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  I know that you are meant for grander places than the scullery of the Carnegie household, my dearest Clara, and more than anything, I am sorry that Dad decided to send you instead of me. I have had to accept his explanation that I should stay because my anticipated union with Daniel gives him the best opportunity to pass on the farm intact, well able to survive the crop changes necessitated by the famine, yet it does not seem fair. You are the brightest of us Kelley girls, Clara, the most deserving of an ambitious destiny exceeding the tenant farmer status into which we were born. If I had been stronger, that destiny would not have been stolen from you, and you would not have been pressed into service across the sea, a service that grows more important as Lord Martyn’s veiled threats about the tenancy increase. I pray nightly that you forgive me my weakness.

  Write, please write.

  I remain, ever, your devoted,

  Eliza

  Her words brought tears to my eyes. How could Eliza blame herself for Dad’s decision to send me to America? No one had ever thought me suitable for marriage to a local Irish farm boy who might help take over the tenancy. The family was fortunate that Eliza had made such a well-timed, appropriate match. As I brushed my tears away, intending to write her back straightaway to assuage her guilt, I noticed a tiny postscript in the unmistakable, rough handwriting of Mum.

  We miss you something awful but do not fret. Do nothing to forfeit your soul. Pray to the one and only true Roman Catholic Church.

  Mum would be devastated by the Protestant role I’d had to play in the Carnegie household and even more so by my weekly attendance at the local Presbyterian church with the rest of the staff, even though the Carnegies themselves did not attend any church. No domestic’s wage could be high enough to risk one’s soul in such a way, Mum would undoubtedly think. But my duplicity would be revealed to the Carnegies and my position terminated if I insisted on attending Catholic mass.

  Fishing my tiny, silver Agnus Dei medallion necklace out from the folds of my chemise where I kept it hidden from Mrs. Carnegie’s searching eyes, I fingered the little lamb symbol on its surface, a symbol only a Catholic would wear, and thought on Mum’s words. Was I risking my soul by pretending to be someone I was not? If what Eliza said was true and Lord Martyn’s wrath over Dad’s long-forgotten Fenian ways still simmered, then the farm could be lost, and my family along with it. I could be their sole hope. I would have to take that risk and pray for forgiveness.

  I resolved to write Eliza back before the five o’clock post, to send her the reassuring words she needed as soon as I could. Picking up the ink, pen, and paper I had squirreled away in my chamber, I began to write:

  My dear Eliza,

  How could you have feared that I had forgotten you? I think of nothing but you, Dad, Mother, Cecelia, and our land many times every day. Memories of home, even those more recent recollections of farm days filled with worry as Lord Martyn chipped away at Dad’s hard-won acreage, sustain me. As I lie awake in my bed in this strange house in this strange land, I pretend that you lie beside me in our shared bed at home, exchanging a late-night laugh or worry. And I am consoled. But then the moment fades, and I must be buoyed by the knowledge that my work here will assist our family should Father’s worse concerns manifest: that Lord Martyn will rescind the farm tenancy altogether on rumors of Dad’s past Fenian allegiances.

  Eliza, dare not chastise yourself for Dad’s decision to send me to America instead of you. Father believes that, if he passes the tenancy to you and your future husband, Lord Martyn will stop his persecution of our family’s right to the full twenty-acre tenancy. Your marriage to Daniel and your assumption of the farm are our family’s future; surely, you see this. After the famine, small, one-acre farms no longer survive since potato crops no longer grow, and thus Dad cannot resort to the traditional gavelkind to divide the farm equally among us. He must keep the farm intact, and your marriage is the only way. How could Dad have possibly designated me as the one to marry instead of you? Who in the name of Mary would have agreed to wed the odd, intellectual daughter instead of the kindly one? I am not viewed as good stock for a farmer’s wife. No, you have long favored Daniel and he you, and thus your marriage will secure our family’s legacy in the land.

