No way to know.
Roelke forced himself to concentrate and do what he’d come to do. Then he left the station and drove home.
The sight of his farmhouse relaxed the tightness a little. He needed to put away the garden hose and clean the gutters and insulate the windows before winter settled in, but none of that mattered right now. Generations of Roelkes had called that farm home. In a remarkably short time it had become an oasis for him, and for the people he loved.
Including the two children he would do anything to protect. Laws and police officers were supposed to shield children from harm, but when they didn’t and couldn’t … well, he’d taken justice into his own hands, and done what he had to do.
Roelke parked in the driveway and cut across the front lawn. As he approached the house he heard music. Chloe had put some classical record on the stereo.
On the front porch step he stopped, looking in the living room window. Chloe was dancing around the room, a pretend ballerina in jeans and wool socks, her long blond hair swaying as she dipped and turned. Tied over Deirdre’s jeans was the skirt Chloe had made from gauzy layers of turquoise and purple. The little girl copied Chloe’s every move. When the piece ended, and Chloe curtsied, Deirdre wobbled too low and landed on the floor. Chloe fell beside her. Carefree laughter drifted from the room.
Roelke’s inner calm shattered into a thousand pieces, sharp and small. He sat down on the step, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and cried.
Thirty-Six
january 1866
“Goodbye, my dear.” Mary kissed Ida’s cheek. “I always love seeing you and the children, and I love my new lace collar too.”
“Happy fiftieth birthday. And Miss Mary … ” Ida hesitated.
Mary tipped her head, considering the woman who had once—decades ago—been her ward. Ida was thirty-six now. “Is something troubling you?”
“You’re as kind to my children as you’ve always been to me.” Ida twined her fingers together. “I was thinking about my childhood this morning and suddenly wondered if I ever thanked you. I fear I did not.”
“There’s no need, child,” Mary said softly. “You have repaid me tenfold. I’m proud of you.”
Ida visited Chy Looan often. She’d married a man who worked at the brewery, and now had five children of her own and a small house to keep just a few blocks away. She was a good mother. She taught Sunday School and sang in the choir. When her husband had joined the Union Army, she’d kept her family going by taking in sewing. Today she wore a stylish gown she’d made herself of mauve cotton, draped over a fashionable hooped petticoat—a walking advertisement for her skill. Quite impractical, Mary thought. Still, she was pleased that Ida had become so skilled with her needle. Glad too that Ida didn’t have to hem her skirt up because she did heavy labor.
Ida took one of Mary’s hands in her own. “Thank you for raising me. And all the others.”
“You have been my greatest source of joy,” Mary told her. “You … and all the others.”
After Ida had left with her three daughters and two sons, Mary checked the baby she was fostering for a young woman with pleurisy. The baby’s father had gone west, looking for better prospects, and the mother didn’t have the strength to care for the child alone. The baby was sleeping in the cradle near the hearth, one thumb in her mouth.
Then Mary made another cup of tea and settled by the fire, remembering Ida as a frightened child. And all the others. There had been many others over the decades, staying for weeks or years, and she loved them all. But Ida had been the first. Then Will. Then Ezekiel … Mary hitched her paisley shawl snuggly around her shoulders. Ezekiel would always have a special place in her heart.
Not that those first weeks and months after she’d killed Parnell Peavey had been easy. She’d moved through each day in a daze, certain that Andrew and her friends and her minister would know with one glance what she had done. The visceral memory of her cobbing hammer hitting Peavey’s skull—the feel and the sound and the look and the smell of it—was a constant companion. When something was needed from the root cellar, she sent Will. She was too ashamed to pray. Too ashamed to think of her sweet mother. She’d failed everything and everyone she’d held dear.
And she’d worried incessantly about Ezekiel. The boy had watched her kill a man, and helped bury him. What would that do to him? Would fear hound him through life?
But one autumn morning, months later, something unexpected had happened. She’d sent the children outside to bring cabbages from the garden before heading to the mine or to school. She was sweeping when she heard Ida’s happy squeal, and Will’s teasing shout. Mary smiled because Will tried hard to be the man of the house, and she loved it when he forgot to be a man and played with Ida.
Then she heard a sound she’d never heard before. She stepped outside to see who had joined her children. But what she’d heard was Ezekiel’s laughter. He had joined Will in chasing Ida around the garden. For the first time, he didn’t look like an old man trapped in a boy’s body. For the first time, he had—however briefly—forgotten his nightmares.
That morning, Mary’s horror began to ease too.
Now she sat by her fire, rocking gently in the beautiful chair she’d recently purchased from Theophilus George, a fine craftsman who owned one of the furniture stores in town. No one arriving in Mineral Point today could imagine how rough the diggings were in 1835, Mary thought. But time went by, and things changed. Ruan had left Mineral Point for good when gold was discovered in California, and not having to worry about seeing him had helped ease the lonely ache left from the broken engagement. Andrew had taken a job at his father-in-law’s smelting operation, and was raising four sons. Will still mined, and had recently married a shy young widow.
