Carnegie's Maid

by Marie Benedict

  The chair creaked as he pushed himself to standing. As he walked toward the stove, he turned back and smiled over at me, the same welcoming, jovial smile he gave me every day. I realized then that the affable, kindly man I believed Mr. Ford to be was simply a mask he wore. That none of us were who we appeared to be.

  “We’ve all left people behind, haven’t we?” he whispered and then bent down to tend to the stove fire.

  Mrs. Carnegie interrupted my thoughts with more commentary about the picnic, an event that seemed frivolous in light of its tragic backdrop. “True enough, Clara. Most of our acquaintances would welcome a celebration over the Thirteenth Amendment. Mrs. Wilkins excepting, of course,” she said.

  I understood her reference to her well-heeled neighbor. During one formal dinner where I stood in attendance, I heard Mrs. Wilkins complain that “negroes” were being admitted to West Point. I had to work hard to suppress a victorious smile when, in response, the elder Mr. Carnegie replied, “Imagine! I have heard rumors that some are even admitted to heaven.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” I said, continuing the brushing ritual. The process calmed my mistress, and I sensed agitation over the notion of the picnic. More questions would undoubtedly follow. “I suppose that the specific impetus for the picnic needn’t be explained to Mrs. Wilkins.”

  “True.” She paused, and I watched her face as another question formed. “We wouldn’t be accused of callousness, would we? In light of losses others have suffered?” Ever cognizant of her position as a recent immigrant without a personal stake in the war, particularly since neither of her sons were fighting, she was wary of appearing unfeeling to her adopted countrymen.

  “No one would ever accuse you or your sons of that, ma’am. I believe most of your circle would welcome the opportunity for a bit of merriment. The war years have offered little enough of it.”

  “As long as Andra approves.” She had made her decision but wouldn’t send invitations, plan the menu, or issue orders to the staff until her beloved son blessed the undertaking. The younger Mr. Carnegie, Tom, ever in his older brother’s gregarious shadow, was never consulted on social matters and only superficially on business ones. Sometimes, he seemed even more invisible than me.

  “I’m certain Mr. Carnegie knows best.”

  The awkwardness I felt over the elder Mr. Carnegie’s gift of Aurora Leigh had abated in recent weeks. His travel had lessened, and he and I had been in each other’s regular company as I stood by Mrs. Carnegie’s side at morning calls, during parlor visits, and throughout formal company dinners. He never referenced our exchanges or his inappropriate gift. In fact, he only acknowledged my presence in the most cursory fashion, as was appropriate for the master of the house. While I felt almost as if I’d imagined our conversations, I couldn’t forget about his decision to send a poor immigrant to serve in his stead as a soldier.

  I studied Mrs. Carnegie’s long, silvery-white hair in the mirror and wondered if this was the moment to summon my courage for a suggestion. “I’ve noticed that the ladies have begun experimenting with a different hairstyle.” Mrs. Carnegie’s center-parted style topped by a high bun hadn’t been fashionable for a decade even in Ireland, and I worried that one of the women in her circle would mention this. The blame would then fall upon me, as the state of the mistress’s hair was the purview of her lady’s maid. I could not risk this sort of condemnation.

  “Is that so?”

  Her flat tone revealed nothing of her actual feelings about my suggestion, giving me no avenue but to plow forward. “Yes, ma’am. In the modern style, the hair is drawn back smoothly without a part, and the bun is worn at the nape of the neck rather loosely. Sometimes, a snood or net is used around the bun.”

  As she considered whether my brash idea was worthy of commendation or punishment, her face took on a pinched appearance. “How would I wear a bonnet with that sort of hairstyle? The front of my hair would look a fright when I removed the bonnet indoors.”

  “I presume that you might instead sport one of the smaller hats that perches upon the head. Then the style would not be disturbed.”

  “I’d look a right jaunty fool with one of those caps sitting on my head. No. We will style my hair the same way it’s been styled for years, and I will keep to my bonnet. I’d rather look like an old-fashioned matron than embarrass my Andra with tomfoolery. His place comes before all else, because it is on his position that our family rises.”

