Carnegie's Maid

by Marie Benedict

  On the morning of the fourth day, I brought Mrs. Carnegie’s breakfast tray down to the kitchen and bumped into Mrs. Stewart, who was directing Hilda and Mary on their daily cleaning routine. “Apologies,” I said with a quick curtsy.

  “Ah, Miss Kelley.” She looked away from her maids, who she treated firmly but with more affection than she’d ever shown me. “You have been so busy with your mistress that I have not had the opportunity to find you alone for some time. To deliver this.”

  Reaching into the depths of her apron pocket, she handed me a letter from my sister. I wondered how long she’d kept it in there, her passive way of reminding me that, even though I was not technically in her control, she still wielded some power over me. But instead of challenging her, an act that could only cause me trouble, I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”

  Mrs. Carnegie would be expecting me in a few minutes, but I could not wait to read my sister’s words. Apprehension had been eating away at me in the weeks since Eliza told me of their acreage loss, and I needed to know that she, Mum, Dad, and Cecelia were all right. I walked up the servants’ staircase, but instead of entering my mistress’s bedchamber directly, I tiptoed into the guest bedroom. Shutting the door behind me as quietly as I could, I lowered myself onto the exquisitely embroidered apple-green coverlet.

  Without shears to slit it open, I tore the paper as gently as possible. I did not want to lose a single one of Eliza’s words.

  My dearest sister,

  You have asked why I have not shared news with you but have only asked for yours. You were right to sense that I was holding back. Dad would not want me to write to you of our most recent happenings. Indeed, he forbade it, allowing me only the latitude to tell you we had lost acreage, but you and I have never kept secrets from one another. How can I keep one so grave?

  Our family has been struck by dual blows, Clara. Dad’s fears have become manifest. Lord Martyn made good on his insinuations to rescind the tenancy completely. Citing the treasonous nature of our father’s current Fenian ties, a blatant fabrication, he took back the land. He redistributed many of the acres to our neighbors, even the apathetic Malloys, and entered into a new tenancy with the remaining five. Our land is gone.

  Yet this is not the only misadventure, although the second stems from the first. When Daniel learned of the termination of Dad’s tenancy, he canceled our engagement. As the younger son, Daniel stands to inherit nothing from his own father, now that gavelkind has ended. He must marry a girl with land as dowry. And I no longer have any to share.

  I understand that Daniel had no choice, Clara. But I will not pretend that my heart is not shattered.

  We must leave Tuam for mother’s sister’s home near Galway City today, after selling most of our family’s furnishings for a fraction of their fair price. Aunt Catherine has offered us shelter on the third floor of her already crowded house, and the proximity of her home to the city is a blessing. We will be close enough to the factories to procure jobs if there are any, even though none of us are pleased to be moving to a place rumored to have grime and dirt in such abundance, it rivals your Pittsburgh.

  As we move away from the farm, we will be more grateful than you know for the regular money you send us and more thankful than ever of your prosperity in America. Without your work and Aunt Catherine’s charity, I am not certain how we would survive this terrible time. Maintaining his usual bullishness in the face of this devastating development, Dad insists that we will prevail in Galway City and return to Tuam to reclaim our land and right ourselves, but I do not share his confidence. We may survive, but how will we thrive?

  Please direct your letters to the St. Nicholas Parish Church in Galway City. Aunt Catherine thinks it is the safest way to ensure delivery of your mail. Pray for us, dear sister.

  Yours,

  Eliza

  My body trembled with Eliza’s news. Even though Dad had sent me to America to hedge against this possibility, I never truly believed that the farm would be lost. The shock of the anticipated catastrophe becoming real was too much to bear.

  Sobs wracked my body, but no tears streamed down my face. My eyes remained dry. The dispossession was a tragedy that no mere tears could capture. Unless their fortunes changed in some dramatic and inexplicable way, the fate of my entire family now rested upon me.

