Once a waiter passed us crystal glasses of claret, I said, “I cannot thank you enough for this evening, Andrew. I never knew the opera would be so moving.”
“It is a marvel, isn’t it? I confess that the operas I saw during my European trip do not rival those I’ve seen here at the academy.”
“Do you have a favorite?” I asked.
“Before this evening, I might have selected the Giuseppe Verdi operas I had the good fortune to see in Europe. But I admit that tonight, here with you, La Traviata speaks to me above all other operas. Perhaps it is the affinity between the characters’ dilemma and our own. On my end at least.”
A horrified expression must have crossed my face, because Andrew stammered, “E-except for the courtesan bit, of course. Unless I caused you dismay by drawing comparisons to Alfredo and Violetta’s situation and our own.”
Nervous at Andrew’s reference to shared feelings, a matter that simmered beneath the surface but which we had not discussed for many months, I chuckled a bit and said, “It is absolutely the comparison to a courtesan that led to my unease.”
We laughed, out of relief or out of apprehension about a conversation to come, I didn’t know. Thankfully, the bell rang to signal the return to the auditorium.
I returned to La Traviata to see what its final act would bring. I lost myself to the world within a world on the stage where everyone was pretending and no one was what they seemed. Not unlike the Carnegies. And not unlike me.
Chapter Forty-One
December 8, 1866
New York, New York
The anticipated conversation sat between us, like a third person in the carriage of whom we were terrified but whom we also desperately wanted to meet. Neither of us wanted to broach the discussion first, but neither wanted to leave the words unsaid.
I remembered my promise to myself aboard the Envoy, that I wouldn’t wait any longer for my life to begin. I had broken that promise to myself over and over, but I would not again. I dove into the deep, frigid waters. “During the intermission, you mentioned the similarity between our situation and that of Alfredo and Violetta,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on my hands. Summoning my courage to bring up the topic was one thing, but watching the reaction to my bravery was quite another.
“Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. I was not accustomed to hesitation in Andrew’s speech. “There is a divide between us, not as dramatic as that of Alfredo and Violetta, but a divide nonetheless. Ridiculous though it is, because even though we are now master and servant, we are the same. I arrived in this country a destitute immigrant, in a class below yourself.” He took a large breath and then spoke again. “But I hope I’m not wrong in believing that we share feelings for one another. Like Alfredo and Violetta.”
I glimpsed up to find him staring at me, his face expectant yet anxious. “You are not wrong.”
He clasped my hands in his, asking in a voice quaking with emotion, as if he could not believe my words, “Truly?”
“Truly, even though I know it may be hard to believe because I pushed you away a year ago.” His eyes widened with hope, making me hesitate. I pushed myself to say what I must. Voice quivering in fear at his reaction and at the mixed emotions building within me, I said, “Still, in many ways, my feelings are unimportant. You know that I must support my family with my lady’s maid position, and I worry that your affection for me complicates that responsibility. The elite would never allow me into their ranks, and you have made clear that you desire to join them. Since I have no place there, you and I have no place together. We have no future, even if you had wished for one, a presumption on my part, I realize. Please understand that I am grateful for all that you have taught me—and your gift of the shares that will help my family immeasurably—but I think we must acknowledge that this is the end of whatever road we have shared.”
He stared at me, saying nothing. His silence shook me, for Andrew was never silent. Then he did something even more unexpected. He laughed.
“Oh, Clara, this is yet another reason why I love you. Most women, softened by the opera and dress and my words, would have clung to the idea of our union. But you, you are strong and moral and loyal and, above all, honest. You bear all the qualities I admire. Your rejection of me only makes me more certain.”
My brows furrowed in confusion, and my expression must have been almost comical because, glancing over at me, he laughed even harder. “Your pronouncements make me appreciate you more and give me even more faith in our ability to bridge the gap to a permanent union. Clara, if you truly share my feelings, marriage is the bridge I wish to cross.”
“I thought fortune and the acceptance into the societal elite were what you sought?” I asked, my voice now trembling.
“You have taught me that I should carve out a different path. Pedigree, an accident of birth, does not give a man the right to public respect. Only good deeds can do that. Consequently, the ‘upper tens,’ or whatever silly name they call themselves, and their ilk do not matter. You do.” He clasped my hands tighter. “Do you wish to cross this bridge with me?”
What should I say? For so long, I had tried to steel myself against him and my own rogue emotions. I knew my family needed me desperately, and I could not fail them. But could there possibly be a way that I could have both—my family’s well-being and Andrew? I imagined what he and I could accomplish together and doubted that ever again would I meet a man who recognized my full capabilities and who wanted a strong woman by his side.
“I do, Andrew.” Even as I said the words, I wondered whether I’d made the right choice. Could I trust that his whims would not change, that the dark mask would not shift over his face? What if he found out who I really was?
The carriage was dark, save for the passing street gaslights and the odd light streaming from a late-hours pub, but I could hear and feel him draw closer to me. His dark-blue eyes glinted in the low illumination, and I felt his breath on me as he brought his lips to mine.
