Carnegie's Maid

by Marie Benedict

  As I ran up those stairs, I thought about how, in the darkness, in the privacy of my room, after a long day tending to the mercurial Mrs. Carnegie, I had begun to think about Mr. Carnegie as more than a business tutor again. I considered how, when daylight came, I carefully banished those thoughts so that they didn’t emerge in his presence. Equilibrium was necessary for the delicate balance of the shifting roles I played daily. Roles, I reminded myself, upon which my family depended for their survival, in truth. But now, with Mr. Carnegie’s changeable nature laid bare, I would have to work harder to keep those thoughts at bay. I would have to be more cautious on the tightrope I walked, for it could shift on his whim.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  May 3, 1866

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  “Clara, please help the ladies. This weather has played havoc with their grooming,” Mrs. Carnegie ordered me as a stream of bedraggled whist-playing ladies entered the foyer for an afternoon of tea and games.

  A late-spring storm had deluged the area with sideways-whipping rain. In the brief distance they’d stepped from their carriages to the entrance of Fairfield, the Homewood ladies were drenched.

  “Ladies, if you will follow me.” I gestured to the main staircase to the second floor, where my mistress kept a luxuriously appointed spare bedroom stocked and ready for this purpose. I began walking upstairs, checking to see if the ladies were in my wake. Behind me, I overheard their lamentations about the weather, through which they had passed only very briefly. I thought about the daily downpours endemic to life in Galway and how very pampered these ladies were.

  Mrs. Pitcairn, Mrs. Wilkins, and Mrs. Coleman followed me into the bedroom decorated with apple-green-striped fabric and matching wallpaper. Mrs. Pitcairn leaned back onto the tufted chaise longue to catch her breath after the flight of stairs; she could go no farther in her tight corsets without rest. Mrs. Coleman glanced at herself in the gilded dressing table mirror, adjusting her elaborate coiffure. What she lacked in conversational ability, she made up for in hairstyles. I offered to brush Mrs. Wilkins’s lavender dress free of the raindrops, and soon, all the ladies were requesting this service.

  Kneeling in front of the ladies, who were lined up for my ministrations, I listened first to the gripes about the weather by Mrs. Wilkins, who, as the wife of Judge William Wilkins, one of the region’s wealthiest individuals, and as the daughter of George W. Dallas, a former vice president of the United States, was always Mrs. Carnegie’s most respected guest. Once I’d tidied Mrs. Wilkins’s dress, it was Mrs. Coleman’s turn to speak on her only topic. She droned on about the summer wedding plans of her daughter, Lucy, to Tom Carnegie, about which not even the minutest detail escaped her attention, even though it was to be held, in part, at Fairfield. Finally, Mrs. Pitcairn, having calmed her breath with a respite on the chaise longue, took her turn. She complained about the weather, her butler, her florist, the church pastor, her health, and, most vehemently, the challenge of communicating with her married daughter who lived in Philadelphia. The other ladies commiserated with all of Mrs. Pitcairn’s complaints, well-known to all her acquaintances, but particularly her communication difficulties. Telegraph service, they carped, was notoriously spotty. Even the slightest change in the weather, they claimed, could knock down a telegraph pole, causing disruption in transmitting critical messages about important social events. How could a nation as advanced as the United States, they wondered, have such an abominable telegraph system?

  I stopped brushing Mrs. Pitcairn’s dress as a thought occurred to me. The Pennsylvania Railroad owned land that stretched across the entire state, and whenever they needed more, they simply bought out the inhabitants, as they had with St. Patrick Catholic church. And they ran their own personal telegraph lines alongside the railroads. What if a business was formed that ran public telegraph lines alongside the railroad lines, with the Pennsylvania Railroad’s permission, of course? There would be greater ability to observe the state of the telegraph lines, as trains were constantly passing by, as well as improved capacity to fix telegraph lines downed or impaired by weather, as the rails provided an easy means to bring workers to the scene immediately. I knew precisely who would be able to secure the permission of the Pennsylvania Railroad and form such a telegraph company.

  Mrs. Pitcairn chided me to return to the task at hand. “Clara, I think you’ve missed the left side of my gown.” The state of her cerulean-blue silk gown with dove-gray tassels was paramount.