  For the first time, I realized how alike my situation was to that of Mr. Carnegie. Although the scale was quite different, the stakes were not. The well-being of both our families rested on our success.

  Chapter Fifteen

  May 28, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  All the elite of Reynolds Street had accepted the hand-delivered invitations to the picnic. With Mrs. Carnegie leading the charge, Fairfield focused on little else in the two weeks that followed. Since I wouldn’t be needed for the service of the meal—Mrs. Stewart, Mr. Holyrod, Hilda, Mary, and the new footman, James, would present the luncheon—I assumed that I’d stay behind, and I relished the thought of a quiet house. But Mrs. Carnegie would hear nothing of it. “You know Mrs. Pitcairn is prone to fainting fits. You will need to come along and bring the chatelaine to revive her with smelling salts if she does.” The heavy chatelaine, with its full complement of instruments to tend ladies’ hair and attire as well as smelling salts should their corsets induce fainting, an occurrence that happened with surprising frequency, had become my constant companion.

  The morning of the picnic, a delicious aroma wafted throughout the house. After I finished readying Mrs. Carnegie for the picnic and she ensconced herself in the parlor with the elder Mr. Carnegie to finalize the seating arrangement, I followed the smell into the kitchen. There, I found the center table filled with plates of fried chicken, beef tenderloin with horseradish sauce, deviled eggs of every imaginable variety, marinated asparagus, and peaches and cream sponge cake. My family had never seen a repast so decadent.

  Mr. Ford, Mrs. Stewart, Hilda, and Mary raced around the kitchen preparing the baskets into which the food would be placed. Having already sent the other footman ahead to the picnic site with the tables, chairs, and china on the groundskeeper’s cart with precise instructions on how to arrange them, Mr. Holyrod and James paced the kitchen, anxiously waiting for the final food baskets so they could be loaded onto the returning cart.

  As I stood by and watched the mad frenzy, I realized that I was without specific instructions for the first time since my arrival at Fairfield. Given that I was free until I boarded the coach with Mrs. Carnegie, which wouldn’t take place until after the staff had already left, I offered my help to Hilda. I knew no one would ask me directly to assist them, her least of all.

  Packing the tarragon deviled eggs into the picnic basket, Hilda sniped, “We wouldn’t want you to dirty your dress for the carriage ride, now would we?” The staff would take the groundskeeper’s carriage to the picnic. I alone of all the servants was permitted to ride in the carriage, albeit on the back. More fuel for Hilda’s dislike for me, fodder for her belief that I lorded over her my access to the mistress and her realm.

  I backed quietly out of the kitchen, trying to hide the tears that sprung up against my will. I belonged nowhere in this house. Not with the Carnegies. Not with the other servants. Even my own family members who resided in this city felt foreign to me. I was as utterly alone as the first day I landed on the American shore, with only the tether to my own family back home for company.

  A rumble shook the sky in the far distance, from the city beyond the pastures. The azure blue of the sky made this sound seem impossible, almost comical. Because a quintessential spring day spread before us, like a brightly iced birthday confection into which the celebrants were about to bite, it seemed that no rain could possibly fall here.

  No one else at the picnic seemed to hear the r
umble. The conversation continued its gallop around the track with its participants racing to show off their better knowledge. I began to wonder if I’d misheard the sound. I maintained my position standing behind Mrs. Carnegie, chatelaine in hand, ever ready to serve her or any of the ladies at the luncheon.

  Would I always live in this nether space of service? Always present but never seen, never engaging, my presence interchangeable with any number of others? I’d overheard Mr. Holyrod lecture the rest of the staff about the dignity of service, but I couldn’t see any dignity in invisibility. Where was the dignity in constantly suppressing your own needs, views, and rights for others?

  The picnic table was covered with gleaming silver, etched blue porcelain plates, fine Belgian table linens, and crystal bowls filled with cut peonies, even though the field brimmed with sunflowers. The juxtaposition of the finery against the rustic background seemed incongruous. The Carnegies and their guests seemed to be enjoying nature as if behind glass. As if it the rustle of the wind and the buzzing flies couldn’t penetrate their world.

