Carnegie's Maid

by Marie Benedict

  He reiterated Mr. Miller’s history with Iron City Forge as well as some other ventures his friend had dabbled in before forming Cyclops Iron. His mother was correct that he knew even the smallest details of Mr. Miller’s business dealings. What was his reason for obfuscation? The relationship between Mrs. Carnegie and her son seemed that of the closest confidantes, and I’d only ever heard him be totally forthcoming with her.

  I followed their discourse, trying to connect it to the chart I’d made the evening before about the Carnegies’ business interests. Oftentimes, while I helped Mrs. Carnegie as she sewed or knitted, Mr. Carnegie stopped in the library to engage her in business conversations as an adviser. I wanted to be ready should she raise these issues with me one day. Who knew where the discussions might lead?

  Mrs. Carnegie continued with her knitting, uncharacteristically quiet, and I allowed my thoughts to drift to the letter I’d received from Eliza earlier in the week. In a brief letter written without Mum and Dad’s knowledge, she confessed that the Martyns had been taking away actual acreage from the family farm since spring, not just bits and pieces as they had in the months leading up to my departure. Acre by acre, they had been giving away pieces of the farm to neighboring tenants, citing Dad’s political views. My family still had eight acres, land to raise diverse enough crops to survive, but just barely. The wages I had been sending over had been transformed from safeguard to lifeline. I felt sick with helplessness.

  The line slackened, and my mistress stopped knitting. From her sharp intake of breath, I knew she was about to bestow an order on her older son, couched as emphatic advice, when the younger Mr. Carnegie entered the library.

  The fair-haired, twenty-one-year-old man walked past the bookcases that held not only leather-bound volumes but also pigeonholes for documents and drawers for games and sat down in the empty chair across from his mother. He did not glance at his brother at all. His face normally bore a placid expression, which hid a quiet intelligence and an eager friendliness reserved for his few close mates. But there was nothing placid about his face now.

  “Did I hear you talking about Cyclops Iron and Iron City Forge?” he asked my mistress, directing his question only to her.

  She shot the elder Mr. Carnegie an almost imperceptible look. “We were just wrapping up, Tom. Minor details only. Nothing to trouble yourself about.”

  “Mother, I’m surprised to hear you describe my concerns about my rather large stake in Iron City Forge as ‘nothing to trouble yourself about.’” His voice was trembling, whether with nerves or anger, I couldn’t tell. His demeanor shocked me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered, her voice guarded in a manner I’d never heard before.

  “Surely Andrew has told you about his decision to invest in Tom Miller’s Cyclops Iron Company? A venture that will rival Iron City Forge—my company—for all the big iron contracts.” The younger Mr. Carnegie was furious, and he nearly knocked over his chair as he stood to pour himself a whiskey from the sideboard.

  I couldn’t help but think that the younger Mr. Carnegie must be mistaken. One of the qualities I admired in his elder brother was his loyalty to his family, a trait I shared.

  Surprise flitted across my mistress’s face, but she quickly masked it. Instead, she snapped, “Tom, isn’t it a bit early in the day for a drink?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Mother.”

  The elder Mr. Carnegie rose from his position on the couch. “Don’t you dare speak to Mother that way, Tom.”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie turned toward his brother for the first time since entering the room. “That’s rich, Andrew, taking the high road when your own feet are filthy with the muck of your dirty dealings.”

  I almost gasped at the strong accusation. I had never witnessed anything but solidarity between the brothers, under the elder Mr. Carnegie’s guidance, of course.

  “You’re talking nonsense, Tom. Maybe that’s not your first drink of the day.”

  The brothers drew closer to one another until they stood face-to-face, highlighting the elder brother’s shorter stature. But this disparity did nothing to make the elder Mr. Carnegie back down, even when his younger brother raised himself even taller in order to intimidate. The elder Mr. Carnegie’s eyes flashed with an anger I’d never seen in him before, but then, I supposed I’d be furious if one of my family members accused me of deception. Was this hypocritical of me? I had not exactly told my family the entire truth about my own situation.

