Carnegie's Maid

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by Marie Benedict

“You’re not pursuing the New York banks to help secure a place for you and your family in New York society?”

  A fiery redness spread across his cheeks, confirming my suspicion. “Why do you ask, Clara?”

  “Your mother seems very determined to find some entrée to the elusive Knickerbocker society. I know you like to please her. Perhaps you think a business relationship is the key?”

  “The two pursuits are not mutually exclusive,” he answered, his voice guarded.

  “Except the one will not guarantee the other.”

  “You do not know that.” A certain combative tone entered his voice, the one I’d overheard in the fight with Messrs. Scott and Thomson. His face changed, almost as though a dark mask had slipped over his normally friendly features, obscuring them from view.

  I had forgotten my status as servant to his master, one that hadn’t changed despite our unusual relationship and his promises of funds awaiting me. I pulled away from him and said, “My apologies. I have overstepped.”

  The dark mask disappeared, and the Andrew to whom I’d grown accustomed reemerged. “Clara, there is no ‘overstepping’ between us. Our relationship is the most honest one in my life, and the honesty makes me treasure it above all else. And if you are telling me that the door to New York society is closed no matter what business arrangements I make with its bankers, then I trust you.”

  I explained myself. “Servants speak more openly in the company of other servants and make admissions that their masters never would.”

  “You have overheard something?”

  “It’s not just what I’ve overheard. It’s what I’ve gleaned from the servants’ comments. These New York City society folk don’t have titles like the aristocracy in Europe, so they have to invent ways to distinguish themselves from the rest of the citizenry. Minute, private ways, almost like a secret society of which only its members know the rules.”

  “What sort of secret ways are you talking about?”

  “Things that seem insignificant but outsiders would not notice. The length of sleeves. The cut of a dress or a suit. A particular posture. A turn of phrase. All combined with an invitation by the right person to the right dinner party in the right brownstone. They guard these manners and invitations very tightly so that the wrong people do not slip into their world.” I paused, debating whether I should say the next painful words. Should I risk the reaction? His response would tell me much about his true nature.

  I breathed deeply and took the plunge. “Andrew, they will likely do business with you but never admit you to their ranks. Commodore Vanderbilt has been trying for years, and he has received constant snubbing for his efforts. And he is the president of the New York and Harlem Railroad, among other things, and he is not a recent immigrant, a fact which can make entrée into society even more challenging. Perhaps you should focus your efforts on Mr. Vanderbilt and his society. An invitation into their ranks might be more achievable.”

  His eyes squinted in a familiar expression of concentration and determination. The competitive spirit was building within him. “How does one find out these Knickerbocker ways?”

  His question startled and disappointed me. I expected him to be as repulsed by this social barricade as I was, with its rejection of the newly arrived. If high society was what he sought, how could he and I ever have a future together? Even though I’d insisted our relationship focus on business, not feelings, my real emotions for him, along with my private dreams, existed beneath the surface. Give that a former lady’s maid had no place among the higher echelons, I needed to accept our prospects. “You want to know their secrets so you can be part of their world? Why would you want that?”

  His eyes widened in surprise at my question. “Why would I let them conquer me?”

  I had never heard him speak so bluntly about his ambitions. My voice rose as I said, “These old New York society people maintain that all people are not equal, that they are superior to all other classes. I thought you believed in freedom and opportunity for all people. That view is the antithesis of what these people espouse.”

  “I haven’t let poverty or lack of education or cultural differences stop my climb so far.”

  “Why would you want to climb to a station populated by people whose views oppose your own? Who, in fact, oppose you? Their very opposition to you is emblematic of their undemocratic views.”

  “It is a challenge, Clara.”

  “Didn’t you tell me once that you loved the American ethos of equality and the ability to rise above your born station? These are the very rights your ancestors fought for in the Chartist movement and for which my own father fights too, and you have proven how far one can rise when given those rights. Please carve a different path, Andrew.”