  A rumble sounded again. Louder. And louder again. Until it could not be ignored.

  “Do you think that could be thunder?” the ever-nervous Mrs. Pitcairn asked.

  Every eye turned to the sky. In the north, the heavens had begun to turn dark. Mrs. Carnegie glanced over at me, a momentary flicker of terror in her eyes. For all her obsessive planning, this possibility had not been anticipated. I found this incredible, given the propensity for Pittsburgh rain.

  Ever jovial, Mr. Jones declared, “People, it will pass. Let’s turn our attention back to this excellent pudding. Is it a meringue?”

  Crystal glasses clinked and silver clanked on porcelain as the group resumed their picnic as if the storm would disappear simply because they were ignoring it. Mr. Carnegie continued talking pleasantly with Miss Atkinson. The ice that had frozen between them that February day seemed to have thawed. I’d overheard the neighborhood ladies say that Miss Atkinson received her education abroad, but given that her comments focused on gossip and clothing advice to Mr. Carnegie, I saw no evidence of higher learning or depth of thought. And I already knew what he thought of her political views.

  A loud giggle from a quip Mr. Carnegie had made escaped from Miss Atkinson’s normally pursed lips. She held on to his upper arm as if his joke was so raucous, she needed his arm to balance. Their exchange inexplicably irritated me. Was it because I knew Mr. Carnegie was capable of conversation with more gravitas? Was it because I found Miss Atkinson undeserving of his attentions?

  The thunder clapped loudly behind the picnickers, and a jagged bolt of lightning struck a nearby copse of trees. As if awaiting that precise cue, the deluge arrived.

  Guiding Mrs. Carnegie by the elbow, I tucked her into the carriage before turning my attention to the rest of the ladies. Tittering with nervous laughter, they clung to me in the downpour as I packed six into a carriage meant for four. Mr. Carnegie squeezed the same number of men into the carriage they’d hired specifically for the occasion. Mr. Holyrod and the rest of the staff clutched at forks and saucer plates and whatever else they could grab until the groundskeeper’s cart teetered with service items, furniture, and the bedraggled, wet staff.

  The coachmen tried to calm the horses as another lightning bolt struck the ground. They tried to wait for Mr. Carnegie and me to find a place in one of the carriages, but the horses were ready to bolt. And there was no remaining room for us in any event.

  As Mr. Carnegie signaled to the coachmen to leave, I heard Mrs. Carnegie yell out the window, “Don’t leave without Andra!”

  He called back, “We’ll take cover. Send a carriage back for us!”

  As the horses galloped across the meadow, we scanned the countryside for some shelter. The copse of trees that the lightning had recently illuminated looked like the best prospect. Hands over our heads in a futile effort to ward off the worst of the rain, we ran.

  The trees’ broad leaves buffeted us from the bulk of the rainstorm, and the semicircular shape of the copse enclosed us in a protective embrace from the mounting winds. Mr. Carnegie took off his jacket and spread it on the ground. He gestured for me to sit upon it.

  “I couldn’t, sir.”

  “I insist. I cannot let a lady ruin her gown.”

  “There’s really no need, sir. It’s a servant’s uniform, not a fine gown. And while I appreciate the compliment, I am not a lady but simply her maid.”

  He gestured to his jacket again, leaving me no option other than to sit. Refusal would have been tantamount to refusing an employer’s order, deserving of dismissal or, worse, a place on Mrs. Seeley’s blacklist. Although Mr. Carnegie didn’t seem the sort capable of such actions.

  Settling on the damp grass beside me, he said, “You are a lady, Miss Kelley. No other woman of my acquaintance is as graceful in her demeanor or as elegant in her thinking.”

  His words shocked me, and I knew they should have offended me. Or made me wary, as I’d grown up with too many stories of the Castle Martyn lords preying on their maids to not be at least a little suspicious. Instead, I found his praise oddly moving. While no one had ever called me a lady before and I secretly reveled in the label, I was more flattered by his compliment to my intelligence. Dad always said that my pride in my wit would lead to my downfall, even though he fostered that wit himself.

