Mining for Justice

by Kathleen Ernst

  “Go cool off in the creek,” Mary suggested. “Just stay where I can see you.”

  Ida raced from the cottage. Mary stepped to the open door and watched her wade into the creek, skirt held to her knees.

  “Miss Mary!”

  Mary turned and waved to the familiar figure leading his mule down the lane.

  “Good day!” he greeted her, as he always did. “Jago Green, wood jowster, at your service. Dry wood and fair prices.”

  “I am in need,” Mary told him. “For my first hearth fire.”

  “This is your home now?” Jago surveyed the cottage appreciatively. “It’s fine.”

  He unloaded and stacked the wood. After paying him, Mary handed him a slice of bread smeared with wild raspberry jam.

  “Delicious,” he decreed, offering his infectious grin. “How about a portrait today? To celebrate your new home.”

  Mary shook her head, as she always did when Jago asked. “I’ve no spare money for such a vanity.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Jago pulled his hat from his head and made a courtly bow before ambling down the lane.

  Mary had salvaged several wooden packing crates discarded by a freighter, and they served to hold spare shirts and cooking utensils. Andrew and Jory had made a bench, which she positioned near the hearth. They’d also made a bed in one corner for Mary and Ida, but they still needed to buy the rope required to string the frame, and make a straw-filled tick to sleep on. Will, Jory, and Andrew would sleep on the floor upstairs in the narrow space beneath the eaves.

  She was arranging cooking utensils when she heard footsteps outside. “Mary?” Ruan called. He stopped at the open door, blocking the sun. “Anyone home?”

  Mary’s heart lifted. “Ruan. How nice that you’ve come.” He’d moved to his new smithy in town two months ago. Although he still came out to the diggings every few days to lend a hand or join the Pascoes for supper, she missed him.

  “I had to see the new house.” He held out a pair of andirons. “And I wanted to give you these.”

  She accepted the heavy pieces with pleasure, admiring the craftsmanship. The two were identical, and he’d taken the time to add decorative twists and curlicues to the iron. “Thank you! Fires burn so much better if the wood is off the floor.” She crouched and settled them in the empty hearth. “Your gift is especially kind because I was just thinking that if I could only have a gorse fire, I would feel at home. Now when I build a fire I’ll think about you instead.”

  He shrugged, looking both embarrassed and pleased, and surveyed the room. “This is nice.”

  “We need quite a bit, yet. Chairs and a table, to start. A cupboard. But that will all come in time.”

  He stepped to the mantel, a quizzical look on his face. “A candlestick, and the warmer I made you … and a cobbing hammer?” He touched the tool.

  Mary’s cheeks grew warm. “It’s a reminder.”

  “Of the mine?”

  “Of … of what I want.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want to do better here, Ruan. I want Ida and Will to have more than we had.”

  Ruan’s forehead creased. “You want to be wealthy?”

  “I don’t want to scrape for every turnip, but it’s not that, it’s … ” She groped for words. “Andrew and Jory and I were destined for the mines from the day we were born. I’m not ashamed of that. But I want Ida and Will to know they have choices.”

  “That’s a fine thing,” Ruan agreed. He smiled, and his eyes crinkled, and Mary’s insides went all crinkly too. “And what do you want for yourself?”

  “Well … ” She hesitated. “I want to serve tea.”

  “Serve tea?”

  “Yes,” she said stubbornly. “I want to serve a proper tea to Cornish people far from home. I want to bake saffron buns, and have plum preserves and clotted cream, all served on pretty china.” She stood straight, holding his gaze, daring him to laugh.

  He didn’t laugh, but he was silent for a long moment. The sound of children playing floated through the open door. Finally he said, “Well, that’s all fine. But I was hoping there might be something else you dream of.” He stepped closer.

  “Oh?” The word was barely audible.

  “Mary Pascoe, you must know I want to marry you.”

  Now she couldn’t manage even a whisper.

  Ruan took her hand. His fingers were warm and strong, and made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t even known she wanted. “I have dared hope that you might want the same.”

