I closed her door behind me and, exhausted, trudged toward the servants’ back staircase. The floorboards creaked loudly underfoot, but I thought I heard someone say my name amid their noise. Shaking my head, I disregarded the sound as the effect of a long day. But when I heard “Miss Kelley” again, I couldn’t blame it on my tiredness. Turning in the direction of my mistress’s chamber, I realized that the voice came not from her room but from the bottom of the main staircase.
Keeping my step light to prevent my mistress’s wakening, I walked toward the sound. At the base of the stairs stood the elder Mr. Carnegie. “May I have a word, Miss Kelley?”
Even though every instinct told me to decline—begged me to avoid another encounter that could be viewed as compromising by an observer—how could I say no to my master without causing less trouble than saying yes?
Instead of waiting for me as I descended the stairs, he began walking toward the library. I followed him through the dark and empty front hallway to the book-lined room. The library was dark, lit only by the fire crackling in the marble fireplace and the low gaslights above the mantel.
He closed the doors behind us and said, “You’ve had a trying day, Miss Kelley. May I pour you a restorative brandy?”
The comfortable rapport we had established during our park afternoons vanished for me once I stepped over the library threshold and he closed the door behind us. Although we’d met many times alone in the park, I felt a deep discomfort in his sole company in this setting. It seemed more fraught with risk to be alone with him behind the closed doors of the family library in the late hours. “I am fine, Mr. Carnegie.”
“Please, Miss Kelley. Allow me the honor.”
I made no move toward him, but I agreed to the drink. “Yes, sir.”
“Miss Kelley, I thought I told you to stop calling me sir,” he teased as he poured the drinks.
The amber liquid glowed in the crystal facets of the glass. Once my hand clasped around the brandy, he raised his glass in tribute to me. I nodded and tipped the drink to my lips. It tasted like fire and heaven all at once.
“We are in your debt, Miss Kelley. You saved a guest of this house.”
My exhale felt as fiery as that of a dragon. “Nonsense, sir. I mean, Mr. Carnegie. I was only doing my duty to your mother as her lady’s maid.” I hoped the pointed reference to my position might deflect an untoward conversation. The sort of talk he’d begun in the park, a discussion I half wanted to continue and half dreaded, particularly when I thought of my family.
“I think smelling salts were the limit of your duty, not the full breadth of resuscitation. Dr. Morton said that if you hadn’t acted so decisively, Mrs. Pitcairn might never have regained consciousness.”
“I’m just glad she has recovered, Mr. Carnegie.” I drained my glass, thinking I should leave the room as soon as civility allowed. “Thank you for the drink and appreciation. As you mentioned, it’s been a trying day, so I think I shall take my leave now.”
After curtsying my farewell, I passed by him on the way to the door.
His hand touched my arm. “Please don’t go, Miss Kelley. I-I feel that I owe you an explanation. You have been on my mind constantly since that day in the park”
I stopped walking, but I didn’t meet his gaze. I simply waited for him to speak, fearful and hopeful of what words might form on his lips, all the while telling myself that hope could be dangerous for my family. His hand remained on my arm as he spoke.
“Miss Kelley, when we last met in the park, I shared with you the sense of comfort and ease I experience in your presence. I told you about the admiration I feel for you and your intellect. And I confessed my deep feelings for you.” He paused, waiting for my acknowledgment.
“Yes.”
“I know that I spoke bluntly, perhaps too bluntly, but my sentiments were true. I feel something for you, Miss Kelley, that I’ve felt for no other lady. I know our circumstances are unusual, but I’m hoping we might reach a time where they might be less so.” He paused again.
I did not know how to answer. My feelings required one response while my obligations demanded another.
In the silence, he said, “But I do not want to presume. Might you feel the same way?”
I turned away from the door to face him. Drawing back from him such that his hand slipped away from my arm, I squared my shoulders and rose to my full height, small though that was. “Mr. Carnegie, I do not have the luxury of indulging any feelings I might have. Miss Atkinson saw us together in the park. While she did not mention seeing you at my side, she told your mother tonight that she witnessed me in the park during the middle of the day. An inexcusable act for a diligent lady’s maid.”
I expected a strong reaction from him, but his face retained its composure. “I will handle Mother, Miss Kelley. Please do not allow Miss Atkinson to upset you. If you share my feelings—”
I interrupted him. “Mr. Carnegie, I do not think you understand. I cannot let anything jeopardize my position here. Accusations by a well-established society lady like Miss Atkinson will ruin me not only with your mother but with any lady anywhere. I cannot lose the livelihood upon which not only I depend but my family does as well.”
“Miss Kelley, I cannot believe that a single sighting of you on a daytime stroll through the park would ruin your career forever.”
“A single sighting of me in the park on a daytime stroll with you would certainly ruin me forever, Mr. Carnegie. And I believe that, if pushed, Miss Atkinson would not hesitate to reveal your presence in the park alongside mine, particularly in light of her earlier sighting of us walking along Reynolds Street.”