“We will find a way, Clara. I promise you.”
As his soft lips touched mine, I wondered whether he would find success, as he always did. Would my fate indeed resemble the heroine of Aurora Leigh, who finally united with her love after surmounting countless barricades?
Chapter Forty-Two
April 2, 1867
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Stolen moments in the park. Grazing of fingertips in the hallway. Animated business discussions in the servants’ hallway. Whispers in the dark parlor after Mrs. Carnegie had retired for the evening. My time in New York consisted of snatched minutes, fleeting but treasured, where we discussed the future in terms of the upcoming months when the path had been paved for Andrew’s mother to accept our relationship. I allowed myself to hope that the realization of all my dreams—saving my family and having Andrew—was within my grasp.
But when the season ended and we returned to Pittsburgh, we crossed the threshold into Fairfield and found a very different home from the one we left. The house was now inhabited by the new Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, who had made themselves very much at home during the months of our absence. Calling cards were left for the new Mrs. Carnegie instead of my mistress, and the former Miss Lucy Coleman now set the daily menu with the housekeeper. The younger Mr. Carnegie’s friends arrived after dinner for rounds of billiards. The newlyweds often played music together in the parlor and read together in the library.
Only the staff remained the same. Mr. Ford continued on with his masterful meals, beaming his affable smile as if his own family was not still among the missing, while Mr. Holyrod, his team of footmen, Mrs. Stewart, Hilda, and the ever-changing cast of housemaids soldiered onward. Running the house quietly in the servants’ realm and maintaining Fairfield as if unchanged, they knew better than most how different the house was under its new master and mistress.
Andrew needed to leave. Soon, Mrs. Carnegie would need to leave a
s well. What would happen to us?
For the next several weeks, until we arrived at a strategy, he said, Andrew decamped to the Union Depot Hotel, a fine hotel that occupied the lot adjacent to Union Station in downtown Pittsburgh. This location made his lodgings convenient to his office and the train station, from which he traveled often to the Middle West, Washington, DC, and New York City, but inconvenient to visiting Fairfield.
Meetings required creativity, even more so than in the close quarters of the St. Nicholas. I made my errands to my mistress’s hatmaker and glove store take an unusual route past Andrew’s office on Grant Street, where a tea shop empty in the midday made for a quiet few minutes together. Andrew ensured that he arrived for his visits to his mother, which now required prior appointment, an hour before their designated time, when she was still out at a call or resting, which allowed for a private conversation in the library.
Sometimes, when I engaged in these little subterfuges, I thought of Dad and Mum. What would they think of this life I was leading? When Dad began planning the Fenian revolt and sent me to America to support the family, he knew that this country would call upon me to change in some way. But surely, my many duplicities were not what he intended when he and Mum sent me to America, no matter my síofra nature. Would Dad judge me harshly, particularly given the risk to which he’d subjected our family? I contemplated whether the God I once prayed to daily in the whitewashed Catholic churches of Galway would judge me harshly too.
• • •
Hurrying around the back of the house after one of my subterfuges—my ruse of an errand completed by the pharmacy bag I carried in my hands—I stepped through the servants’ door and bumped into Mrs. Stewart.
“My apologies, ma’am.”
“It seems you’ve forgotten your way around Fairfield after your long stay in New York City,” she said, straightening her crisp, white collar as if I’d knocked her to the ground instead of barely brushing against her skirts. I knew the staff perceived my trip with the Carnegies as a vacation of sorts, and this was another of her little punishments.
“Just hurrying to get my mistress what she needs, Mrs. Stewart.”
“Always the perfect servant,” she retorted.
I pretended her snide comment was a compliment. “I do my best.”
After hanging my coat on the rack, I crossed the kitchen and began climbing the stairs.
“Oh, wait,” Mrs. Stewart called to me. “I think I have something for you.” She fished around in her apron pocket and pulled out a letter.
Almost two months had passed since I’d received a letter from my family, and I practically ran across the kitchen to fetch it. “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”
I climbed halfway up the servants’ stairs and sat on a step. Here, neither the kitchen staff nor the Carnegie family could see me while I read my letter. I ripped it open.
Dearest Clara,
I do not know whether this letter will find you in Pittsburgh or New York City or how long it will take to reach you. I hope its travel across the Atlantic is swift, because I cannot bear this news alone. I know not how to write this except plainly, even though my very being resists writing the words because their memorialization makes the unimaginable real. Cecelia has died.
It started with a cough. A simple cough the sort we have all suffered through before in the relentlessly wet winters. Before, when we still had the farm, Mother would lay warm poultices on our chests, remember? Scented with her dried herbs, specially mixed for whatever ailed us, those poultices smelled like recovery. But we have no herbs now. No poultices. Only a damp, shared attic room in Aunt Catherine’s house where we sleep on folded packets of clothes while drafts blow through our hair at night. Dad suffered from the cough as well and still does, but nothing like Cecelia had.