  This domestic work of mine in America is meant only to tide us until the time of your union when Lord Martyn’s ire abates. Then I can return home. But until those events transpire, it is my duty. Have Dad and Mum not instilled in us the gravity and centrality of duty? It is my privilege to fulfill it, and I cannot think of a nobler destiny, as you so grandly called it.

  I will write you as often as this schedule of mine allows. While not as physically grueling as the work that the poor Irish men must face in the mines and the mills, it is relentless in its demands on my time. Until then, you will be in my thoughts.

  Your loving sister,

  Clara

  After I sealed the letter to Eliza, I stood up, eager that it make the five o’clock post even though I knew the letter would not reach Ireland’s shores for weeks. I had very nearly left the room when I realized I had momentarily forgotten about the letter from Dublin. It poked out from beneath the bedding under which it had slipped, and I reached for it. My stomach churning with dread, I sat down again and slit it open.

  The words were few and spare. They took no more than half the page, requiring none of the cramping of Eliza’s lettering. The script was rougher than the formal style Dad taught me, Eliza, and Cecelia. But the letters were well formed.

  Dearest Clara,

  You have every right to leave Dublin and start a new life in America, where I have no doubt your skills would be valued highly. I should have told you that I had a child living in the country with his grandmother. No matter the gossip you heard, the child is no bastard. I was married to the child’s mother when I was but a child myself, but she died during childbirth, and the grandmother took the child in so I could enter service. I send the child most of my wages. But still, I lied to you and in the same breath asked you to be my wife. I know I do not deserve you, but if there was a glimmer of hope that you’d forgive me, I would take the first ship to America. Forgive me, Clara, and allow me to join you so that you will no longer be alone in this world.

  I am still your,

  Thomas

  The tears I had brushed away moments before returned. Not because fear of my fraud being discovered had mounted—I assumed this Thomas would need a letter of encouragement before setting sail to Pittsburgh, one he would never receive—but because, for the first time, the other Clara Kelley felt real. And her death seemed real as well.

  Chapter Ten

  February 12, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  I fastened the gold watch and chain upon the bosom of Mrs. Carnegie’s gown, always the final step in the morning’s grooming ritual. Stepping back, I studied her gown. A stray silver hair on her dress drew my attention, and I fetched the brush designed specifically for silk gowns to give the fabric a thorough, final cleaning before I left. I wanted every detail to be correct. This was my first day off in the three months since my arrival in the Carnegie household, and I couldn’t risk any rogue thoughts about my competency sneaking into my mistress’s judgmental head in my absence.

  In that time, not only had I developed a deft hand at Mrs. Carnegie’s personal routines, but I had also become adept at the regular tasks that occupied my time outside Mrs. Carnegie’s company—the endless cycle of washing hair combs and brushes; removing stains from soiled garments; starching muslins; washing the basins, glasses, and water jugs used in Mrs. Carnegie’s personal chambers; maintaining a strict schedule of fresh water, flowers, towels, and ironed linens in her bath and bedchamber; assessing the state of Mrs. Carnegie’s garments, darning stockings, mending linens, and brushing out her gowns. I had even become competent at serving as Mrs. Carnegie’s companion in the formal social occasions that peppered her
days, accompanying her on the daily round of morning calls to female acquaintances and the teas that occurred in the late afternoons. Moreover, after I paid Mrs. Seeley the wages I owed her for the dress and the transportation from Philadelphia, I had managed to send home a few pennies to my family. Mum and Dad would be proud of their síofra, and I felt content that I was fulfilling my duty.

  What began as a solid determination to please Mrs. Carnegie solely to secure my position developed into a fervent desire to succeed for its own sake. Born of my innate desire to undertake the impossible—that síofra quality—I wanted to infuse my mistress with delight. Not that I always succeeded with the mercurial, persnickety Mrs. Carnegie. And not that I didn’t worry about being called out as a fraud every step of the way. But I tried.

  I watched and waited as she examined herself in the mirror.

  “I look tidy, Clara,” Mrs. Carnegie said to me as she studied her reflection. I almost smiled at this rare compliment but willed my mouth toward modesty. She loathed any display of emotion tending toward self-indulgence.