  “Your nasty secret is out. I know about your planned ownership stake in Cyclops Iron,” Tom said in a seething tone. “And I know what it will do to my stake in Iron City Forge. As do you.”

  “Your stake in Iron City Forge? Who gave you the money for that stake, Tom?” The elder Mr. Carnegie’s face was red again, although now from rage, not from shame.

  “No matter where the money came from, the stake is in my name. And it’s going to be worth far less once Cyclops Iron competes for the same contracts as Iron City Forge.”

  Mrs. Carnegie put down her knitting needles and reached out for my hand. She wanted to stand between her two beloved sons and stop their fighting. I helped her to rise, and then stood by, feeling like an intruder in a private moment. But my mistress had not given me leave to exit the room, and in truth, I wanted to see how this battle would be won.

  The elder Mr. Carnegie’s eyes narrowed. “Think about it, Tom. Why would I want to harm the stake I funded in Iron City Forge? Isn’t it possible that I have a larger plan in mind? One that benefits both Cyclops Iron and Iron City Forge? One that benefits our family?”

  Mrs. Carnegie’s mouth opened as if she wanted to chime in, but then she clamped it shut. She wanted to see what her younger son’s response would be. And so did I. To my surprise, it seemed that the elder Mr. Carnegie had engaged in some dishonesty with his younger brother as well as possible chicanery. Was it defensible because he meant it for the entire family’s betterment? Mr. Carnegie seemed to think so.

  The younger Mr. Carnegie didn’t answer at first, only quaffed down his drink and stared at his brother. “Why should I believe you?”

  The elder Mr. Carnegie’s face fell with his brother’s words, and I swear I saw the glisten of tears in his eyes. Or was this another manipulation? “Why wouldn’t you believe me, Tom? Since you were five years old and we arrived in Pittsburgh from Dunfermline, I’ve been taking care of you. How you can doubt my intentions?”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie replied, his eyes flashing with anger. “Have you forgotten that I’ve been working for this family since I was fourteen? You may have taken care of me when I was a child, and I may have started out as your assistant, Andrew, but I’m a grown man now with a strong reputation as an astute, trustworthy businessman. One who smooths over the feathers you constantly ruffle.”

  “I am sorry, Tom. Forgive an older brother who sometimes forgets that you are no longer a lad but a man,” his elder brother apologized, although I detected a hint of condescension in his tone. Mr. Carnegie wanted something from his younger brother, and he would say what was necessary to get it. I recognized this because it was a quality I shared, especially now with my family’s well-being at stake. But I did not think I’d be capable of lying to and exploiting my family to do so, even if it was for their welfare.

  After a brief pause, Mr. Carnegie continued, “And you’re correct. You have an impeccable reputation, and I rely on you utterly to run aspects of our businesses. I hope my thoughtless words don’t turn you away from this plan. I will need you to see it through.”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie’s face softened a bit, but his eyes still bore a suspicious squint. “What is this plan, Andrew?”

  A ruthless glee flashed across the elder Mr. Carnegie’s face, and I saw the harder, more determined man who lurked beneath his affable exterior. “I am helping Tom Miller to create Cyclops Iron and investin
g in it only so I can merge it with Iron City Forge to make one massive iron company, one that can service the war’s desire for the metal now and supply the massive rebuilding and growth that will undoubtedly follow the war. With the majority stake owned by the Carnegie family. And you at the helm.”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie’s eyes widened at his brother’s words. “Don’t sell me a dog, Andrew.”

  Mr. Carnegie guffawed. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this, Tom. You are my man inside the Trojan horse at Iron City Forge. When the time is right, you’ll spring out, and together, we will take over Iron City and merge it with Cyclops. We will own a single, enormous company that will corner the iron market, engulfing all the small outfits into our behemoth.”

  But before the younger Mr. Carnegie could say a word—of apology or continued anger—his mother interjected. “See, Tom, Andra always has your best interests at heart.” She said not a word about the machinations through which her elder son put the younger to attain those “best interests.”

  “If that’s true, Mother, why didn’t he tell me? Why did I have to hear rumors about it from the Kloman brothers?”