  Chapter Twenty

  December 12, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  It no longer mattered whether coincidence alone dictated my separation from Mr. Carnegie over the following weeks. I could not allow myself to wonder whether Mr. Carnegie was avoiding me by taking trips to iron plants in neighboring states. I knew the iron projects were legitimate enough. A review of the papers scattered across my mistress’s escritoire confirmed that Mr. Carnegie was hard at work with Mr. Miller, overseeing the construction of a state-of-the-art iron rolling mill for Cyclops Iron, and his travel focused on inspections of other such mills. But the haste of his departure and its duration were unexpected, as my mistress constantly lamented, particularly since he would miss the holiday dinner the family was hosting that evening. I had to believe that his absence was a blessing for me, because I could not afford to think about him as anything other than an employer, and the specter of Miss Atkinson—what she had or had not seen—loomed large in my mind. The letter from Eliza lodged a new wave of fear within me over losing my job; I could do nothing to jeopardize my position as Mrs. Carnegie’s lady’s maid.

  I stiffened my resolve to work even harder to become whatever this land required of me for my family’s sake. This was the unassailable duty I owed to them.

  • • •

  “Pull the corset a bit tighter, Clara. Please.”

  Mrs. Carnegie only said please when it was just we two. I looped my fingers around the silken threads of the corset and pulled with all my might. Somehow, I managed to tighten it around my mistress’s generous waist, slimming it by at least a quarter of an inch. Reaching for the black silk gown purchased for the holiday dinner the Carnegies were hosting, I slipped it over the corset and corset cover. As I cleaned the gown with a brush purchased specifically for this new dress, I examined its many ruffles and ebony crystals, marveling at the cost of a gown that looked almost identical to many black silk frocks in her armoire. The same sum of money would have allowed Patrick’s wife to stop taking in needlework for a year, which she did by candlelight after her five children had gone to sleep. It would permit my family to rent a simple house of their own for upward of a year.

  After I finished buttoning up the back of her gown, my mistress stood to examine herself in the full-length mirror near her armoire. I stood by her side as she spun her gown around until the crystals sparkled. “It looks well, doesn’t it, Clara?” she said, glancing at me in the mirror’s reflection. No matter how poorly she treated me in front of others, she sought my affirmation in private.

  To my eye, the somber gown looked like all the rest. But to her, the difference of a pleat or a ruffle meant the world. I was careful to keep my face composed as I answered, “It is exquisite, Mrs. Carnegie.”

  “It’s not butter upon bacon, is it?”

  I almost laughed to hear Mrs. Carnegie, who was usually so careful to avoid slang in her language, use Mum’s phrase that meant overly extravagant. “No, ma’am.”

  She smiled at herself in the mirror, an awkward grin that I’d seen her practice in the mirror before social engagements. Then she settled back into her dressing-table chair so I could finish buffing her nails and tending to her hair. After I secured the last piece of lace onto her regrettably old-fashioned hairstyle, I took my leave. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Carnegie. I will see you at day’s end.”

  “Where do you think you’re going, Clara?”

  “To await you after your dinner party, ma’am.” She had not given me any instructions for the evening, so I assumed I would wait for the dinner to conclude from
my bedroom. Piles of worn stockings demanded my attention, and I preferred to do the darning from my room rather than Mrs. Stewart’s sitting room, where I was permitted but plainly not wanted.

  “I will need you to stand by with the chatelaine. Mrs. Pitcairn is coming to the dinner tonight.”

  “My apologies, ma’am. I did not see her name on the guest list.”

  “Earlier this week, she had declined our invitation on the basis on illness, but she seems to have recovered. There must be some bit of gossip she wants to hear if she is willing to put aside one of her many manufactured ailments to join us.” Mrs. Carnegie, never bedridden herself, had no sympathy for others’ sickness.

  “Of course, ma’am. I will assemble the chatelaine, and I will be at the ready.”

  Taking my leave, I trotted up the back staircase to my bedroom, where I kept the chatelaine. After checking to ensure that the scissors, thimbles, thread, combs, powder, brushes, and smelling salts were all in place, I latched the container shut and walked back down the stairs. As I passed through the kitchen on my way to the entryway, Mr. Ford glanced up at me from the table, where he was putting sprigs of rosemary on a lamb dish.