  But instead of speaking aloud my thoughts, I said what was expected of me. “You shouldn’t say such things, sir. They are not appropriate.”

  The gregarious, confident Mr. Andrew Carnegie blushed. A deep pink that spread across his cheeks like wildfire, contrasting with his coppery hair. “I apologize if I was inappropriate, Miss Kelley. I spoke too candidly, without remembering that you come from a world far more genteel than the rough loomers’ world of Scotland from whence I came. I am still learning how to operate in this rarefied environment, and it hasn’t been easy.”

  I felt like he was describing me, not himself. How alike we were.

  I tried to explain away my remark. “My cautionary words come not from the divide of our upbringings but from the divide of our current stations. The compliments you gave me are more appropriately bestowed upon the ladies of your circle—someone like Miss Atkinson—than a maid who serves in your home.”

  He seemed to consider my words for a long moment, then said, “I understand your concern, Miss Kelley, but the ladies of my acquaintance are all artifice and no depth. Their learning, in particular, has no profundity or feeling. Miss Atkinson in particular.” He paused, and the blush reappeared. “Unlike you.”

  We grew quiet, unsure how to act around each another in an environment of disclosure, in a setting outside the stratified world in which we normally operated. I had felt so artificial and unlike myself since my arrival in America, it was a relief to act honestly, no matter how partial my candor was.

  “I never thanked you properly for the copy of Aurora Leigh,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed on a blade of grass twirling between my fingers.

  “Another inappropriate act,” he said.

  I started to apologize for chastising him earlier about the appropriateness of his behavior when I heard him chuckle. Glancing over at him, his face was full of gleeful mischief, and I realized he was teasing me. Shooting him the sort of scolding look I’d give Dad when he was ribbing me, Cecelia, and Eliza, Mr. Carnegie laughed even harder. And I couldn’t stop myself from joining in.

  Any vestige of discomfort between us dissolved, and I realized that his sincerity about his struggle opened a door between us. For a moment, I felt like I belonged with him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  August 8, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  “Loosen the thread, Clara,” Mrs. Carnegie ordered.

  Unlooping one skein of yarn from my hands, I slackened the line connecting us. My mistress’s sharp knitting needles clicked as the
y scooped up the charcoal woolen threads and seamlessly integrated them into the scarf she was knitting for her beloved Andrew.

  “Tell me more about Thomas Miller’s recent business dealings,” she demanded. Since Mr. Carnegie had entered the library a full hour ago, they had been discussing Cyclops Iron Company. Mr. Miller, a hot-tempered Irishman who was a friend of the elder Mr. Carnegie, had founded the company after he had been bought out of another iron company—called Iron City Forge—by other founders John Phipps, the Kloman brothers, and the younger Mr. Carnegie, at the elder’s behest. The buyout had ruffled Mr. Miller’s feathers for a time, but the charming Mr. Carnegie quickly smoothed over relations and helped create the new ownership structure in Iron City Forge and Cyclops Iron as well.

  Iron. It was a constant topic of conversation between my mistress and her son. In the wartime climate, even I knew that the hunger for iron was nearly savage—for ironclad warships, for railroad tracks to carry supplies and troops, and for weaponry and ammunition. From snippets of overheard conversations, I understood that the Carnegies wanted to be major players in the industry, and they were taking necessary steps to bring that dream to fruition.

  “Ah, Mother, you’ve known Thomas Miller for years, as long as he’s been a close friend. What more can I tell you? And anyway, I cannot remember any more details about his businesses other than his iron venture,” he answered good-naturedly.

  “Andra,” she scolded him, “you could memorize a poem and recite it back to me when you were three. Do you think for a single minute that I believe that you don’t have Thomas Miller’s entire business history at your fingertips? That you are not privy to the ventures he’s only thinking about forming? You’re just being lazy. Or defensive. Tell me what’s going on.”

  A fiery-red blush spread across his cheeks, and he glanced over at me to see if I’d witnessed his humiliation. I averted my eyes as if the yarn I held mesmerized me. He knew, of course, I was only pretending, but I didn’t want to heighten his embarrassment by meeting his gaze.