  Resuming the brushing, I smiled to myself. It was incredible how, once I understood the business of this land, insight came in unexpected places.

  The smile lingered on my lips as I followed the ladies back downstairs, the ever-present chatelaine in hand. I imagined the expression on Mr. Carnegie’s face when I shared my idea with him later that day.

  “Ah, my grandson has arrived,” Mrs. Pitcairn called out.

  Grandson? I had heard nothing of Mrs. Pitcairn’s beloved grandson—about whom she often spoke, to the boredom of my mistress—making an appearance at the tea, intended for adult ladies. Mrs. Carnegie would not be pleased.

  With the parade of ladies on the staircase in front of me, I could not see the landing. When Mrs. Pitcairn swooshed down the final step, I saw a young boy, outfitted in a crisp, white sailor suit, his hand locked with a maid’s. From the sour, thin-lipped expression on Mrs. Carnegie’s face when she entered the parlor to greet the refreshed ladies, I saw that my prediction was correct.

  “Who do we have here?” my mistress asked, although she knew the precise identity of this child. Mrs. Pitcairn had spoken of her grandson incessantly since her son, Robert, had returned to Pittsburgh after a stint in New York City, although she lamented that they chose Sewickley in which to reside instead of Homewood.

  Mrs. Pitcairn chimed in, “My sweet, little Robert Jr., of course. When I learned that he would be in the neighborhood, I insisted that his nanny, Miss Quinn, bring him over for a brief visit. I know you ladies have been aching for a peek at him.” The ladies made a show of swarming around the lad.

  Miss Quinn? I hadn’t heard that name since the carriage ride to Pittsburgh from Philadelphia, although I supposed Quinn was a common enough last name. When the ladies scattered, in search of tea and sweets in the parlor, I got a clear glance at a familiar face and an equally familiar dress, wide pagoda sleeves and all.

  My stomach lurched at the sight of her, remembering the unkind behavior meted out by Misses Quinn and Coyne on that journey and recalling the state I was in when they first saw me. Could an ill-timed reference to my bedraggled dress and rucksack ruin my status here? I decided that the safest course was to embrace the part of the other Clara Kelley. In truth, wasn’t she who I had become?

  “Miss Quinn, it has been a long time. What a pleasure,” I said in my poshest voice, as if greeting an old bosom friend.

  “Miss Kelley?” The sight of me, poised and in command, seemed to daze Miss Quinn. She clung to her young charge’s hand like a lifeline.

  “Yes, indeed. The same Miss Kelley you first encountered in a carriage in Philadelphia.”

  “The Carnegie household has treated you well indeed. You are much transformed, Miss Kelley.” She stared at my composed face, updated coiffure, and perfectly pressed black wool dress.

  “I will take that as a compliment, Miss Quinn.”

  “That was my intent,” she answered quickly, with a quivering voice. Why was I making her fearful? Did she think I’d exact some sort of retribution for her earlier rudeness? Had I changed that much?

  “How have you fared in service? I seem to remember you were assigned to a family in the East End of the city, but I heard Mrs. Pitcairn say you were in from Sewickley. And she mentioned that you were Robert’s nanny. I thought you and Miss Coyne came to this country to serve a tutors.”

  “After my first posting, Mrs. Seeley decided I was better suited as a nanny.” She glance
d down at Robert Jr.

  “That must have smarted.” This small barb slipped out from between my lips before I could reel it back in.

  “It did, but I realized that I had to adapt or return home. And there’s little work as a tutor or nanny in Dublin.”

  “True enough,” I concurred. She and I had that in common.

  She glanced around. “You landed well, Miss Kelley. The other nannies I encounter often talk of your Mr. Carnegie.”

  My cheeks felt hot. “Whatever do you mean?” Why was my Mr. Carnegie the subject of conversation among the local domestics? The intensity of my jealousy and possessiveness surprised me. I had thought of my feelings for him as quiet and pensive.

  “I hear that Mr. Carnegie is well on his way to becoming a leader in the railroad and iron industries. Some say he will be the richest man in the world one day.”

