Mining for Justice Page 4

  Now she gestured Chloe into a cramped office that felt almost familiar: two desks, a wall of file cabinets, plastic milk crates on the deep windowsills holding overflow files, a plank shelf crammed with interpretive manuals, local histories, and collections care how-tos.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Chloe rubbed her palms on her trousers.

  Claudia took a red mug from a shelf and poured coffee from the percolator sitting on one corner of her crowded desk. She was a plump woman in her early forties, with gray hair worn in a Gibson Girl–style bun, a round face, and wide hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a cotton dress with a small floral pattern and canvas Mary Jane shoes. In addition to collections care, Claudia trained and supervised the interpretive staff, was responsible for educational programming, and stocked the site’s gift shop.

  Life at a small site, Chloe thought, as she accepted the steaming mug. “Thanks.” A framed photograph of a girl with dark pigtails on her friend’s desk caught her eye. “What a pretty child.”

  “That’s my daughter, Holly. She’s nine. She adores the site, so I’m sure you’ll meet her while you’re here.”

  Chloe decided to mention the elephant in the room. “After reading that article in the newspaper yesterday, I was half afraid that I’d arrive to find a Chloe go home sign.”

  Claudia sank into her desk chair and motioned Chloe into another. “That news was quite a shock.”

  “You didn’t know it was coming?”

  “I assume Loren did, but I found out when the reporter called my house for a comment.” She shoved a loose strand of hair away from her face. “It was all I could do to keep from losing it on the phone.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Holly has special needs, Chloe. She doesn’t handle change well, and after moving here, I swore to myself that I would never uproot her again. And she gets special therapy that is not covered by insurance. And my new husband is having second thoughts about raising a child with a brain development disorder.” She sighed. “Suffice it to say that I cannot afford to lose my job.”

  This was the first Chloe had heard about these personal problems. “Oh, Claudia. Are things here really so bad?”

  Claudia sighed. “Pendarvis opened thirteen years ago, in 1971. Attendance peaked at about 30,000 in 1976. When the site opened there was only one permanent person on staff, who had to do everything. I was the first curator hired. The position is absolutely essential, but obviously my salary is an additional expense. Last year wasn’t great, but we worked hard on trimming the budget. I’ve been aligning staff with visitor traffic, for example. And this season we’re relying on a volunteer receptionist, when we’ve always had an LTE during the season.”

  Chloe nodded. Limited Term Employment, she meant. LTEs were limited to 1040 hours of work in a calendar year, and had no benefits or protections. The historic sites were open seasonally, so LTEs were critically important—and the most vulnerable for cuts.

  “We’ll be okay if we have good weather this fall,” Claudia said. “But obviously, things are tight.”

  “Yeah.” Chloe had thought Old World’s budget was tight. Evidently she didn’t know a good thing when she saw it.

  Claudia summoned a determined smile. “Well, it’s too early for dirges. I am glad you’re here this week. Loren and I get along fine, but I’ve really been looking forward to having another curator to talk to.”

  Chloe thought about all the times she traded sad stories with Byron, Old World’s curator of interpretation. Or Dellyn, who managed the site’s historic gardens. “I’m here to help in any way I can,” she said earnestly.

  “As you know, my background is in education, not collections management.” Claudia stirred creamer into her own mug. “I’ve got a list of artifact questions. And I want to talk to you about creating a permanent storage facility.”

  “Sure.”

  For a moment Claudia looked excited. “I dream of putting together a subset of items documented to nineteenth-century Mineral Point. In the early days, this was a pretty lawless place. Lots of scandals about bogus mine leases, gambling, claim-jumping, duels, bribery, you name it. But if I can find the right artifacts, I can show that Mineral Point was not a frontier town for long. The Cornish people saw to that.” She hesitated, and the flicker of excitement drained away. “If it even makes sense to do any long-term planning … ”

  “It does,” Chloe said firmly.