  She licked lips gone dry. “I do.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, with one arm behind her back to hold her close. Mary rested against him, smelling the sweat and coal dust of him, putting one hand behind his neck. It was all quite unexpected and delicious.

  Finally he released her and stepped back, looking quite pleased. “Good. I’ll speak to Andrew.”

  “When?” Mary asked. “When shall we wed?”

  “When I’m better settled.”

  “But … when will that be?” She would have wed Ruan that day if he’d been willing.

  “I can’t say. I want to buy my smithy, and that will take some time. And I thought to add a floor above, for living space. I can’t expect my wife to sleep in a corner behind the forge, as I’ve been doing.”

  Mary shook her head. “We’ve done all right so far. I’ll get back to baking for the miners. I’ve made arrangements to sew shirts for the new storekeeper, because the bachelors all need ready-made. You could pick up a little extra work with my brothers, and live here with us.” Jory had already suggested it.

  “No,” Ruan said firmly. “I won’t take a wife if I don’t feel certain I can take care of a family.”

  “But—”

  “Properly take care of a family. You’ll be bringing two children to our marriage, mind. And with God’s blessing we’ll have more.”

  Mary wanted to argue. She wasn’t afraid of hard work or lean times, or—hard as it would be to leave this cottage—even of sleeping behind the forge. But she could see how important this was to Ruan, and that deserved her respect. “Very well, Ruan. We’ll wait.”

  His face split in a wide grin. “Thank you, Mary.” He started for the door, then paused. “But don’t forget, you are promised.” Then he was gone. Mary heard him whistling as he walked away.

  I am promised, she thought. That notion was even more precious than she had imagined.

  Twenty-Two

  Winter’s sales gallery, Winterware, was located in an old building on High Street. When Chloe stepped inside she was immediately distracted from her mission, tugged off-course by the pots, plates, casserole dishes, bowls, mugs, and candlesticks on the shelves. Most of Winter’s pieces were glazed in soothing tones of brown, green, and blue. Chloe particularly liked a series decorated with clay maple leaves.

  “May I help you?” Winter had emerged from a back room.

  Chloe turned. “Oh, hi, Winter. I was just admiring your work.”

  The potter stood wiping her hands on a cloth. Her usual uniform of denim overalls was streaked with clay. Her hair was piled loosely on top of her head, and enamel dragonflies dangled from her ears. “It’s Chloe, right? Adam’s friend.”

  Her demeanor seemed more polite than friendly, but maybe Winter was merely in greet-the-public mode. “That’s right. I’m also a guest curator at Pendarvis this week. I know you stopped by to see Claudia yesterday morning, and—”

  “It was day before yesterday.”

  Chloe’s eyebrows rose. “Evelyn was very specific.”

  Winter shrugged. “That’s right, it was yesterday. I got confused.”

  “Anyway, Claudia’s home with a migraine today, and I thought I’d come by and see if there’s anything I can help you with.” That last line was a stretch; she could just have easily called, and it wa
s unlikely that she could help Winter with anything anyway. Still, it gave her a vaguely professional reason to begin a conversation.

  “It wasn’t anything urgent. We’ve talked about reproducing some Klais pottery, and I’ve got a prototype to show her.”

  “Ooh! May I see it?” Chloe asked, with honest enthusiasm.

  Winter hesitated, then made a Why not? gesture. She disappeared back into her workroom. A moment later she returned and set a flowerpot on the counter.

  “That, is, gorgeous.” Chloe leaned closer. The pot was glazed in a soft yellow with random decorative brown streaks. “I’d love to see a bunch of these put to use on the Pendarvis grounds.”

  “Unfortunately,” Winter said coolly, “there is no money in Claudia’s budget for reproduction pots. And if we aren’t able to convince the powers that be to keep Pendarvis open, it will all become a moot point anyway.”

  “I’m so sorry that Pendarvis is being threatened—”

  “I’m sorry that developing Old World Wisconsin drained all of the Historic Sites Division’s resources.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to blame Old World Wisconsin for the decision.”