  “May I take your leave then, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Clara. Please make certain to be back to the house in time to assist me at bedtime.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  After a respectful curtsy, I backed out of Mrs. Carnegie’s bedchamber and padded up the back staircase to my bedchamber, happy that I didn’t run into the elder Mr. Carnegie in the process. Since our encounter in the library, I’d only seen him occasionally, as he had been traveling. Mercifully, this meant that my exposure to him was minimal, consisting of brief curtsies as I dropped Mrs. Carnegie off at the dining room for dinner or the parlor for a business conversation with her sons. My discomfort in his presence had not abated since our library encounter, and I was relieved that our exchanges were few.

  Surveying my little room—a steel-framed single bed, three-drawer dresser, and washstand with a pitcher—I was tempted to lie down under the coverlet and sleep the day away. Nearly one hundred and fifty days had passed since I had indulged in rest uninterrupted by shipmates’ noises or my maid’s duties. But Eliza’s letter had reminded me to make contact with my mother’s distant relatives—those same relatives who had lured me to Pittsburgh in the first place—and I had already committed to them for an afternoon meal.

  Yawning at the tantalizing notion of sleep, I belted my gray tweed coat over my servant’s dress of black wool. I wondered whether I should change into a nicer gown for the family visit. But into what would I change? The only dress I owned besides my uniform was Mrs. Seeley’s castoff, and it resembled a uniform in any event. Not to mention I’d still have to serve Mrs. Carnegie in my uniform as soon as I returned. No, the black wool would have to suffice.

  I landed on the final step of the back staircase with an unexpected thud. Mary and Hilda, the scullery maids, glanced up and, seeing it was me, quickly returned to their chopping of vegetables for the luncheon stew without so much as a smile. The divide between the lady’s maid and the rest of the staff was a chasm I’d yet to bridge, although in truth, I’d been too busy to make much of an effort. Only Mr. Ford acknowledged me with a grin. Like me, he seemed to exist in a world separate from the two realms dominated by Mr. Holyrod and Mrs. Stewart. Was it because of his color or his station? I did not know, but I was grateful for his small kindnesses in a domain where I was either ignored or obliquely derided, by Hilda in particular.

  “It must be your day off, Miss Kelley,” he called over.

  “It is indeed, Mr. Ford,” I answered with a smile. I actually felt like skipping.

  “Enjoy, but hurry back to us. We can’t have the mistress wanting you too long.”

  Stepping onto the sidewalk, the first time unencumbered by Mrs. Carnegie or a list of errands, I began the long walk down the cobblestones of Reynolds Street to the streetcar stop that would take me to Allegheny City, the town abutting Pittsburgh to the west. The air nipped at my fingers and cheeks—warm gloves and a scarf were too dear to purchase—but I didn’t care. I felt free and light.

  At my leisure, I stared at the homes bordering the Carnegie house. Although I’d accompanied Mrs. Carnegie into certain of them several times as she made morning calls or took afternoon tea, the homes looked grander from my vantage point now than on the heels of my mistress. I could hardly believe that I was allowed entrance into them. It never ceased to astonish me that my ruse as Clara Kelley was working.

  Thinking for a moment of the real Clara Kelley, I wondered how her Thomas was faring. I had heard nothing from him since the letter, but I often imagined him at home in Dublin, waiting for a response from his beloved, much like I waited for word from my family. But Thomas’s reply would never come. He would forever believe that Clara had rejected him, not that she had died at sea. He would never be able to mourn her.

  Thinking of Thomas made me feel guilty for the luck I had in landing this position and the lies I’d told. The money was far more plentiful than I’d earn in a mill or as a low-level domestic like Hilda. Yet in my determination to insinuate myself into the graces of Mrs. Carnegie, I’d had little time to consider the source of my luck. Sometimes, I almost forgot that my gain had been at the expense of another’s sacrifice.