Concern flickered across his face, but then the resolute expression returned to his eyes. Mr. Carnegie was used to getting precisely what he wanted. “Please allow me to handle this, Miss Kelley. There are many acceptable explanations for our presence together in the park that day. I cannot forgo our afternoons in the park because of Miss Atkinson’s pettiness.” His black eyes glimmered in the low licks of firelight. “Those hours mean too much to me. You mean too much to me.”
The warm brandy had softened me, and I almost agreed. I felt a kinship with Mr. Carnegie unlike any I’d ever known. My afternoons with him were the only moments of authenticity in a world brimming with artifice. Minutes where I could build a pathway to hope. But how could I imperil my family? I reminded myself of the narrow precipice between destitution and sustainability upon which they walked—the sole variable being my wages—and I steeled myself.
“Mr. Carnegie, please allow me to explain my situation. May I be as blunt as you have been with me?”
“Of course, Miss Kelley.”
“Ten years ago, when the famine raged in Ireland and I was still a young girl, my mother handed me a basket of freshly picked beets from our family garden plot to bring over to our neighbors. Like most of the local families aside from mine, the Flanagans had only a tiny garden, too small to have much crop diversity beyond the potatoes hit by the blight. Mother was worried because we hadn’t seen the Flanagans in almost two weeks, and although we could ill afford to part with food, we knew their circumstances were worse than our own. I tromped several acres through the woodland to the Flanagans’ small house on the heath. I knocked and knocked, but no one answered. I’d been taught never to open a neighbor’s door without permission, but I knew the food would be welcome, and I couldn’t risk leaving it outside where someone might steal it. So I pushed open the door.”
Tears filled my eyes. Even though the incident happened over ten years ago, the image burned in my mind. And my spirit.
“What did I find behind that door, Mr. Carnegie? The entire Flanagan family—mother, father, four-year-old son, and an infant daughter at her mother’s bosom—lay dead on the kitchen floor. Hunger had wasted them away to nothing. Their bones poked through the many layers of clothes they wore to stave off the winter cold made
worse by their starvation.”
I wiped away the tears trickling down my cheeks. “The potato famine may be gone, but Irish poverty is not, Mr. Carnegie. My family faces it every day. You’ve explained to me how the memory of poverty motivates you and inspires your strong sense of duty to your family. Well, the same memory haunts me and drives my decisions.”
I walked toward the door. Placing my hand upon the handle, I turned and looked back toward him. “So you see, Mr. Carnegie, I cannot entertain any feelings I may or may not have about you. And I cannot continue to endanger my family by meeting with you any longer.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
December 14, 1864
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
“Mother, you should not have been going through my papers.”
I froze. Knitting bag in hand, I had been heading to the parlor to help Mrs. Carnegie with a new scarf for the younger Mr. Carnegie. But I didn’t dare enter the parlor now. I had never heard the elder Mr. Carnegie speak harshly to his mother. Their exchanges took the form either of gentle ribbing or serious business conversations. This anger was unprecedented, and a troubling thought occurred to me. Did he have something in his papers about me?
“Are you accusing me of nosing about where I am not permitted, Andra? Since when am I not allowed access to your business papers?” My mistress was almost yelling at her beloved son.
“Those were not business papers, Mother. You read a draft of personal correspondence from me to Tom Scott.”
Relief coursed through me at hearing that Mr. Scott was the intended recipient of the letter. But I still didn’t enter the parlor. I waited in the servants’ back hallway instead. I hadn’t seen Mr. Carnegie since our encounter in the library two days ago, and I certainly did not want this tumultuous moment to be the first time.
“Personal correspondence?” She snorted. “I would hardly describe as personal a letter to your superior at the Pennsylvania Railroad, a man who has figured in our business discussions for years.”
“This particular letter was personal.” His voice was low, but his tone was seething.
“Do you consider personal a request to Mr. Scott that he help find you a position as American consul in Glasgow? A position that would leave behind me and Tom to handle the businesses you created, a responsibility for which Tom is not ready. How can something be personal when it affects our entire family?”
He was thinking of leaving for Scotland? Why? Because I pushed him away? Despite my efforts to bury any hope of a connection between us, I felt upset at the thought of this house—this life—without his presence. Stop, I told myself. It is for the best. Without Mr. Carnegie, there would be no temptation to stray from my duty.
“Mother, I am a successful twenty-eight-year-old man with my own private reasons for my request. A position in Scotland is the only enterprise I can contemplate at the moment. That’s all you need to know.”
“Andra, you know what they say. Any fool can earn money, but it takes a wise man to keep it. Right now, leaving behind the fortune you’ve amassed with only your inexperienced brother to tend to it, I’d say you’re acting the fool.”
“Mother, I don’t plan to leave without making certain that all the proper measures are in place, not only to keep the wealth we’ve made, but to expand it as well. You must trust me.”
She began sobbing. “Andra, I simply don’t understand. We have always talked through decisions. Why didn’t you discuss this with me first? Why won’t you talk to me about it now? How can you leave me and Tom?”
Mr. Carnegie did not answer. The man who had a ready quip for every remark was rendered silent by his mother’s grief.
Footsteps entered the room, and I heard the younger Mr. Carnegie ask, “What is going on in here? I could hear your voices all the way in my study, and the pair of you look mad as hops.”