  He stood up and stared at me. The broad plane of his face hardened as if chiseled from stone, and his eyes turned flinty. “I am not accustomed to having anyone tell me what to do, Clara. Not Scott and Thomson, as you’ve seen. Not my mother. And certainly not you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  December 8, 1866

  New York, New York

  The uniform-clad nurse softly closed the door to my mistress’s room. “Her cough is subsiding, sir, but she will need the breathing treatments regularly.”

  “Do we let the front desk know when we need you?” Andrew asked, his brows furrowed in concern for his mother.

  A few days prior, malaise had overcome my mistress, an uncommon state for one so full of vigor. Yesterday, a dry cough had settled into her chest, which rattled her son but which I recognized as simple exhaustion. New York City, with its late evenings and brisk pace of walking, tired her, and she needed rest. Only illness would give her that permission.

  “I will stay with her throughout the evening, sir. Until morning comes, and we can reassess her condition.” The nurse slid me a look and said, “I do not believe it is serious, however.”

  “You are certain?” Visible relief softened Andrew’s brow. He was unaccustomed to his strong mother evidencing any weakness, and the sickness, albeit a mild one, had unnerved him.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Would you like to see her before she naps?”

  “Indeed.” He sighed deeply and entered her bedroom alone.

  I felt relieved that he’d left the room. Since our discussion in the park, relations between Andrew and myself had been strained. I recoiled from the harsh side of himself he’d shown, along with his message. He wanted to secure an invitation to join the elite, and no place existed for me there. I needed to halt my residual fantasies, however hard I’d tried to suppress them, that Andrew and I might one day act upon our feelings, and focus on my duty to my family. My continued emotional tie to Andrew jeopardized that, and I was not certain that I could separate our business relationship from it. I needed to be satisfied with my salary and the generous present of shares Andrew had bestowed upon me. Very kindly, so that he would have no reason to retaliate through termination or the rescinding of my stock, I kept my distance and sidestepped his persistent efforts at private conversation.

  The nurse and I were alone in the parlor. Staring at her crisp, white uniform and marveling at her efficient, direct manner, I wondered at her position. “Have you been a nurse for long?”

  “As a girl, I was inspired by the newspaper accounts of Florence Nightingale. Are you familiar with her?”

  “Yes. As a girl in Ireland, I heard stories about her work in the Crimean War.”

  She smiled. “Such dangerous, inspiring nursing she did there. As a young woman, I searched for opportunities to nurse like Miss Nightingale, but it was religious women who primarily undertook nursing work here in our country. We did not have a formal school to teach nursing like the one Miss Nightingale formed in England. When the Civil War broke out, the Union Army put out the word that it was looking for women to create a corps of nurses, most of whom would receive training in
the field hospitals. I volunteered immediately.”

  “I had no idea that women served in the army.”

  “I am not surprised. We were volunteers, and as such, our positions were unofficial. To my knowledge, no newspapers reported on our work.”

  Impressed by her initiative and bravery, I said, “Thank you for your service in the war, Miss…?” I realized that I did not know her name.

  “Carlyle is my surname.”

  I curtsied and introduced myself. “Miss Kelley. It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Miss Carlyle.”

  Stitch after stitch, I darned holes in Mrs. Carnegie’s black silk stockings. I shifted position on my narrow bed, uncomfortable at doing this work on my bed in the dark, windowless servant’s chamber instead of a comfortable chair in my mistress’s dressing chamber with bright daylight and gaslight to illuminate my needlework. But I was without choice, as my mistress had released me to my room when Miss Carlyle took over her care for the rest of the day. The reprieve gave me time to think about the nurse’s profession. I had never considered that professions for women existed outside service or marriage, if one considered marriage a profession. What other positions might there be? I knew that Andrew had hired women to serve as telegraph operators, one of the rare other opportunities.

