Too soon, we pulled up to the entrance of the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway at Broome Street. En route, Andrew had informed his mother that the hotel was so lavish, the first building to cost over one million dollars to construct, that it ended the Astor House’s status at the city’s leading hotel. I had grown used to his excited hyperbole but soon realized his pronouncement was justified.
After only one step through the white marble facade topped with flying American flags into the hotel’s lobby, Mrs. Carnegie and I surmised for ourselves the hotel’s opulence. From the white oak staircase leading to the upper floors, to the elaborate crystal chandelier illuminating the first-floor landing, to the Dutch painting presiding over the lobby, to the mahogany-and-walnut inlaid paneling etched with gold paint, the St. Nicholas felt more like a castle than a hotel. What I imagined a modern-day castle to look like anyway.
As a hotel concierge ushered the Carnegies to the front desk to check into their suite, I waited against a Romanesque column with Mrs. Carnegie’s personal belongings. The parade of well-heeled hotel guests mesmerized: ladies dressed in striped gowns so fashionable, I didn’t know what to call the designs, men with ties and pocket scarves of vivid colors, and children wearing outfits rivaling wedding attire. I was so engrossed that Mrs. Carnegie claimed she had to say my name three times before I heard her call. While she often exaggerated when it came to flaws in my service, I tended to believe her on this occasion.
Hotel porters laden with trunks trailed us as we followed a concierge to the suite, consisting of two parlors, two bedrooms, and two dressing rooms, each with their own bathroom. The black-suited gentleman stepped back to permit our entrance into the rooms with wide windows looking out onto Broadway and framed with gold-trimmed curtains. Modern gaslights and mirrors hung on the walls, and I spied a bathtub cased in walnut in the background. From the call system connecting guests with the front desk to the central heating, every modern convenience was supplied.
For all her pretending to be the jaded sophisticate, when she stepped into the hotel room, my mistress cried out, “Oh, Andra, I wish your father had lived to see this.”
The reference to the late Mr. Carnegie startled me. No one ever mentioned him. He was like a specter, at once looming omnisciently and invisibly.
“I wish he could have seen this too, Mother.” Andrew reached over to squeeze his mother’s hand. “You deserve the best,” he said, looking at me as well.
After the porters unloaded the trunks into the designated rooms, one of the men held out my small travel bag and asked, “Where does this belong, madam?”
“That belongs to my lady’s maid.” Mrs. Carnegie pointed in my direction.
“Where shall we place it, madam?”
“In the servants’ quarters.”
The porter asked me, “Would you like to follow me there, ma’am? That way, you will know where to find your belongings and your lodgings.”
“May I, Mrs. Carnegie?” I asked, curious about the servants’ lodgings. Surely, our rooms must be unusually nice, if the luxurious decor of the hotel was any indicator.
“Yes, Clara, but hurry back so you can begin the unpacking.”
I curtsied and followed the porter to an unremarkable door at the end of hallway. The dark stairs inside were made of unadorned, simple pine, a far cry from the lobby’s grand staircase. They led to the top floor of the hotel, which contained row after row of servants’ bedrooms. Clean but sparsely decorated with a single bed each, a washstand, a small, three-drawer dresser, and a narrow armoire, the room resembled my own at Fairfield.
Was this what Andrew meant when he looked at me and said I deserve the best? Not that a lady’s maid should expect more, I reminded myself. But the contrast between Andrew’s lodgings and my own caused thoughts of Mr. Ford’s admonitions about masters and servants to creep into my mind. Even though I kept telling myself that my situation with Andrew was different, that I didn’t need to worry, I said a little prayer to Mary that Mr. Ford’s prediction about the servant’s fate would be untrue. Because if I tumbled, I didn’t tumble alone. I took my family down along with me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
October 2, 1866
New York, New York
New York City demanded new gowns, according to my mistress. Andrew arranged for the finest dressmakers to visit the suite at the St. Nicholas, where Mrs. Carnegie and Andrew had ensconced themselves for the season. While Andrew spent his first few days in the city meeting with investors and railroad executives, I passed them in the hotel suite reviewing drawings and fabric samples with my mistress and various dressmakers. The end result of all this fuss was four new dresses that, to my eye, looked substantially the same as her other gowns, except for the odd flounce and slight adjustments to the bustle. I tried not to consider what my family could do with the money constituting the cost of her dresses.
But I knew my mistress would not enter the New York City society fray without the perfect dress, particularly given that Friday brought with it the prospect of a musical evening at the Academy of Music, which, we had been told, society folk would be attending. We understood that the highest realms of New York society were guarded by the women. Not just any women, mind, but the wives and daughters of a small set of families referred to as the Knickerbockers. These families were the descendants of early Dutch settlers who’d amassed modest fortunes in trade, and their women were eager to keep at bay those made newly wealthy by oil, the railroads, and the stock market—like the Carnegies—particularly if they were immigrants as well. Not that Andrew or his equally ambitious mother would give up before trying.
“How are the dresses coming along, Mother?” Andrew’s booming voice traveled all the way into his mother’s dressing room, where I was darning. Sometimes, I felt like needlework was all I did.