  I smiled at her compliment. “The Carnegie home has indeed been an excellent place to serve.”

  “Miss Kelley,” a man’s voice called out, followed by the clip of a well-heeled footstep. The broad grin and bright eyes of Mr. Carnegie lit up the foyer. “Ah, there you are. Will you settle a bet between Tom and me about Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning? You are the expert, after all.”

  Miss Quinn looked over in astonishment at the high regard in which my master, the famed Mr. Carnegie, held me. Curtsying in farewell to her, I grinned at him, thinking that Miss Quinn was correct. I had indeed transformed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  June 14, 1866

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  The guests cheered as the elder Mr. Carnegie held up his crystal goblet for a toast. “To Lucy, the lovely bride of my dear brother, Thomas. We welcome you into the Carnegie family.” He glanced over at his mother as he spoke, instead of the rather wan, nervous bride to whom he referred.

  My mistress gave him a rare, broad smile. Her long-held aspirations that her youngest son would marry one of Pittsburgh’s most eligible society maidens, conveniently also the daughter of an iron scion, had come to fruition. Perhaps even more rewarding to her was that the dreaded “Committee of Matrimony” had been an empty threat, and my mistress still had her Andra at her side.

  From the vantage point of my post behind Mrs. Carnegie, I looked at the bride and groom. Wearing an ivory lace wedding gown, the pale color made fashionable by Queen Victoria for her own wedding, the new Mrs. Carnegie made the traditional gown her own by adding a cascade of ruffles on the skirt and swaths of handmade Scottish lace on the bodice. Again adhering to the customs made popular by the English queen, in her brown, upswept hair, the bride wore a wreath made of orange blossoms, which symbolized purity, and myrtle, which represented love and domestic happiness and brought a haze of innocent loveliness to the otherwise rather plain bride. She carried these same flowers in her bouquet, and they filled every silver vase on the expanded dining room table. The intense citrus and herbal aroma of the flowers permeated the room, bringing the warmth of the summer day indoors.

  The wedding guests, crowded around the dining table made festive with a pressed linen-and-Belgian-lace tablecloth and a new set of china engraved with the couple’s initials in silver, raised their glasses. Sunlight streamed through the clear glass of the dining room windows, turning the crimson cabernet filling the raised goblets into glistening, suspended rubies. The groom leaned toward the bride, her downturned eyes hesitant, and they bestowed upon one another a delicate kiss, perhaps their first.

  As the crystal clinked, Mr. Holyrod and the footmen simultaneously set out the first course on the table, scalloped oysters. The guests, nearly all Homewood friends familiar with one another from many occasions together but for two Scottish relatives who had been dressed up for the occasion and tucked into a remote corner of the table, grew merry. I kept my eyes and ears open for interesting tidbits, but the chatter around me centered on the day’s ceremony and the lavish feast spread before them.

  In between courses, the bride’s father cleared his throat and then stood up. Mrs. Carnegie shot a concerned look at her elder son, and I too wondered what Mr. Coleman was doing. He had already given the first toast to the bride and groom, and with that, his responsibilities had ended. It seemed he had a second toast in mind.

  Mr. Coleman raised his glass. “It isn’t often that you perceive the family your daughter is joining as your own kin, especially if they are from far-flung Scotland”—he paused while the guests laughed—“but Mrs. Coleman and I do. We feel blessed to be joining the Carnegie and Coleman families and would like everyone to raise a glass to our fruitful unions.”

  Fruitful unions? Even though I knew Mr. Coleman ostensibly referred to another sort of fruitfulness, I almost laughed thinking about how “fruitful” the iron manufacturing and oil drilling union of Mr. Coleman and Mr. Carnegie had been. It was one of Mr. Carnegie’s few ventures outside his dealings with Messrs. Scott and Thomson.

  Mr. Coleman and the elder Mr. Carnegie raised their goblets to each other, and I realized this toast was not for the newlyweds. My mistress beamed at her older son. In her eyes and those of Mr. Coleman, this day was as much his as it was his younger brother’s.