  From the fleeting look of surprise on her face earlier, I guessed that my mistress knew nothing of this plan and likely had much the same questions. But she would never break ranks with the elder Mr. Carnegie and admit as much. When she didn’t answer the question, her elder son interposed, “Because you’re so kind, Tom. So good. I didn’t want to sully you with the darker side of business and make you tell lies until the deal is done. But I was wrong to keep my plan to myself.”

  “I’m not a child, Andrew, in need of protection. And you should never lie to your family.”

  “I’m sorry, Brother. Old habits die hard. The protection I mean, of course. And this will be a long, tricky business involving the deception of old friends. But necessary if we want to control iron.” He stretched out his hand for his brother to shake. “Can I be forgiven?”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie’s hand trembled as he extended it, and the brothers shook hands and then resumed their seats. An uncomfortable silence filled the room, and in a few seconds, Mrs. Carnegie lowered herself to her seat, and her needles began clicking again. As if nothing had transpired, she asked, “Tom, will you be calling upon Miss Coleman this afternoon?”

  The younger Mr. Carnegie stared over at his mother as if he couldn’t believe—at this tenuous moment—she would actually ask about his nascent relationship with the daughter of iron-manufacturing magnate William Coleman.

  But I wasn’t surprised at the directness of my mistress. She was only reminding her younger son about his familial duty to cement a relationship that would serve the Carnegies well in their quest to control iron. She wanted everyone to be very clear about where they ranked and what they were expected to do. In her own way, Mrs. Carnegie was every bit as unrelenting as her eldest son.

  The knitting needles stopped clicking as she noticed her younger son’s expression. “Why are you looking at me that way, Tom? You cannot leave everything to Andra. We all have our role to play.” Her voice was hard and unyielding.

  “Clara, tighten up that yarn,” she barked at me, reminding me that I too had my role to play and that I better play it well.

  Chapter Seventeen

  August 8, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  I needed space from the undercurrents of Fairfield after the scene in the library. Instead of retiring to Mrs. Stewart’s sitting room to tend to my darning, where I risked her prickly presence, I snuck past Hilda cleaning the glass chandeliers in the dining room and out the servants’ door off the kitchen. Thankfully, Mr. Ford was in the cellar gathering a basket of vegetables for the evening’s supper, or I wouldn’t have dared. His eyes were kindly but watchful, and I cared too much about his opinion of me to have him catch me in a lie or defend me in one, especially after suffering through a torrent of untruths from the elder Mr. Carnegie.

  Once outside, I leaned against the back wall of the Carnegies’ home and inhaled. Did I dare to duck out farther from Mrs. Carnegie’s reach? And even longer? I didn’t want to jeopardize my position—my family was depending on me now more than ever—but the backyard of the Carnegie mansion wasn’t far enough. Not today.

  Skirting the perimeter of the Fairfield property, I walked down Reynolds Street, toward the little row of shops that formed the center of Homewood. I could defend my presence on the main thoroughfare as running a necessary errand for Mrs. Carnegie, but I’d have no excuse once I deviated from it. Glancing behind me to be certain no familiar face followed me, I veered off Reynolds Street into the neighborhood park, an outdoor space that was part sculpted gardens and part farmland.

  An abundance of trees greeted me once I stepped through the park gates. Sour cherry and apples trees competed with maples, lindens, and elms for my attention. Bordering the trees were flowers in nearly every hue. Cows and goats inhabited a fallow field in the distance beyond the park’s manicured lawns, and the noises of the animals reminded me of home. Would I ever see Galway again? What sort of life would I have there if I returned, especially now that Lord Martyn was whittling away the farm? But what sort of life would I have here if I stayed in service to the Carnegies? I felt mournful and adrift.

  Farther down the winding gravel path sat a bench, and I gravitated toward it. Peering around the park to make sure there were no witnesses to my lazy moment, I finally sat down. A shaft of sunlight emerged from behind the cloud cover, and I closed my eyes, allowing my posture to slacken as I turned these questions around and around in my mind.

  Footsteps registered in the distance, but I paid them no mind until they grew closer. By the time I was about to rise, a man sat down on the park bench next to me. It was the elder Mr. Carnegie. I straightened my bearing, ready to stand, when he motioned for me to remain sitting.