  “Mrs. Pitcairn must have accepted the dinner invitation,” he said with a smile.

  I laughed and lifted up the chatelaine. “How did you guess?”

  “Brace yourself. It’ll be a long night without the master at dinner.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Ford?”

  “Have you ever served at a meal where the elder Mr. Carnegie couldn’t preside?”

  I thought back upon the past formal evenings at Fairfield or houses of the Carnegies’ acquaintances where I’d been in attendance and shook my head. Mr. Carnegie had always been present.

  “Well, consider who will be sitting at the heads of the table,” he said, obliquely referring to Mrs. Carnegie and the quiet, younger Mr. Carnegie. Leaving me with that thought, he returned to his task.

  Chatelaine in hand, I passed into the formal area of the house and took my place in the entryway outside the parlor, where Mrs. Carnegie, the younger Mr. Carnegie, and their guests were having aperitifs before dinner. I listened as the talk drifted from the successful Union Shenandoah Valley campaign in the autumn to the recent reelection of President Abraham Lincoln. The conversation, mostly dominated by the gentlemen, was hopeful and light, perhaps because of the ladies’ presence. When a lull descended upon the group, Mr. Holyrod stepped into the parlor and announced dinner.

  The Carnegies, the Wilkinses, the Pitcairns, the Dallases, and Miss Atkinson and her father, Dr. Atkinson, walked by me in the entryway as they made their way into the dining room. My heart started beating quickly at the sight of Miss Atkinson, who I had not expected at this occasion. She and her father had originally declined the invitation as well.

  Even though I kept my eyes downcast as they passed by and so couldn’t be certain, I felt Miss Atkinson’s eyes on me. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, and I prayed to Mary that I was wrong. That I was looking for trouble where there was none.

  I waited until I heard their chairs finish sliding under the table to take my next place in the back service hallway within earshot of the dining room. The dining room was almost silent as Mr. Holyrod and his footmen served the first course, a savory watercress soup. Silver clanged on porcelain as the guests began sampling Mr. Ford’s creation, and the awkward quiet was finally broken by conversation about the excellent first course, which Mrs. Carnegie attributed to Mr. Ford, her cook.

  With the mention of Mr. Ford, the group seized upon the topic of servants, relieved to have a ready subject to fill the void. The ladies took the lead as they analyzed their housekeepers, butlers, footmen, and maids in turn, each complimenting the other on their choices. My ears pricked up when I heard Mrs. Wilkins reference her lady’s maid. It was only a matter of time before I was mentioned.

  “You seem to have done quite well in your choice of Clara, Mrs. Carnegie,” Mrs. Pitcairn said.

  I held my breath, waiting to see what Mrs. Carnegie would say about me. “She is certainly an improvement on the previous lady’s maids Mrs. Seeley sent over to me. Her training in the finer houses in Dublin, of course, gave her a solid footing for this role, although I did have to submit her to a rigorous reeducation to make her suitable for an American household.”

  “You have done a fine job,” Mrs. Pitcairn responded, to which Mrs. Wilkins agreed.

  I smiled to myself at Mrs. Carnegie’s compliment and the ladies’ concurrence. It seemed that at least one hurdle in my strange new life—that of pretending to be Clara Kelley, experienced lady’s maid—was succeeding.

  Miss Atkinson, never one to hold her tongue, was strangely quiet during this exchange. When the ladies were done congratulating each other on their fine efforts molding their respective staffs, Miss Atkinson spoke into the conversational gap. “Your Clara does seem to be an excellent servant, although I swear I saw her in the park in the middle of the day a few weeks ago. I recall seeing her because it struck me as peculiar that she would be out without her mistress at that time of day.”

  My fear, nebulous and gnawing, took on sharp and vivid form. Miss Atkinson had seen me in the park. She had simply been waiting for this dramatic moment to report it. Would she inform everyone about Mr. Carnegie’s presence next?

  “The park?” Mrs. Carnegie asked. “That can’t be, Miss Atkinson. I keep Clara to a strict schedule, and she spends the afternoons with me or in the housekeeper’s room doing her mending.”