  “I don’t mean to overwhelm you. I’m just really glad you’re here.”

  Chloe felt something tight inside her ease. She’d been lamenting the ill fortune that had deposited her here just as the announcement came of possible doom for Pendarvis, supposedly all because Old World Wisconsin had with malicious greed sucked every penny from state coffers. It hadn’t occurred to her that the terrible news might make Claudia even more desperate for a colleague and friend.

  “You’ll want to start by getting to know the site. I’ll get you a copy of our interpretive plan, and tour you through the buildings.”

  “Do you have any accounts written by Cornish women?” Chloe asked eagerly.

  Claudia shook her head. “Sorry. I’d give anything for a primary source glimpse into domestic life. But most of the immigrants from Cornwall were illiterate.”

  “How about artifacts?”

  “Nope. We have some kitchenware that might have been owned by Cornish women, but nothing’s documented.” She gave Chloe a What can I say? look. “If you happen to discover any clues to life for the early Cornish women in Mineral Point, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  A firm knock sounded on the office door. Chloe turned and saw a slender thirty-ish woman standing in the doorway with a briefcase in one hand and an expensive-looking notebook bound in green leather in the other. Her black hair was clipped in a bob, and she wore dressy jeans and a dramatic scarlet blouse. “I’m sorry for interrupting,” the newcomer said in a tone that held not even a jot of sorrow. “But Mr. Beskeen said I could use your research files this morning.”

  “Certainly,” Claudia said. “He’s not in today, but it’s no problem.” She gestured toward Chloe. “This is Chloe Ellefson, curator of collections at Old World Wisconsin. Chloe, this is Yvonne Miller.”

  Chloe stood, extending a hand. “Hi, Yvonne.”

  The other woman hesitated before pressing Chloe’s fingers for a nanosecond. “I prefer ‘Dr. Miller,’ actually,” she said. “I have a Ph.D.”

  Well, golly gee, Chloe thought. Aren’t you special.

  “You’re welcome to work at my desk,” Claudia said with admirable grace. “Chloe, it’s about time to meet the interpreters anyway, and get the day started.” She led the way out of the building.

  “So,” Chloe murmured, “who was that?”

  “Yvonne? She’s a ‘freelance historian.’” Claudia made little quote marks in the air with her fingers.

  “What’s she working on?”

  “A book.”

  “About Pendarvis?”

  “I’m not sure. She hasn’t deigned to explain the focus of her work.” Claudia rolled her eyes. “She’s been making regular appearances here as long as I’ve been on staff. I think she’s trying to convince Loren to hire her as a project researcher or something.” She snorted. “That’s even less likely to happen now. Even the threat to close Pendarvis has a silver lining.”

  “Ah,” Chloe said, which was the most tactful response she could come up with.

  Claudia took a well-worn path behind the rowhouse. “I meet with the staff every morning in the gift shop,” she explained. “Same building, but there’s no inside access. Bob and Edgar—you know about Bob and Edgar, right?”

  “The guys who saved these buildings?” They’d been mentioned in the newspaper article.

  “Right. Bob Neal and Edgar Hellum added the gift shop room and used i
t as studio and entertaining space.” She smiled. “They were both very creative, very clever. A natural spring runs under the building, and they created a little fish pond right in the floor. We have it covered now, but one day I’d like to—”

  “She has no business here!” An angry male voice drifted through the open door as they approached the shop.

  “It’s not her fault that the historical society is threatening to close Pendarvis.” That was a younger voice, female.

  Damn, Chloe thought.

  “First her site vampires all the resources from ours,” the older man snapped. “Then they send her here to—”

  Claudia marched through the door. “Good morning.”

  Straggling in behind her, Chloe found herself facing three seasonal employees. A white-haired woman in street clothes stood behind the ticket and sales counter. Two people wearing 1840s-style clothing were obviously the day’s tour guides: a diminutive young blond woman, and a man in his sixties with gray hair and beard. The woman looked anxious. The man looked pissed.