  “The newspaper article made it quite clear!” Winter countered. “Pendarvis, and probably all of the smaller sites, have been ignored lately because of all the time and energy and money that went into your site.”

  Chloe took a deep breath. “Listen. It’s true that a great deal of money was spent to move and restore the buildings that are now at Old World Wisconsin, and to operate the site.”

  “I’d say.” Winter sniffed disdainfully.

  “But that’s not the reason Pendarvis is in the crosshairs. Pendarvis is in the crosshairs because the state has not fulfilled its obligation to protect Wisconsin’s historic treasures. The stories told here, and the buildings preserved here, are no less and no more important than the stories told and buildings preserved at Old World. Pitting one site against another is counterproductive.”

  “But—”

  “And blaming me is counterproductive. All of us need to keep fighting for the resources we need to maintain Wisconsin’s historic sites. All of them.”

  Winter opened her mouth, closed it again. Chloe held the other woman’s gaze.

  At last Winter looked away. “You have to understand,” she said stiffly, “that my livelihood is at stake. I own this building. A lot of artists in Mineral Point have invested in their shops because they want to stay here. If Pendarvis closes, it will affect the whole town.”

  “I know,” Chloe said quietly. “And I’m truly sorry. I’ll do anything I can to support the cause.”

  Winter concentrated on scraping a bit of clay from one fingernail, but gave a grudging nod.

  The doorbell tinkled, breaking the awkward silence. Three women wandered into the shop and began ooh-ing and ah-ing over Winter’s handiwork.

  “Well,” Winter said, “tell Claudia she can see the flowerpot any time.”

  “I will. And if you do ever make more, I’d love to buy one. I also want to purchase that bowl with the leaves … ”

  Chloe left Winterware with the tissue-wrapped bowl tucked into a sturdy shopping bag. She hoped that if nothing else, she’d cleared the air a bit, provided a new perspective to consider. Chloe didn’t blame Winter for being angry.

  The real question was, just how angry was she? Had Yvonne Miller’s comments at the meeting Monday evening pushed the potter over the edge? Had Winter been walking down the upper property path yesterday morning and spotted Claudia and Yvonne entering Polperro House? If so, she could have lingered outside long enough to see her chance for a confrontation when Claudia left Yvonne alone.

  Chloe rolled her eyes. It seemed preposterous.

  And yet … Winter had tried to weasel out of admitting she’d visited Pendarvis yesterday morning. Maybe she’d truly been confused. Maybe she’d lied.

  This situation is sucking more and more, Chloe thought, and headed for the library.

  “You again!” Midge said in cheerful greeting. “What can I get for you?”

  “I thought I’d look for Mary Pascoe’s obituary. Do you have newspapers from 1911?”

  Midge looked disappointed, in an Oh come on, give me something challenging way. “Sure.” She fetched the reel of microfilm.

  Chloe settled at the reader. The property owners list indicated that Chy Looan had passed from Mary Pascoe to Ann Trezona in June 1911. That didn’t necessarily mean that Mary had died in June of 1911, but it was a good place to start.

  Chloe spent ten minutes scrolling through pages of articles, advertisements, letters, notices. And then—“Found it!” she yelled. She turned to grin triumphantly at Midge, and only then discovered that the archivist was helping an elderly man who’d evidently tiptoed in. “Sorry.”

  Died—At Mineral Point, on the 17th ult. Miss Mary Pascoe, a respectable spinster and an inhabitant of this village. The deceased was a native of Cornwall, England. In her youth she left Cornwall in company with her brothers, miners Andrew and Jory Pascoe, who, having heard of the lead mines in this part of America, and feeling a strong desire to try their fortune among them, found their way to Mineral Point.

  Midge appeared at her shoulder. “You’ll want to print that. It’s a dime a page.”

  Chloe looked up. “Mary wasn’t Andrew’s widow, she was his sister!”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “Oh, not in any meaningful way,” Chloe admitted. She was impressed by any single woman who managed to make a go of it in the nineteenth century. “Just lining up facts. There was a second brother too.”