I wanted to stay for Mr. Carnegie’s answer to his brother’s question, but I heard the clatter of my mistress’s feet on the main staircase. She’d had enough of her son. I raced through the kitchen—past a gawking Mr. Ford and Hilda who had been listening to the heated exchange between our master and mistress—and up the back staircase. I reached Mrs. Carnegie’s bedroom door before she arrived. I did not want her to think I’d been privy to the fight downstairs.
“May I help you, ma’am?” I asked as she huffed up the final stair toward the door.
“Yes, Clara,” she said, pushing past me into her bedchamber.
I followed her into her bedroom. Reaching for her elbow, I steadied my mistress as she settled back onto her chaise longue. Turning her back to me, she began to quietly weep.
I brought her a freshly ironed handkerchief from her drawer and asked, “Can I bring you something to calm you, ma’am? Your knitting perhaps? A book from the library?”
“I cannot think of a single object that would calm me, Clara.”
“Some tea and biscuits then? A small glass of brandy?”
“The only thing that would console me right now is the allegiance of my eldest son. And I do not think that is something you can deliver.”
Of that, I was certain. In fact, I think I had been the one to deliver his disloyalty.
Chapter Twenty-Three
February 22, 1865
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Dearest Clara,
The factory jobs were not as plentiful as we had hoped. In fact, Galway City has a surprising dearth of industry. Given the amount of water running from nearby Lough Corrib, the city could power many mills. But farming still dominates, leaving us with few opportunities for work. Dad was able to secure a job at Persse’s Distillery, which sits on Nun’s Island, formed by a fork in the River Corrib, and produces more whiskey than any other distillery outside of Dublin. He will be working as one of the men heating the liquids in the mash machines, a dangerous position. In fact, the job only became open because the man who’d held it previously died from his burns. Mum refused to allow him to take it at first until she realized that no other job would be forthcoming. And so she relented.
There was nothing for me or Mum, so we will have to contribute by taking in piecework from a local seamstress, but astonishingly, Cecelia found a temporary post also at Persse’s Distillery. She will be helping sell the residual mash left over from the distillation process to local farmers who use it for feeding their cattle. When you think about all the convincing farmers need to buy that mash—we’ve all heard the rumors about how it taints the cows’ milk—you can understand why the distillery folk chose Cecelia. With her bronze hair and striking green eyes, she is the picture of innocence, capable of distracting a wary farmer from his hesitations over buying the mash.
The wages are low, and of course, we have to purchase our food as there is no land upon which we can plant seed. We will have money enough to eat and contribute to Aunt Catherine’s household, but little left over even for the necessaries. The money you send us is more important now than ever, and we say prayers nightly for your continued success.
I hope your Pittsburgh is cleaner than this outpost that calls itself a city. Even though factories and mills are few, the foul air spewing from them leaves an indelible mark upon the city streets, buildings, and people. I understand now that the fresh air of rural Tuam spoiled me forever. Coughing, from Aunt Catherine’s family, from her neighbors, even from Mum, Dad, and Cecelia, especially given our constant, close proximity to one another, is more prevalent now than the chirping of birds once was. Do you despair of a clean breath as well?
Upon reading this letter, I see that I have painted a bleak picture for you. The actuality of our daily life is not as despairing. We have each other, and we have the support of Aunt Catherine and her family. And that is more than many in these hungry days. Worry not.
Please write me, Clara, with more details of your new American life. Tell me tales of your wealthy masters and mistress, until I c
an imagine a life as grand.
Until then, I am forever yours,
Eliza
I dipped my pen in the inkwell, intending to invent stories for Eliza’s entertainment. I even wrote the name “Mr. Carnegie” before my pen stopped. I was unable to pretend anything for Eliza when it came to him.
The details of the Carnegies’ lavish life would not be invention, of course, but the ebullience and happiness that she imagined it brought would be. Ever since our encounter in the library and Mr. Carnegie’s conversation about Scotland with his mother, Mr. Carnegie’s business trips had grown longer, and his presence became more and more uncommon. Without him and his uplifting spirit, a dreariness had settled upon Fairfield, particularly on my mistress. I shuddered to think what the house might be like if he should get his wish of a consular post in Scotland.
The only consolation for me was that as Mrs. Carnegie grew ever more despondent, her dependence upon me grew. Although I loathed the reason behind this, I knew that I’d achieved the indispensability I’d sought. And that it would serve my family well.
Chapter Twenty-Four
April 15, 1865
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The Scottish consular position sought by Mr. Carnegie did not come to fruition. My mistress was elated at the news, but only until her son made plain that he intended to leave Pittsburgh regardless. He never explained to her his need to flee, although I understood. And he knew it.
Mr. Carnegie continued to keep busy, away from Fairfield. On those few occasions he could not avoid me, I would feel his eyes on me as I served his mother, and quiet would overcome the previously gregarious Mr. Carnegie. Only on social occasions would he reenter the fray, turning back into the affable, confident industrialist. This transformation, striking in its quickness, often reminded me of a conversation he and I shared in a rare moment alone in the Fairfield parlor.
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