Slavery, long tolerated in the territory, had been abolished when Wisconsin became a state in 1848; runaways had still been at risk, but the Civil War had rendered slavery illegal everywhere. Ezekiel worked at a lumber mill and stopped by Chy Looan at least once a week. He’d married a Negro woman with shadows in her eyes, a big heart, and a talent for baking pies. They had a son and daughter Ezekiel adored, and lived in a cottage of their own. He liked to sit out front in the evenings, whittling toys for the children who stopped by to visit. He was a free man. A good man.
And I am a decent woman, Mary thought, not with grandiose pride, but with conviction. She had two tables in the front of the room, and every Friday and Saturday served a proper Cornish meal with pasties, saffron buns, figgy hobbin, plum preserves and clotted cream, and tea. She had opened Chy Looan to children in need. She had saved Ezekiel.
She remembered marveling at Mrs. Bunney. She had recognized even then, as a girl, that Mrs. Bunney’s air of authority had come from someplace inside. A sense of knowing who she was, and of understanding that she was not beholden to a greasy dobeck like surface mine boss Jake Penhallow.
As I was not beholden to an evil creature like Parnell Peavey, Mary thought. Yes, she had done a horrible thing. But when there were no laws to protect children … well, she’d taken justice into her own hands, and done what she had to do.
“Mistress Mary!” someone called, interrupting her reverie. Jago Green presented himself in her open door. He removed his cap with a flourish and bowed low. His face was lined as a shriveled potato now, and his hair was gray, but he’d lost none of his flair. “Are you in need of fuel today?”
“I’ll take a cord of wood, if you have it,” Mary said. She usually bought coal these days, but it was dirtier and smellier than wood, and sometimes she indulged herself.
In short order Jago had the wood pitched from his wagon. Mary stood outside while he stacked it in her small side yard. The warm May day was scented with lilacs and mud. “Have you time for a cup of tea?”
Jago beamed. “I do indeed. Say you have a saffron bun too, and my heart will absolutely melt.”
Mary led him inside. When he finished the last morsel, Jago sighed happily. “There is no finer baker on my route, Miss Mary, although I’ll ask you not to repeat that.” He got to his feet. “And might you be interested in a portrait? My talents in the artistic arena are undiminished.”
Mary opened her mouth to utter the usual refusal. Then she paused. She’d just turned fifty years old. She had faced much and accomplished even more. Why not?
“I believe I am interested, Mr. Green,” she said, and laughed at his look of astonishment.
“Wonderful! That’s wonderful! I can’t finish a piece in one afternoon, of course, but we shall commence at once. Let me just fetch my satchel from the wagon … ”
Mary went upstairs and changed into her best dress. She combed her hair again before pinning it up and covering it with her cap. And she added her new lace collar.
Back downstairs, Jago settled Mary in a chair by the window, where the light was good. Then he stepped back and considered her. “Ah. You are a handsome woman, Miss Mary. But to meet current fashion, I suggest you turn your head to the side. Look down instead of at me.” He moved closer and gently guided her chin. “Like so. Yes. Very demure.”
Mary smiled, lifted her chin, and met his gaze. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Green. But I want you to paint me just as I am.”
Thirty-Seven
“This is nice.” Chloe leaned her head against Roelke’s shoulder, wishing she could stay there forever. “I’m glad to be home.”
“I’m glad about that too.”
The two of them were finally enjoying some peaceful solitude on the porch swing. Libby had taken Deirdre home. Shadows slanted across the lawn. Chloe had pulled on a Norwegian sweater against the chill. But the true warmth came from the weight of Roelke’s arm around her. If everyone had what we have, she thought, the world would be a much happier place.
Which reminded her of what Roelke had been dealing with all week. “How are things with Libby?”
Roelke took a long moment to respond. “I’m hoping that the situation between her and Adam improves. He’d be good for her. Good for the kids.”
Chloe used her toes to gently rock the swing. “What about Libby’s ex?”
This time he was silent for even longer. Something’s up, Chloe thought.
Finally Roelke said, “You know, it’s a beautiful evening and I just got you back home. I’d really rather not talk about Raymo.”
Chloe decided not to push. “Sure.” She watched a ragged V of quacking ducks flying overhead, aiming for nearby marshland. “Settling in for the night. Just like me.”
“You had quite the time of it in Mineral Point,” Roelke observed. His voice tightened, and his hand on her shoulder did too. “I remain in awe of the amount of trouble you managed to find in one short week.”
“You were the one who discovered the skeleton in Chy Looan,” she protested.
“True. But I’m talking about what came later. You took foolish chances—”
She straightened to face him. “I did not!”
“You should never have gone down in that mine.” He frowned at her. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that a child needed help,” Chloe flared. “I’m sorry if you have a problem with that.”
Roelke jerked as if he’d been struck. “No. I don’t have a problem with that.” He lurched to his feet and strode across the porch. He stopped at the far side, hands thrust in pockets, looking across the yard to the forest beyond.
Chloe sighed. This was not the homecoming she wanted. When she got tired of waiting she joined him at the porch rail and put one tentative hand on his back. His muscles were corded with tension. “Hey. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking how precious you are to me,” he said. “And … about children. Children are precious too.”