  Mr. Holyrod and his team of footmen cleared the oysters, and another course appeared, this time, lobster salad. This parade occurred seven times over the next two hours, delighting the guests with plates of pineapple salad, consommé royale, roast sirloin with horseradish sauce, braised spinach and asparagus, trout quenelles, stuffed eggplant fruit, and roasted partridge with bread sauce. As the guests expressed their incredulity at the lavishness of each course, I couldn’t help but view the feast in quite a different way. To me, the sumptuous meal was no different from the decoration of Fairfield itself, as explained to me by Mr. Carnegie, with each course telegraphing to the guests an esteemed quality about their hosts.

  The presentation of the wedding cake was meant to follow the final course. But instead, Mr. Holyrod and the footmen laid out silver platters of meringues filled with coffee cream, canapés of caviar, cheese soufflés, and strawberries and cream. This disruption to my mistress’s carefully crafted schedule enraged her. I could tell from the tightening of her jaw and the squaring of her shoulders. But she did not want to appear anything other than refined on her son’s wedding day, so she continued talking with Mrs. Wilkins to her right as if the silver trays were meant to appear first.

  Knowing that my mistress was playing a part, I glanced around the room and wondered at what parts all the guests were playing. The Colemans seemed fat and comfortable on the iron and oil trade, but who were they really? Was Mrs. Coleman as vapid as she appeared and Mr. Coleman as ruthless? Perhaps, behind the closed doors of their own estate, it was quite the reverse. Maybe that was true of every guest. Certainly, it was true of me. My own family would have hardly recognized me.

  “Clara,” my mistress whispered to me, her face turned away from her guests. Unable to tolerate the disruption of her plan any longer, she asked me to see Mr. Ford about the whereabouts of the wedding cake.

  Curtsying to her back as I took my leave, I hurried down the back hallway into the kitchen. The wedding feast was nearing its end, which meant that everyone but Mr. Ford was in the scullery, scrubbing the mountain of china and silver that had been dirtied during the feast’s nine courses. The bulk of the work over, a mood of relief had settled upon them, as I could hear from their gentle jibing of one another, a sport in which even Mrs. Stewart partook on this celebratory occasion. It was a camaraderie for which I’d long given up hope.

  The wedding cake stood in the middle of the battered kitchen table. It was a delectable confection of three stacked cakes, each one a little smaller than the one beneath. Artfully festooned with white fondant swirls and curlicues, the beautiful cake was plated and ready for presentation. All except for the sugared rose petals that were meant to decorate the top layer, that was. Those lay on a plate beside the cake, and Mr. Ford stood next t
o it, immobile.

  I saw why Mr. Holyrod brought out the silver trays of delicacies before the cake in violation of Mrs. Carnegie’s orders. He had no choice. The cake itself wasn’t ready.

  “Mr. Ford, are you quite all right? Mrs. Carnegie is wondering where on earth the cake is. It was meant to be brought out before the pastries.”

  He didn’t answer me. He just stood there, eyes glazed, staring at nothing.

  “Mr. Ford,” I entreated him. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I looked into his eyes. “Mr. Ford, can you hear me?”

  His eyes focused somewhat, but he still did not seem clear. “It’s you, Clara. I mean, Miss Kelley.”

  “Mr. Ford, it is young Mr. Carnegie’s wedding day, and the guests are waiting on the cake. If you tell me what remains to be done, I can do it for you, and you can go take a rest.”

  Without answering my questions about the cake, he said, as if continuing a conversation we had been having, “You see, this wedding has put me in mind of my own wife. My Ruth. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her just now.”

  “I am certain Mr. Carnegie’s wedding has brought back memories, but—” I stopped myself from admonishing Mr. Ford to ready the cake. Wasn’t Mr. Ford’s heartbreak more important than the precise timing of the wedding cake? I decided to share with Mr. Ford a matter about which I’d been debating in the hopes it would help him. “Mr. Ford, after we discussed the letter from the Freedmen’s Bureau last winter, the one about your wife and daughter, I decided to talk over further measures with the elder Mr. Carnegie. I knew from several conversations that he was acquainted with General Oliver Howard, the man in charge of the Freedmen’s Bureau. Mr. Carnegie inquired of General Howard directly as to the whereabouts of your family, and the matter is being investigated again as we speak.”