  “I see you’ve discovered my favorite hiding spot, Miss Kelley.” His manner was affable, as if the scene in the library had never transpired.

  “I apologize if I have intruded upon it, s-sir,” I stammered, trying to decide whether I should defend my presence here or fall upon my sword. Once again, Mr. Carnegie had caught me in a place I shouldn’t be, and I couldn’t keep relying on his discretion. Especially now that I saw the lengths he would go to accomplish his ends.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t, Miss Kelley.”

  “I’m not certain I understand your meaning, sir.”

  “Pardon me for being bold, but I think we are both hiding from the same person. My mother.”

  I sat up straighter. Had Mrs. Carnegie spied me leaving the house and sent her son out here to test me? I may have been brash in sneaking away instead of tending to my chores, but I wasn’t foolish enough to fall into the trap of maligning her, if that was their game. “It is my pleasure to serve your mother, sir. I am thankful for my position, and I would never want her to think I was hiding from her.”

  Mr. Carnegie looked hurt at my response. “I thought we’d reached an accord, Miss Kelley—that in this confusing world we inhabit, we shared a certain honesty.”

  Honesty? That was a rich remark in light of the stratagems I had just witnessed. While I sensed a certain shared kinship with Mr. Carnegie based on the few encounters we’d had outside Fairfield, he was hardly a banner-carrier of truth, and I’d been anything but fully candid with him. In fact, I’d buried my actual identity and refashioned myself entirely into a different Clara Kelley than the one I’d been born. The only honesty he’d received was the frankness of certain opinions and emotions, not the truthfulness of biography. In any event, true honesty at this moment would mean confessing that I was running not only from his mother, but also from the dishonest machinations to which he’d just subjected his family. The way in which he’d just bamboozled his mother, brother, and close friend astounded me.

  I was too wary of him to respond.

  He said, �
��I’m sorry you had to witness that unfortunate exchange with my brother. And see that side of my mother and me for that matter. If you understood more about our history, perhaps you wouldn’t judge us—Mother especially—so harshly.”

  “I don’t judge your family harshly, sir,” I interjected, although my opinion of Mr. Carnegie was the one under duress at that moment.

  “I cannot imagine this afternoon’s conversation left anything but bitterness in your mouth. Will you give me leave to explain?”

  I nodded. “Of course, sir. Though you have no obligation to do so.”

  “When we left Dunfermline in 1848, I was twelve and Tom was four, a white-haired child with beautiful, black eyes. We were destitute. My father had been a weaver—he made damask, to be precise, which made him a king among working folk in our town—but the industrial tide had turned against his profession, and he couldn’t adapt. Maybe he didn’t want to adapt, because any new position would have been lower than his high perch. Mother did the best she could to support us by running a sweetshop out of our home during the day and taking in cobbling at night, while my father sat idle in our cottage, staring at his empty loom. It wasn’t enough to keep us boys in food and shoes. My aunt had settled in Pittsburgh, and Mother thought our chances were better here. She scraped together the fare—leaving a trail of debts in Dunfermline that we have since repaid—and we made the journey to the dankest parts of Pittsburgh, where our relatives lived off work in the foundries. Father fared no better once we arrived. In fact, he seemed worse, spending days staring off in the distance, while Mother came to the family’s rescue by taking in work cobbling shoes again. We would not have survived if she had not supported our family. She was our heroine. My father passed away within the year.”

  “My condolences, sir,” I said.

  “Thank you, Miss Kelley. In truth, it felt as though my father left us long before his actual death. Supporting our family—including Tom—fell to me, although my mother continued bringing in wages as well with her shoemaking in the late-night hours, in addition to all the housework she had to undertake. That’s the way it’s been ever since, even though Tom does help out at my behest at the different companies in which I’ve invested. It doesn’t excuse the dynamic you witnessed today, but hopefully, it gives some context. Mother is determined that we will never experience poverty again. And so am I. I am ever mindful of my duty to them.” He paused, his eyes glazed as if imagining those difficult times.