Chloe let her hand drop.
“Do you ever think about it?” Roelke asked. “Having kids?”
“I’d want to be married first,” she said, and immediately felt her cheeks flame. It was true, but she wasn’t angling for a proposal.
“Do you want—” Roelke began.
“I didn’t mean—” Chloe said at the same time. They both stopped.
A painful silence stretched between them. Finally Roelke said, “The thing is … if you have kids, they have to come first.”
“Of course.” She watched a squirrel bound up a tree in the side yard, feeling at a loss.
“I’m sorry,” Roelke muttered. “It’s just that … ” He turned to her, eyes glassy with tears.
Chloe didn’t know what was burdening him. What she did know was that he didn’t need to talk about marriage and kids right now. For whatever reason, Roelke—the strongest person she knew—needed comfort.
She put one palm against his cheek. “Whatever it is,” she said gently, “it’ll be all right. We’ll work it out together.”
He wrapped his arms around her. They stood like that for a long time, leaning into each other, and she felt some of the tension leave him. Then Roelke kissed her.
For the first time in a week, everything was right in Chloe’s world. “Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “I’ll make a pot of tea.”
Glossary
Aye?—What’s that you say? I beg your pardon?
Bal maiden—a female mine worker, young or unmarried. (“Bal” means “Mine” in Cornish.)
Chirks—embers
Dish o tay—cup of tea
Dobeck—a stupid person
Dummity—cloudy, overcast, dim
Figgy hobbin—a dessert which includes pastry, raisins (“figgy” refers to raisins or currants, not figs), and caramel sauce
Fitty—proper, properly
Giss on—Don’t speak such garbage!
Gook—a large, protective bonnet worn by bal maidens
Gorse—a yellow-flowered shrub
Hoggan—a type of flatbread, sometimes containing bits of meat or potato
Jowster—traveling salesman
Kewney—rancid
Knackers—mythical creatures that live in mines; also knockers or tommyknockers
Pasty—a pie, usually filled with meat and vegetables, often carried by miners
Peat—an accumulation of partially rotted plant material; often dried and used for fuel
Pilchard—small, oily fish once a mainstay of the Cornish diet; also known as Cornish sardines
Pisky—pixie
Mena Dhu—dark hill
Rumped up—huddled for warmth
Smeech—acrid smoke
Starry-gazy pie—a pilchard pie with the fish heads sticking through the crust
Swede—turnip or rutabaga
That—very, as in “I am that sorry.”
Wheal—place of work; commonly used to identify a mine, such as Wheal Blackstone
Wisht—tired, weak, faint
1. Polperro House, Pendarvis Historic Site.
Wisconsin Historical Society
2. Pendarvis House (left) and Trelawny House, Pendarvis Historic Site.
Wisconsin Historical Society
3. Artifacts found in the basement of a home on Shake Rag Street, Mineral Point, Wisconsin.
The Mining and Rollo Jamison Museums
4. Miner’s Candlestick, also called a Sticking Tommy.
The Mining and Rollo Jamison Museums, 92.204
5. This portrait of an unidentified woman hangs in Pendarvis House.
Pendarvis Historic Site, PD1981.402.256
6. This type of early teapot would have been a prized possesion for a Cornish immigrant.
Pendarvis Historic Site, PD1981.402.342
7. Wh
oever made this foot warmer took the time to add decorative hearts.
Pendarvis Historic Site, PD1981.401.353
8. Earthenware flowerpot attributed to Bernard Klais, Mineral Point, 1858–1883.
Pendarvis Historic Site, PD1981.402.434, courtesy Wisconsin Decorative Arts Database,
9. Boston rocker signed by Theophilus George, Mineral Point, 1866–1880.
Pendarvis Historic Site, PD1981.402.346, courtesy Wisconsin Decorative Arts Database
acknowledgments
In 2011 and 2012, I had the great good fortune to be awarded residencies in Mineral Point. I’m grateful to the Council for Wisconsin Writers, the Shake Rag Center for the Arts, and Don and Lisa Hay for making those experiences possible. Although Pendarvis had already been on my list of potential settings for a Chloe mystery, these visits were tantalizing reminders of how much the Lead Region had to offer.
I am indebted to Robert Neal and Edgar Hellum, whose decision to rescue a crumbling old home on Shake Rag Street launched a preservation movement. Thanks to State Historical Society of Wisconsin employees past and present for preserving and interpreting the historic buildings. Special thanks to curator Tamara Funk for her partnership in this endeavor, and to former director Allen Schroeder and former curator Kori Oberle for their help.
Thanks to Nancy Pfotenhauer and Mary Alice Moore for helping me explore the Mineral Point Library Archives, and to Dr. Benjamin Bruch for his insight about Cornish language and dialect. I’m also grateful to Kathy and Dan Vaillancourt and their wonderful team at the Walker House for their hospitality.
I’m grateful for the help provided by education coordinator Mary Huck and curator Stephanie A. Saager-Bourret of the Mining Museum & Rollo Jamison Museum, and to the interpreters at the Badger Mine and Museum, for sharing their knowledge.
Mining for Justice Page 31