  After a few seconds of unhappy silence, Claudia introduced Chloe. “She’ll be helping me this week.”

  “Hi,” said the young woman.

  “Good to meet you,” the cash register lady echoed.

  “I hope you’re satisfied,” the man said, “now that Old World Wisconsin has diverted the funds Pendarvis needs to stay open.”

  “Gerald!” Claudia snapped. “Chloe is our guest. I expect you to treat her with respect.”

  Gerald folded his arms.

  “I understand why you’re angry,” Chloe tried. “I was horrified when I read that article yesterday.”

  Gerald didn’t deign to respond.

  Claudia shot Chloe a mortified glance: I’m so sorry!

  Chloe gave a tiny shake of her head: Let it go.

  Claudia shared a few updates—scheduled school tours, a request to use quiet time for sweeping and dusting the buildings, an update on maintenance work being done at Trelawny House. Only when business was complete did she circle back to what was on everyone’s mind. “At this point, I don’t know anything more about our status than you do. Loren is in Madison today, but he’ll be back in time for the meeting at the Walker House this evening. We all need to make an effort to put the uncertainty out of our minds for now.”

  “But—” Gerald began.

  “The first school bus will arrive any minute,” Claudia said firmly. “Let’s get to work.”

  The two interpreters went to meet the expected bus. The older woman began cleaning the counter with commendable zeal.

  “Let’s head down to Polperro House,” Claudia suggested to Chloe. “I should be able to give you the nickel tour before the kids descend.” They left the building and started down a fern-lined path. “I apologize for Gerald’s comments. I’ll talk to him.”

  Chloe ran her fingers along a frond shimmering with lingering rain droplets. “Don’t scold on my behalf. The threat of closing Pendarvis came as a horrible shock. I’d feel bad if staff members weren’t upset. I take it Gerald has been here for a while?” He’d been wearing reproduction shoes, and his glasses were in antique frames. Unless Pendarvis had a whole lot more money in its period clothing budget than Old World Wisconsin did—which clearly was not the case—interpreters either purchased those expensive items themselves or went without.

  “Since the site opened,” Claudia agreed. “He’s a great interpreter. Rita, the young woman, is too. She graduated from Marquette last spring with a history degree, and signed on here for the summer. She hasn’t been able to find a permanent job, so she decided to stay through the fall season. And I’m grateful she did.” All of the state historic sites closed at the end of October, but the autumn could be busy with tours. “And Audrey, who manages the gift shop, has been here for years.”

  Chloe let Gerald’s attitude slide away. It was a beautiful September morning. Birds chittered in the trees. Goldenrod bloomed in the sprawling gardens. The sky was that deep blue that only came in autumn.

  The Depression-era swimming pool Adam had mentioned was clearly visible across Shake Rag Street. Happily, south of the pool was the undeveloped hillside Chloe had admired from Adam’s front step the day before. “I’m so glad that at least part of the hill was left alone,” she said.

  “This area was part of the Michigan Territory when mining by whites began,” Claudia told her. “That hill was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1972 because it was one of the most densely mined places in the region. And it’s ours! The state recently transferred forty-three acres to us. We’re restoring the landscape to prairie and creating self-guided interpretive trails.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Chloe said. “Would it be okay if I go wandering over there sometime? Something about it calls to me.”

  “Sure, if you want to. The Cornish miners called the hill Mena Dhu. It means ‘Dark Hill.’”

  Chloe felt a tiny frisson down her spine as she gazed across the street. Dark Hill. Evocative, she thought.

  They reached Polperro, an unusual three-story house. The lowest level and back had been constructed of stone, with two additional stories at the front constructed of logs. Approaching from the side, the house looked as if it had grown out of the tall stone outcrop behind it, with lush plants spilling from cracks and crevices.

  “The Polperro family lived here?”