“Lovely, Andra. I think you’ll be well pleased.”
“Grand. I want you to look your best for the opera at the Academy of Music.”
“It seems such a fuss. In Homewood, we were friends with the best people, and an elegant evening of dinner at someone’s home and whist would suffice.”
“That’s just it, Mother. We can afford the culture and entertainment that New York City has to offer. Why would we want our lives to just ‘suffice’?”
My mistress chortled. “Ah, Andra. You never were satisfied.”
“The day is lovely. Shall we step out for a stroll? You’ve been cooped up in this hotel for days meeting with seamstresses and dressmakers and designers on those dresses.”
“I’d hardly call spending a day at the St. Nicholas being cooped up. Andra, did you know that the lobby has its own post office, a bookstore, a travel agent, a telegraph office, and four restaurants? Not to mention that there are no fewer than five grand parlors in this hotel. Why, one of them has gold brocade window curtains and bouquets of freshly cut flowers that they replace every day! Imagine the expense.” She tsked. “And the waste.”
“You don’t need to worry about waste any longer, Mother. No scrimping and saving for you.” The fabric of the couch rustled, and from my eavesdropping post, I guessed that Andrew had risen to his feet. “Let’s take a stroll onto Broadway.”
“That would be lovely. I’ll summon Clara for my things.”
“Why doesn’t she come along?” he asked.
My heart skipped at the prospect of venturing into the city streets.
“Why would I want to bring Clara?” Her voice sounded tight.
“I thought it might be helpful.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary, Andra. It’s not as if I need her assistance to simply go for a stroll. I will have your arm to steady me if I need it.”
“You misunderstand me, Mother. It might be helpful for her to know the location of the pharmacy and various tradespeople, such as hatters, tailors, dressmakers, perfumers, and the like.”
“True. Clara
will need to know where to go for errands.”
A summoning and a coat and I was flung into the madness of Broadway. Instead of irritation at having to keep my mistress in my sights, I was relieved to have an anchor to buoy me. Otherwise, in an instant, I could have been lost amid the clatter of hoofs, the creaking of wagon wheels, the cries of street vendors, and the chatter of a hundred different people.
Periodically, Mr. Carnegie pointed out a favorite glove maker or a well-stocked pharmacy, but otherwise, we traveled at a good clip until we reached a small but well-tended park with shade from a grove of royal paulownia trees, serpentine walkways, and plenty of benches upon which to rest. We stepped through its wrought-iron gates at Andrew’s behest.
“Mother, if you ever need a respite from the indoor wonders of the St. Nicholas, I recommend this park. I often stop here in the late afternoon for a breath of nature before returning to the hotel to see you.” He looked at me while making his seemingly innocuous suggestion to his mother. His meaning was clear.
Strains of Vincenzo Bellini’s Norma wafted through the air. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, forgetting that I did not sit in the audience but on a long bench designated for servants outside the auditorium doors. Although the opera was unfamiliar, certain melodies brought back memories of my sisters and I practicing classical compositions at home in Galway. While our neighbors fiddled out Irish ballads, violating the law prohibiting all Gaelic culture, my father pushed us girls to use our instruments for loftier music. It was another reason I was not exactly popular with the lads in Galway.
I had not received a letter from Eliza in weeks. I knew it might take a bit longer to get mail since it had to be rerouted from Pittsburgh, but this was two weeks more than usual. How were they faring? I wondered. I hated having to pretend in my letters that I did not know about Dad’s Fenian involvement and to suppress my anger at him for placing the family in danger. Whatever my confusion and misgivings about my situation with the Carnegies, I knew I should count myself lucky to have food, a roof, and salary enough to help my family at home—and maybe more, if the money Andrew made on my behalf actually materialized.
Another lady’s maid to my right coughed. I glanced over at her with a ready smile, but she would not meet my eyes. Instead, she turned away and started chatting with the lady’s maid to her right. Had I done something to offend her?
The music stopped, and ushers opened the doors to the auditorium. Patrons in elegant gowns and suits began streaming out, heading toward the bar, where aperitifs would be served during the intermission. Many of the ladies seemed to know one another, greeting each other with careful embraces that never mussed their dresses, as did the men, who shook hands.
Andrew and Mrs. Carnegie drifted into the crowd, and I tensed as I watched them. They looked small amid the horde of taller patrons and oddly old-fashioned in their attire, although we had been assured that both Andrew’s suit and my mistress’s gown reflected the latest fashions. Pretending to sip on a crystal glass of champagne, Andrew attempted conversation with a gentleman standing next to him as I observed nervously.
“Look at those two,” I heard the lady’s maid with whom I had attempted to establish a connection whisper to the girl to her right. She was staring right at Mrs. Carnegie and Andrew.
“Some nerve those two have coming here among the Knickerbockers,” the girl whispered back.
“Like they’d ever be accepted.”
“Just look at the length of the lady’s sleeves. Bet she got that design out of some ill-informed newspaper society page. Not one of the Knickerbocker women would ever wear a sleeve that touched her hand. It would cover her wrists,” she said, aghast at the thought of this secret rule being broken.
