bed to myself, and I’ll have a chaperone at all times. There won’t be space to run or roam, nor will there be time to explore.

It’s too far away for you to go back and forth between here and there, Father says. It will be long hours, and you’ll be too tired to make your way home every day. And I bet you won’t even want to—you’ll be having so much fun living in the city. He adds this last bit like he’s trying to convince himself, but even I can tell he knows that’s a hollow claim.

This is what any girl in your position needs to do, Mother says, trying to sooth both of us. It will go by quickly, and you can still visit us here.

I don’t want to visit, I want to stay! I say, feeling tearful and desperate. The walls are closing in: I won’t be able to run or jump or fly anymore, my wings will be clipped and I’ll be in a small apartment with an old woman, pricking my fingers hundreds of times each day on a needle or pins, being shouted at by the upper class young women who come through looking for ball gowns, forced to help discuss ribbons and lace and feathers. I won’t be able to get dirty, to play in the forest, to run in the fields. I’ll be trapped. I know this is normal, but instead of feeling like the right next step, it feels like death.

I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s happening, Father says. There aren’t many positions available for a girl like you. He stands up from the table.

You will start the day after your birthday, he adds as he leaves the room. Mother doesn’t say anything, just starts collecting the dishes.

I need some air, may I be excused? I say, though I’m raging inside and want to scream and shout and throw things. She nods, and won’t meet my eyes. Before I slip out the door, I hear her start to ask Father about if the city really is safe for a young girl to live—even with a reputable woman. After all, she did just read a headline about a pack of jewel thieves that are still on the loose in Toronto. What if there’s worse in Montreal? I hear him murmur back, reassuring her that I’ll be fine. I’m not worried about my safety. I’m worried about my sanity. The house seems stifling, like the walls are closing in, and I have to get out.

Once I’m outside, I pause in the backyard, drawing in deep breaths of the fresh air. The sky is gray and it looks like it may rain at any point. I don’t care. The heavy feeling of a storm brewing matches my mood perfectly, and I start walking towards the field. As I get closer to where our single horse is standing patiently, I start to speed up, first walking quickly, then slowly building into a run. I can feel my breath speeding up, I can feel my muscles start to work and then to burn. As I past our horse, I hear him let out a snort, and then start to trot along beside me. He matches my pace, and I speed up more. So does he. He’s not quite at a full gallop, but he’s cantering along beside me, as though I’m his long-lost pony friend and he’s been just waiting for me to come out to play. Despite everything, I feel a smile coming over my face, and as I breathe heavily, feeling my heart pound in unison with my footsteps, we get closer to the dirt road that passes our farm on the way into the city.

This time, though, there’s not a group of children walking by. Instead, I notice a trail of brightly colored wagons and nearly come to a stop: This must be the circus, the one from my poster, on its way to the city! Instead of stopping to watch from a distance, I start to sprint along faster, as fast as my legs will go, working my way across the field diagonally so I can get a closer look at the wagons—maybe I’ll see the strong man up close, or maybe the acrobats will be jumping between the carriages, flipping through the air.

I get closer and closer, and catch up to the last carriage on the road. Our horse whines next to me, like he’s urging me to speed up to see what’s ahead. I let loose completely, and with my arms pumping, skirts and hair flying in a trail behind me, we start edging up past the blue carriage with a painting of a fortune teller on it, we pass the carriage that has a painting of