We had been saving most of the money you sent for boat tickets to America. It was meant as a surprise for you. Lucky we had been so thrifty, because we had money enough to summon a doctor when Cecelia worsened. The medicine he prescribed drained the remainder of the savings but kept her cough at bay for some weeks. Still, it was not enough. It was too late.
Our little Cecelia is gone. We are heartbroken, as I am sure you find yourself now as well. Dad says he is well enough, but please pray for him, as work has been impossible. We are existing on our needlework and abject sadness.
Your loving sister,
Eliza
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs. I could not allow this fate to befall another member of my family. I knew what I had to do to save them.
Chapter Forty-Three
April 3, 1867
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Steam rose up from the teacup. I lowered my face, allowing the warmth to rise and take the sting from my cheeks. The calendar read April, but spring had yet to reach Pittsburgh.
“Shall I ask the proprietor for cool water for your tea, Clara?” Andrew asked, lightly touching my hand with a gloved finger, his second pair of the day. The first pair blackened with the soot of downtown Pittsburgh by lunchtime and had to be discarded.
I gazed up at his dark-blue, intelligent eyes, the only ones that saw beneath the Clara Kelley I’d become into the Clara Kelley I truly was, even though he was unaware that he’d had to penetrate fabricated outer layers to reach my core. “Thank you, Andrew, but no. The heat feels good,” I said quietly.
While the warmth lessened the pain from my cheeks, nothing could soften the suffering of my heart. Poor, lovely Cecelia. I would never see her grow from a girl into a woman. I could not imagine how shattered my parents and Eliza were, having watched the life drain slowly from Cecelia. The powerlessness they must have felt then I was experiencing now. I wanted to board a ship with funds enough to rescue them myself from the Galway City hovel in which they lived and bring them here. But I could share none of this with Andrew. Not my heartbreak over the death of my sister, not the urgency of my family’s situation, not the Clara Kelley I’d been when I first arrived in Philadelphia. But how could I save my family and still maintain my facade with Andrew? How would he react when I told him that I bore none of the honesty he prized but in fact had been lying to him and his beloved mother for years? What would he say when I told him that I was nothing but a lowly farmer’s daughter whose family was dying in a Galway City slum, and that’s why I needed the money he promised me? Yet I could not think of a way to procure the money I needed from him without confessing. I braced myself for the inevitable moment.
“Spring cannot arrive soon enough. Just think, Clara, when the winter thaws, we can meet in parks instead of tea shops and the back hallways of Fairfield.”
He spoke of spring, but I could hardly think beyond today, beyond this confessional moment. My stomach lurched with the knowledge of what I must do. My American life sat upon the foundation of my initial deception, and yet I could not see a way to save my family without sacrificing my lies. And sacrificing my future with Andrew along with it.
Andrew pulled two envelopes from the inner pocket of his coat and laid them on the table between us. When I did not reach for them, he asked, “Do you not wonder what is in the envelopes?”
Envelopes did not hold much luster for me after Eliza’s letter yesterday. They seemed harbingers of tragedy, not bearers of good tidings. I found myself in no hurry to read the missive.
“I assume business papers for my review. Perhaps a proposal from an investor in the Missouri River bridge contract? I know you’ve been working hard on that financing,” I guessed.
“These documents concern a matter upon which I’ve been working much harder than the Missouri River bridge. A matter that’s been at the forefront of my mind for years, long before President Johnson announced the commission of those seven bridges.”
“What could be more important than the Missouri River bridge?” I tried to joke, but my heart contained no joviality.
“
Please, Clara.” He picked up the smaller envelope and handed it to me. “I want to watch your face when you open it.”
I reached for the knife sitting on the table and slit open the envelope. A folded piece of paper sat inside. Sliding it out, I unfolded it and read aloud, “‘In the name of Clara Kelley, in the Bank of Pittsburgh Depository Account Number 24976, the sum of $1,250 is available for withdrawal by Miss Kelley.’”
“Oh, Andrew,” I whispered, incredulous. The money I needed now sat in my hand. I had rendered no confession in exchange for it.
“That is the sum you received from selling your shares in Keystone Telegraph, a company you essentially founded with your ingenious idea of stringing public telegraph wires alongside the railroad tracks, to Pacific and Atlantic Telegraph.” He grinned. “Please open the second envelope, Clara. It is compensation for the assistance and insights you gave me with the railcar business.”
To what was he referring? We had not discussed the Pullman and Woodruff railcar business since the day we road to New York City on the Woodruff Silver Palace railcar.
Hands trembling, I slit open the larger envelope. A thick piece of paper drifted out onto the table. The paper bore the distinctive look of a stock certificate. Reading aloud, I said, “Be it known that Clara Kelley is the proprietor of one hundred shares of Woodruff Railcar Company, transferable or cashable only at the offices of said company in person by said stockholder with the surrender of this certificate.”
“You no longer need to work as a lady’s maid to my mother, Clara. You are now a woman of independent means, a station in life equal to my own.”
Tears started trickling down my cheeks, but I could not speak the words of gratitude or affection that bubbled within me. Was it possible that my family could be saved and my relationship too?
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