“I can only imagine what my mistress, Mrs. Van Resselaer, is saying about them to her friend Mrs. Morris. Look how they are chatting right next to them and staring.”
“Who’s going to tell that woman the proper length for sleeves anyway? As my mistress, Mrs. Rhinelander, always says”—the girl raised her voice to a higher pitch and adopted an almost English accent—“‘Our ways should not be widely shared. That would be too democratic, inviting into our society all manner of people who do not belong.’”
The other girl giggled. “My mistress says much the same. I bet Mrs. Van Rensselaer and Mrs. Morris are taking apart that woman’s posture. Look how she hunches her shoulders. No swanlike neck for her.”
“You cannot blame our mistresses for staring. They hardly venture outside each other’s brownstones for entertainment. That mother and son must seem like exotic animals to them.”
While the lady’s maids laughed at the Carnegies’ expense, I prayed a silent Hail Mary that the intermission end soon, taking this painful commentary with it. As if my prayer had been answered, the gong mercifully sounded.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
November 24, 1866
New York, New York
“Do you think the evening was a success, Clara?”
My mistress asked the question I dreaded as I brushed her hair. Each morning, after every concert, opera, or dinner at Delmonico’s, she inquired as to the success of the previous night.
I knew too much to reply honestly. I had spent too many nights sitting in a row at the Academy of Music or the theater or a restaurant, listening to other servants who gossiped about New York society and mocked the Carnegies’ efforts, even when they learned I was their maid. I understood that the Carnegies’ evenings at the periphery of New York society—in the only places where the Knickerbockers appeared publicly—were frowned upon by the denizens who guarded the gates. No matter that Andrew’s fortune may well have exceeded most of these people’s, the Carnegies would never be allowed inside.
So I lied. “Your gown was the loveliest in the entire restaurant, ma’am.”
A guarded smile appeared on her face. “Surely, there were younger ladies with lovelier gowns, Clara?”
“Those gowns are too frivolous for my taste, ma’am. I prefer a dress of impeccable quality, solid craftsmanship, and the highest fashion. In that category, yours stood alone.”
I was rewarded with a half smile. She observed, “The Delmonico’s method of having guests order à la carte instead of table d’hôte takes some getting used to.”
“The mistresses I served in Ireland seemed to prefer the individual choice à la carte allows.” From overheard conversations, I’d learned that à la carte was modeled after European restaurants. I figured this remark would be safe.
“I wonder when we will be included in evenings with some native New Yorkers. Most of our companions have been railroad executives living at the St. Nicholas or staying here on business. Otherwise, Andra and I have been quite alone.” As if she were talking to herself, she said, “It was so much easier in Pittsburgh to meet the right people. We simply moved into the proper neighborhood, and we made friends. Dinners and concerts and games quickly followed.”
What could I say? That this would likely be the status quo in New York City? That no old-moneyed Rockefeller or Rhinelander would be inviting them over for tea in their Fourteenth Street brownstone? Was that even the point of this New York City sojourn? When I thought of the serious troubles many faced—inadequate money, food, and housing, troubles that Mrs. Carnegie herself had faced at one time—this pursuit seemed frivolous.
So I said nothing.
“I do want Andra to mingle in the highest society New York has to offer. He deserves it,” she said, running her fingers across her coiffure and staring in the mirror.
I wondered if Andrew wanted the same. If I intended to keep my emotional distance from him and focus on business only, his views on New York society should not matter. That the answer was strangely important to me was telling.
I took a chance later that afternoon. Tired after a long morning of shopping for the perfect winter gloves, Mrs. Carnegie took an earlier rest
than usual. As soon as the noises in her bedroom quieted, I darted out of the St. Nicholas onto Broadway. If discovered, I planned on using an errand at the pharmacy as explanation.
Even though the hour was earlier than the usual time I met Andrew, I felt certain he would be there. I knew his schedule well—he and his mother reviewed it in my presence every morning—and his meeting with bankers at Atlantic National Bank had ended an hour ago. For the past several weeks, we’d been mapping out the investors amenable to railroad ventures, identifying the key players in a huge, mystifying market. Disagreements between us had arisen—I believed financing might be better acquired from banks local to the bridge construction, while Andrew thought that securing money from national banks would give the projects greater prestige and subsequent funding—but we always reached an amicable resolution, and I was amazed at the respect he gave to my ideas.
A matter other than business plagued me today. Who was this man upon whom I had placed my family’s future? What values did he truly hold?
Andrew was already sitting on the shady bench we preferred. Smiling as I approached, he stood up to greet me. After we settled, we spoke freely to each other about his latest meeting, unworried that we would be seen by an acquaintance, since we had so few in this city. I felt a certain freedom with him in New York, a freedom I hadn’t felt since I was at home with my family in Galway. Here, in the anonymous bustle of New York, we shared authenticity of spirit and speech, free from prying eyes.
I broached my topic obliquely. “So you are determined to pursue financing through the New York banks?”
“You have raised many excellent objections, but I think backing by the prestigious New York banking community will lend the projects a certain gravitas.” He said this with a puff of his cigar.
“Are you certain that you are committed to this method of investment for this ‘gravitas’ reason only?”
“What do you mean?”
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