  A knock sounded on my door. I hesitated before answering it, as no one had ever contacted me here before. In the hallway, I passed the other servants, all women as the men had their own wing, with a cordial nod, but no one had made efforts at friendliness, as everyone’s time here was fleeting.

  “Miss Kelley,” a female voice called to me. “A delivery boy has a package for you.”

  For me? Who in the name of Mary would be sending packages to me? Certainly not my family, and no one else even wrote letters to me. I took the large package from the matron who cleaned and supervised the female servants’ floor, and after closing the door behind me, I laid the long, rectangular box, nearly as tall as myself, on my thin blue coverlet. The box was tied with a satin, rose-pink ribbon and smelled of a lavender sachet.

  I pulled the ribbon’s end and watched as the knot undid itself. Hooking my fingers under the lid, I gingerly lifted off the top. A sleek, cerulean-blue gown sat within the box, the silken layers of its skirt and bustle tucked carefully inside. A wide velvet ribbon of a darker blue encircled the waist and crisscrossed the bodice until it reached the neckline. There, tiny azure crystals trimmed the gown, giving the illusion of a sapphire necklace.

  This exquisite formal gown, appropriate for a ball or an evening at the Academy of Music, must have been accidentally delivered to my room. Although how a dressmaker’s delivery boy could have made such an obvious and egregious error was unfathomable. Especially when he asked for me specifically.

  I began to repack the box and take it down to the front desk when I noticed a small card within the folds of the gown. No name appeared on the envelope, and it was not sealed, so I slid out the note.

  For Clara—To help me carve out a different path. Forgive me. Please meet me in the lobby at seven o’clock for an evening at the Academy of Music. Andrew.

  Did I dare accept? Did I dare to hope? Or had I already indulged my girlish, innocent fantasies for long enough?

  Chapter Forty

  December 8, 1866

  New York, New York

  My footsteps on the grand staircase of the St. Nicholas were small and delicate by necessity. In a gown so glittering and grand, I felt conspicuous, instead of invisible as I was accustomed. Instinctively, I tried to make myself small, an impossibility in a gown designed to draw attention.

  Every eye fell upon me, or so I believed. Did they see the Irish farm girl behind the elegant New York lady traipsing down the stairs? Did they recognize me for a fraud? Part of me wanted to turn and run back to my servant’s bedroom, where I was only living one lie. I had debated long and hard about accepting his invitation, what it meant about my understanding of who each of us was separately and what we were together. In the end, I understood precisely where I stood, for myself and for my family, and I accepted with that in mind.

  From the base of the staircase, Andrew stared as well, making me wonder whether the gown fit properly. I could not check in a mirror, as I only had one small hand mirror on my dresser. Lacing up the dress’s elaborate corset, cinching its exceedingly narrow waist, and buttoning the minuscule buttons lining the back presented significant challenges by myself, although the process eradicated any lingering doubts I had about the necessity for lady’s maids. I hoped that I’d done justice to the exquisite gown he’d sent me.

  When I reached the final step, he did not take me by the elbow as protocol required but continued gaping.

  “Is something the matter?” I was prompted to ask.

  “Nothing in the world.” His cheeks turned pink. “It is simply that—that you look different.”

  “Unnatural, I suppose?” I asked.

  “The exact opposite, Clara. You look more fully yourself. As if the servant’s uniform was the costume, and this gown was your natural garb.”

  It was my turn to blush. “Thank you for the gown, Andrew. I am not certain that it was appropriate to accept such a lavish gift, but as you can see, I decided to put propriety aside. For tonight, at least.”

  “I am glad you accepted the gown in the spirit I gifted it to you. Forgiveness.”

  He extended his gloved hand to take my elbow. Together, we walked across the gilt lobby of the St. Nicholas. I tried to glide as other ladies seemed to do, but the evening gown was far tighter and stiffer than the servant’s dress to which I was accustomed, and I feared that I appeared rigid rather than elegant. Still, as we crossed the lobby’s marble floor, porters bowed, concierges nodded, and doormen swung open doors, acts they never engaged in for the invisible Clara Kelley. It was as if I were crossing the lobby for the first time. I understood why the climb to the highest society realms intoxicated Andrew, although I did not agree with his inclination to attempt the ascent.