  “Ah,” Midge said, in the polite tone archivists used when patrons enthused about genealogical details.

  Midge showed her how to send a selection to the printer. Chloe snatched the page as soon as it emerged and read the remainder.

  The Pascoes commenced with little save strong hands and industrious habits. Miss Pascoe was well known for the Cornish teas served in her home in the Shake Rag district for many years, attracting her fellow countrymen and women, and others, from as far away as Dodgeville, Platteville, and Madison.

  She served tea! Chloe thought happily.

  All who knew Miss Pascoe can speak of her gentle manners and her service to the community and the Methodist Church. She nursed the sick and is known to have saved many lives. She was especially fond of children, and many residents can well recall visits to “Miss Mary’s” cottage for play or refreshments. She also took in a number of orphaned or destitute children and raised them as her own. Many Mineral Point residents are mourning the loss of a remarkable woman.

  Chloe leaned back in her chair. Way to go Mary, she thought. Obituaries were intended to emphasize the positive, of course, but it was impossible to not be impressed by a single woman who ran a tea shop and adopted needy children.

  This new information also had interpretive potential for Pendarvis. Bob Neal and Edgar Hellum had opened the Pendarvis House Restaurant in the 1930s, serving first traditional Cornish teas and later, full pasty dinners. The unusual ambiance and high-quality food had attracted nationwide attention. Chloe could hardly wait to tell Claudia that a century earlier, a Cornish-born woman had been doing the same thing in a cottage nearby.

  It was sprinkling as Chloe circled the Pendarvis rowhouse on the upper property and entered the staff-only area. The police cars were gone—always a good sign—and a murmur of voices from the re-created pub let her know that a tour was in progress. Her mind was still full of Cornish tea parties when she opened the door to the entry room … and stopped, open-mouthed. The police hadn’t trashed the place, but they’d moved everything. Coffee supplies and stray cups had been pulled from the cupboard. Pieces of period clothing once neatly hung on racks were now lying in a heap on the table. The staff reference library had been removed from the shelves, the books now stacke
d on the floor.

  Loren’s door was closed and locked, so Chloe moved on to Claudia’s office. It was a disaster.

  Chloe felt stricken. This little cluttered room had become her home-away-from-home this week. Seeing the aftermath of a professional search was worse than hearing that it was going to take place. She was glad Evelyn had gone home, and glad Claudia wasn’t here to see this either.

  There was nothing to do but start setting things to rights. The fact that Chloe didn’t know exactly where a lot of things belonged made cleanup difficult, but she was determined to at least have things tidy before the other women returned.

  Fortunately, the flood of anxious calls about the threat to Pendarvis had slowed to a trickle. As Chloe worked she occasionally heard voices as an interpreter led visitors to the rowhouse, but that normalcy was reassuring, not an interruption. She was trying to remember how Claudia had shelved her books—by topic? alphabetical by author?—when the phone rang.

  “Good afternoon, Pendarvis Historic Site. How may I help you?”

  “Chloe? Oh, thank God.”

  Chloe’s fingers locked on the phone. “Claudia? What’s wrong?”

  “This morning cops came with a warrant and searched my house.” Claudia began to cry, and her words came out between little shuddering heaves. “Thankfully Holly had already left for school. She would have freaked out.”

  Chloe pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. This was bad.

  “Why?” Claudia demanded. “Why would the cops do that? I have no idea what they were looking for.”

  Chloe dropped into the desk chair. “I think they’re looking for Yvonne’s journal. It wasn’t found with her briefcase after she died. It seems to me that if there was something damning in there, whoever took it would have destroyed it by now, but I guess they had to try. Did they take anything from your house?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Chloe hesitated. “They came here too, and searched the offices. I don’t know if they found anything.”

  “They made me sit in a cop car while they searched my house. Neighbors were peeking out their windows. I have never been so humiliated.” Claudia’s voice was rising. “It took a long time, and all I wanted was for them to leave so I could go inside and lock the door. But then Higgins said he wanted me to come to the police station for questioning. I’m still here.”