  I could almost hear the smile in Miss Atkinson’s voice as she replied, “I am quite certain it was her, Mrs. Carnegie. I’ve seen her often enough at your side to recognize her and her awful coat. You do not doubt me, do you?”

  I knew my mistress wouldn’t dare challenge Miss Atkinson directly. Her position in this society was too tenuous for open disagreement with someone as well-established as Miss Atkinson. Only with her sons would she reveal her feisty nature. Instead, Mrs. Carnegie would feel honor-bound to raise Miss Atkinson’s charge with me privately and then report back to Miss Atkinson about my punishment. Firing was not out of the question, in light of the public nature of Miss Atkinson’s claim.

  I heard Mrs. Carnegie’s sharp intake of breath as she readied her reply when the sound of a door slamming echoed throughout the dining room.

  “Andra, you made it!” my mistress exclaimed with evident relief.

  I could imagine her beaming at her son with the first real smile of the evening, made even brighter by the respite he had just granted her from Miss Atkinson. Despite my trepidation at his homecoming, I was grateful for my mistress’s distraction from Miss Atkinson and whatever damaging news she would report next.

  With the garrulous Mr. Carnegie taking over from his recalcitrant younger brother at the head of the table, the mood grew merry. The talk danced from business to politics to the war to neighborhood gossip without a single delayed beat. I could envision Mr. Carnegie’s bright eyes and optimistic outlook infecting the table with ease, and despite my own discomfort, I felt relieved at his return.

  Mr. Holyrod and the footmen traipsed back and forth, switching out the watercress soup for scalloped oysters and then bringing out the rosemary lamb and creamed potatoes I’d watched Mr. Ford prepare. The delicious smells wafting by me made my stomach grumble, as only cold ham, pickled cabbage, and apple slices had been on offer for the servants tonight. But I knew movement into the kitchen for any leftover food was out of the question. I would have to await Mr. Ford’s generosity after our masters and mistress retired for the night.

  Mr. Holyrod and James together began to carry a towering charlotte russe across the threshold when an enormous clatter sounded from the dining room.

  “Clara, come here at once!” Mrs. Carnegie called out.

  I raced into the dining room to find Mrs. Pitcairn unconscious on the floor, the ladies forming a circle ar
ound her while her husband knelt by her side. Her coloring was high and her breath shallow.

  Reaching into the chatelaine, I pulled out the smelling salts and held them under Mrs. Pitcairn’s nose. The strong scent did nothing to revive her, alarming the ladies. It was common enough for a lady to faint during a social occasion but quite uncommon for the smelling salts not to trigger the lady back to a state of alertness.

  I stood up for a moment and whispered into Mrs. Carnegie’s ear, “Perhaps Mr. Carnegie could bring the guests into the parlor. I will need to loosen her dress to improve her breathing.”

  After a quiet word from his mother, Mr. Carnegie led the gentlemen and all the ladies excepting my mistress into the parlor. While Mr. Holyrod sent for the doctor, I undid the buttons on the back of Mrs. Pitcairn’s dress and tugged open the corset lacing. Spreading her dress as wide as possible in the circumstances, I waved the smelling salts in front of her face again. No response. I pulled her bodice wide open—far wider than decorum would allow—and held the salts directly under her nose. This time, she gasped and opened her eyes wide.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” I heard Mrs. Carnegie whisper.

  I leaned Mrs. Pitcairn up against me to facilitate her breathing.

  “It isn’t the Lord you should thank,” Mrs. Pitcairn croaked between breaths, “but your Clara here.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  December 12, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  The last guests had taken their leave. The staff had retired for the night, even Mr. Ford, who often worked until the early hours before dawn as sleep didn’t come easily to him. I had finished readying Mrs. Carnegie for bed. To my astonishment, she had muttered not a word about Mrs. Pitcairn or Miss Atkinson. I wondered whether my efforts with Mrs. Pitcairn had absolved me of Miss Atkinson’s accusations, but in truth, I doubted it and knew not where I stood with my mistress.