Carnegie's Maid Page 7

  Patrick clapped his arms around me. “You must be Alice’s girl. You’ve got your mother’s eyes. Come in out of the cold.”

  Squinting into the dim candlelight, I walked into the single room that made up the ground floor of Patrick’s house. When my eyes adjusted, I could make out a pregnant woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler clutching her ankles. Two other children, one boy and one girl of perhaps five and six years of age, hid behind her dun-colored skirts. They stood in front of a rectangular wooden table set for supper in a room so covered in the grimy residue from the nearby factories and mills that cinereous was the only way I could think of to describe it.

  “Welcome, Cousin. It’s good to see a friendly Irish face in this sea of Germans,” Patrick’s wife, Maeve, said. Petite but for her burgeoning belly, she was quietly pretty, an attractiveness marred only by the dark circles under her eyes. Looking at their many young children, I could well understand her exhaustion.

  Patrick gestured to the table. “Come sit. Tell us of your journey from Ireland. We expected you here some time ago.”

  Children flanking me, I settled at the table, which, as I suspected, was heaped high with the best food they could afford. Stewed rabbit, boiled potatoes, and a loaf of bread spread out over the table, paltry compared to the Carnegies’ dining table but simple, hearty fare nonetheless. And from the state of the family and their home, it looked hard-earned.

  I struggled to return to my natural brogue after so many days of feigning an Anglo-Irish accent. “You shouldn’t have done all this.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve had solid work here in the mills, as I wrote your mother. We’ve been able to afford our own home. No sharing rooms with others.” He glanced over at his wife with pride. “Our children have hard-soled shoes on their feet and full bellies. No hunger like we had in Galway.”

  “And I take in some needlework at night for the extras,” Maeve chimed in, eager to share her contribution. “Like tonight.”

  My fork, full of stewed rabbit, froze midair. The thought of this young, pregnant mother tending to four small children while undertaking needlework by dim candlelight to feed me turned my stomach. How could I take food from the mouths of these children?

  But refusing to eat would insult the Lambs, something I would never do to this proud family. As I chewed on my rabbit, I explained that I worked in the Carnegie home, although I described myself as a scullery maid, as I had to my own family. No one from our sort of background would be permitted to serve as a lady’s maid, and I wanted no one to know the deceptive means by which I had procured the position. My face burning with shame over my lies, I turned the conversation away from myself and toward Patrick and Maeve’s life in Pittsburgh—the dangerous work Patrick undertook in the mills, the constant fighting among groups of immigrants for a higher rung in the hierarchy, Maeve’s Sisyphean battle with the grime, waged with vigor but without success, the threat of cholera due to the lack of a sewage system. I instinctively winced at their recounting but reminded myself that they wouldn’t want me to pity them. No matter the soot permeating every pore on their skin and every surface of their home in Slab Town, no matter the precariousness of Patrick’s work, their life was inestimably better than what they would have faced in Galway, where the famine ravaged entire families and left those without larger farms like the one maintained by my family with no means to support themselves.

  What had I done to deserve a better chance than them? Perhaps more importantly, what would I do with my good fortune beyond ensuring the well-being of my family at home?

  Chapter Eleven

  February 12, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  In a gloom as thick as the black clouds billowing from the riverbank mills, I returned to the Rebecca Street Station. My mind swirled with conflicting emotions, distracting me such that I almost slipped on a pool of waste on the stairs to the platform. I couldn’t wait to crawl into the anonymity of the streetcar and shed the many masks I wore, if only for an instant.

  When the streetcar arrived, I sought out the most remote, isolated corner and curled into it. There, amid the invisibility of the nameless, faceless passengers that surrounded me and in complete contravention of a culture that admonished women for expressing any public emotion, I allowed myself to cry.