  My lighthearted mood turned dark with these thoughts of the other Clara Kelley as I stepped from the streetcar platform into a passenger car. The streetcar was almost empty at this off-hour, and I claimed a wooden bench for my own. As the streetcar rumbled to life, I stared out the window at the landscape made white by a blanket of fresh-fallen snow. Although the churches and stores and houses grew steadily less grand the farther we traveled from Homewood, the snow made the city glisten, a sight that would normally have inspired delight.

  The horse-drawn streetcar from Homewood Station to Allegheny City passed by Pittsburgh, quite close to its three rivers lined with mills and factories. More snow began to fall, but the nearer the streetcar drew to the city, the more fleeting the snow’s cleansing powers became. The snow washed white the black skies for mere moments before the spewing soot blackened it again. By the time the streetcar crossed a suspension bridge from Pittsburgh into Allegheny City, the snow lost the battle with the soot, and black smuts sailed down like a new species of snow, settling on everything with an inky, sticky layer.

  The streetcar stopped at Rebecca Street, and I left the relative order of the station and joined the human stream bobbing along the road. I walked down crowded, filthy streets, and the acidic air, made acrid by the nearby tanneries, burned the inside of my mouth and nose. I could see not a single street sign amid the chaos. Had I gotten off at the wrong stop? Before venturing too far, I retreated back to the station, searching for a conductor or engineer who could be trusted to help me.

  I implored a uniformed ticket agent, harried by a long queue. “I’m looking for 354 Rebecca Street, sir. Do you happen to know where it is?”

  “Ah, that’s in Slab Town, a bit of a walk from here.”

  I was confused. I would have sworn the engineer had called out Rebecca Street just before we pulled into the station. “I thought this was the Rebecca Street stop.”

  “It is. But this is Slab Town, miss—it’s no Ridge Avenue neighborhood. It’s like a rabbit’s warren in there. I can give you general directions, but you’ll be at the mercy of the locals once you get there to find the exact house.”

  “Perhaps I should hire a cab to take me there.”

  “No cab will go into Slab Town, miss.” He turned away to answer the call of a clamoring customer.

  Following the ticket agent’s direction to the letter, I made my way down Rebecca Street, dodging piles of steaming horse dung and mucking up my shoes in a muddy street that had never seen a cobblestone lining. Gangs of grubby street urchins scampering down the thoroughfare nearly toppled me into a group of men playing dice on the curb and a woman hanging laundry, a futile task in such a place. After begging their pardon, I
finally reached the 330 section of Rebecca Street. The houses there were silhouetted against the bloodred flames from the factories just behind. Incredible how industry spilled onto the streets right next to homes without any border between the two.

  Try as I might, I could not locate my cousin’s house number. The passersby looked inhospitable at best, and I was reluctant to approach anyone for help. Finally, a kindly looking older gentleman, in ragged but scrupulously clean clothes, hobbled past, and I dared to ask his assistance.

  With a thick German accent, he answered my question. “You can’t find the number because 354 doesn’t have a number painted on it. It’s squeezed between those two houses there.”

  Feeling like a trespasser, I skulked down the road to where the elderly man pointed. He was right. Here, squeezed between the dilapidated homes of Rebecca Street, stood a house made from salvaged wood and scrap metal, even more decrepit than the others and even closer to the sparks flying out from the factory behind the houses.

  Whether from its position on the slope of a hill or from the shoddy construction of the home itself, my cousin’s house slanted into the house next door, almost like a lean-to. No paint adorned the ragged wood exterior, and the two upstairs windows were covered in paper instead of glass. This poor house would have been my home but for the death of the other Clara Kelley.

  I hesitated before knocking. Only the fact that these poor people would have prepared for my visit—possibly spending what little they might have on a meal in my honor—stopped me from turning away. Only that commitment prevented me from running from what would have been my fate.

  The door opened before my knuckles could rap. “We thought you’d never get here,” a bearded man in his late thirties called out. He could only be Patrick Lamb, my mother’s second cousin.