  “There was no Polperro family.” Claudia fished two keys from her pocket and handed one to Chloe. “Here. This will open any site building. The front doors are sealed since the houses are right on the street, so use the back doors. Anyway, when Bob and Edgar acquired the house they named it for a fishing village on the southeast coast of Cornwall.” She unlocked the door and ushered Chloe inside. “We start our tours by talking about mining. That provides context for all of the other stories.” She led the way through a small entryway into a room with mining hand tools mounted on the walls. Larger pieces of equipment stood around the periphery.

  Chloe pointed at a shovel. “That seems awfully short,” she said as she tried to surreptitiously check for any lingering emotions. Nothing unusual, thank goodness.

  “Men working on their knees didn’t need long shovels.”

  “I suppose.” Chloe stopped by an array of miners’ candleholders. “Sticking tommies.”

  “That’s right!” Claudia said approvingly.

  Chloe studied the display, but without Adam’s candleholder in hand, she couldn’t be sure if any of these might have been made by the same smith. “Do you have more of these?”

  “There may be more in storage.”

  Chloe made a mental note to check. “It’s difficult to imagine working underground with such scant light.”

  “Lead was the prime ore here, of course, but the miners who immigrated from Cornwall likely learned their trade working in tin mines, or copper at deeper levels. They were used to it. They’d stick a candle into a lump of clay on their hat.”

  “Such a hard life,” Chloe murmured. She’d attended West Virginia University, where a few of her fellow students took classes during the day and worked coal mines at night. She’d heard stories.

  “It absolutely was. But I suspect most miners did a bit better financially than fishermen or peasant farmers, at least when mineral prices were good. The Cornish miners were the best in the world. Shafts around here were no more than maybe a hundred feet, but in Cornwall their shafts went down as far as three thousand feet.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely. But, as you say, conditions were brutal. Some boys and girls began doing surface work as early as six or seven years old—”

  “Just children.” That hurt Chloe’s heart. “Boys and girls?”

  “The girls stayed above, sorting and breaking the ore. Bal maidens, they were called, which means ‘mine girls.’ But when a boy turned ten or so
, he went underground to start learning true mining from his father. Or an older brother or uncle, if his father was dead, because families worked together. The miners’ health started failing when they were still in their twenties. The average lifespan of a Cornish miner back then was forty-seven years.”

  Such a hard life, Chloe thought again. And she’d had no idea that little boys—and little girls—had worn themselves out at the Cornish mines.

  FOUR

  april 1827

  “Wage day tomorrow, Mary,” one of the other girls said. “Want to go to the shops with us?”

  Another bal maiden looked up from the ore heap and scoffed, “Mary never wants to go to the shops. She fancies herself too good for the likes of us.”

  “No, that’s not so,” Mary protested. She was eleven now, and the thought of visiting the shops was appealing. “I just pass what I earn to my father.”

  In truth, though, it wasn’t quite so simple. When Mary began working at the mine, her parents had decided that she could keep any overtime pay. “I want you to have a bit of money that’s all your own,” Mama had told her, hands on Mary’s shoulders. “Keep it for something important. You’re a hard worker, but you’re also smart, and I pray you won’t be a bal maiden forever.” She tipped her head with a sad smile. “Oh, Mary. I do so want a different life for you.”

  Mary, who’d been all of six at the time, hadn’t any idea what “different life” meant. But after Mama died, Mary had continued to mouse away extra pence in an old stocking. Her mother was in heaven, and spending precious coins on lace mitts or silk ribbons would be disrespectful.

  “Mary Pascoe!”

  The bellow brought Mary back from her memories. When she saw the mine’s surface captain approaching, her heart began pounding like a cobbing hammer. “Is one of my brothers hurt? Or my fa-ther?”

  “No,” Mr. Penhallow snapped. “Just come with me.”

  Mary followed the boss away from the other girls on the picking floor. What had she done to catch his attention? She couldn’t think of anything. She was as strong as any girl her age. She worked hard.