  We were quiet in the carriage ride from Broadway to Union Square. The landscape between us had changed—the disagreement in the park hovered there, as did my beliefs about what he wanted and what that meant for me—and neither of us knew precisely where to grab a foothold. By the time we pulled up to the Academy of Music, I decided to inhabit this new role, even if just for tonight. Like I’d inhabited the other Clara Kelley. Then I would accept my destiny.

  Smiling at Andrew as we stepped out of the carriage, I entered the candlelit lobby of the academy as if I belonged. An usher guided us to our seats on the auditorium floor. As I settled into the plush, tufted velvet chair, I gazed at the thousands of seats around us. The interior of the academy, lined with red damask, gold-painted molding, a bucolic mural, and a crystal chandelier the size of a carriage, was far more resplendent than I’d imagined from outside on my servants’ bench.

  Glancing upward, I saw that the academy’s five levels soared to an eighty-foot-high dome. It had to be the largest opera venue in the world. Dotted on the different levels were private boxes, each with a gilded balcony of its own and eight seats. “Those are the boxes the lady’s maids mentioned,” I whispered to myself.

  “I am sorry, Clara. I could not hear you.”

  I whispered a bit louder. “The private boxes reminded me of a conversation I overheard between two lady’s maids. The ‘upper tens’—”

  “Pardon, but what are the ‘upper tens’?”

  “The ‘upper tens’ are the most elite of the Knickerbocker families. They raised the initial funds for the Academy of Music, and they reserved the boxes for themselves and their friends. Well-to-do outsiders like the Vanderbilts have been trying to gain access to a private box for years without success. Apparently, rumors have been flying around for years that if the wealthy tradespeople cannot get private boxes, they will build themselves an even grander forum for opera in th
is city, putting the Academy of Music out of business in the process.”

  “Interesting,” he said, a mischievous grin appearing within his beard. “But, of course, I no longer care about the machinations of New York society except as it pertains to business.”

  I smiled at him, delighted at his change in opinion. My smile faded when I wondered whether he had really made such a drastic conversion or whether he made his comment to appease me.

  The lights dimmed, and the orchestra’s strings played a rich chord signaling the beginning of La Traviata. Even though I had listened to two other operas and one symphony outside the auditorium doors, nothing prepared me for the visual spectacle that accompanied the music. The crimson curtain drew back, revealing a luxurious Parisian salon where a party was in progress and grandiose characters sung a glorious and tragic tale.

  Captivated by the dramatic story of love between Alfredo and Violetta, I lost myself in the connection between the two characters and in Alfredo’s desire to woo Violetta away from the baron. Even though I longed for Violetta to recognize Alfredo as her destiny, I related to the conflict between her burgeoning feelings for Alfredo—È strano… Ah, fors’è lui—and her desire for freedom—sempre libera. My own heart broke when, after Violetta finally embraced Alfredo as her love, she agreed to leave him at the urging of Alfredo’s father, who could not bear the impact that the couple’s relationship had on his family’s reputation.

  This aspect of the story confused me. I whispered to Andrew, “Why does the relationship between Alberto and Violetta shame his family?”

  “Violetta is a courtesan,” he whispered back.

  My eyes widened at the word. I knew what a courtesan was. I was glad of the auditorium’s darkness, as I felt my face flame red.

  Nearly weeping at Violetta’s bittersweet song at the end of act 2—di questo core non puoi comprendere tutto l’amore—I calmed myself before Andrew and I left the auditorium for a refreshing drink in the lobby. Promenading through the society folk I had watched from the servants’ bench only weeks before, the evening did not feel real. This sensation increased when the train of my skirt brushed against the bench upon which sat the monochromatically dressed row of lady’s maids.

 

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