  Rationally, I knew I had no right to these tears. I had a good job, better than my background would allow, far better than if I had lived with the Lambs as I’d planned. I sent money home to my family. I missed them, but I knew I served them best from here. For whom was I crying? For all the immigrants like the Lambs, who came to America seeking a better life but settled instead for a soot-infested home and dangerous work in the mills and gave thanks for it? For the education Dad bestowed on me that held no purpose other than to sharpen my wits to become the perfect servant? What did it say about society that the best a lowborn, educated girl could hope for was respectable servitude? It was as if all of Dad’s teaching gave me a glimpse into a world for which I longed but had no means of entering.

  A few stops into the journey, at Grant Street, in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh, a man slid next to me on my otherwise empty bench. Mindful of his proximity, I pulled my handkerchief out from my coat pocket and dabbed at my eyes, as if the pollution alone had irritated them. My self-indulgent lamentation needed to end. It was one thing to sob alone in a streetcar and a different matter entirely to cry right next to a stranger.

  “Are you all right, miss?” the man asked.

  I sensed rather than saw the other people in the streetcar stare at him. His question was most irregular. Strange men did not speak to strange women. Anywhere. For any reason. His was a far worse offense than my weeping.

  I shifted my gaze entirely to the window and slid as far away from him as possible. I tried to focus on the gray-smudged office buildings passing by and the bustle of workers—primarily older gentlemen and youth, as most men in their prime were away at war—but the man’s presence so close to me made it hard.

  The man began speaking to me. “When I was a boy, I worked as a messenger for the telegraph company. The sky was even darker from the mills then than it is today, and on bad days, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. To deliver my messages in the allotted time, I had to memorize the streets because I couldn’t always see where I was going. Sometimes, I’d have to assist deliverymen who’d lost their way by walking along the curb with one hand on their horses. From this experience, I learned that when you’ve gone astray, a helping hand will always emerge from the darkness.”

  I had no idea why this man was telling me this story or, indeed, why he was speaking to me at all. Was he trying to comfort me? Regardless of his motives, his behavior was wholly inappropriate, and I did not want the other passengers to think I’d done anything to elicit it. I moved even closer to the window, clouding the pane with my breath.

  “Perhaps another poem by Robert Burns will lift your mood,” the man said.

  Turning away from the window, I looked at him. I realized that the stranger was the elder Mr. Carnegie.

  He continued. “Although, if I recall from my last reading of Mr. Burns, he brought a tear to your eye. Perhaps a different poet will soothe.”

  I stammered out an excuse for my rudeness in not greeting him and my inappropriate emotional behavior. “M-my apologies, Mr. Carnegie, that I did not recognize you at once. I did not expect to see you on the streetcar. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Miss Kelley.” Kindly ignoring my behavioral lapse, he focused on the safer question of transportation. “It’s true that I sometimes take the family coach to work. But in truth, I prefer the train or streetcar. I started my career in the railway business—work I continue to this day—and it returns me to my roots to take the train home at the end of a workday.”

  “What a noble notion, Mr. Carnegie.”

  “There’s nothing noble ab
out me, Miss Kelley. We Carnegies are simple folk from a simple Scottish town.”

  His candor startled me. Mrs. Carnegie carefully avoided any details of the family’s origin, although she was staunchly protective of anything to do with her Scottish homeland in general. I’d suspected that their background was lowborn, of course, given her unfamiliarity with the nuances of Pittsburgh’s upper echelons and her malleability to my suggestions. But I’d received no confirmation other than the innuendo of the unpleasant Misses Coyne and Quinn. Now I had it.

  Disarmed by his frankness, I spoke freely for the first time since leaving Ireland. “Mr. Carnegie, your life at Fairfield is anything but simple. It is wondrous.” Immediately regretting my overreach, I begged his pardon.

  “Once again, you ask for forgiveness when you’ve done nothing wrong, Miss Kelley.” Then, changing the subject to Fairfield, he said, “You’re right that our home isn’t simple. I’ve worked hard to give my mother the beautiful house that she deserves. Still, I suspect your upbringing was far grander than mine.”

  Our exchange was so fresh and natural, I nearly laughed and dissuaded him of his false beliefs. Nearly. Then I recalled the Clara Kelley I was meant to be and settled on a vague statement. “I think you overestimate my upbringing, sir. Learning was the mainstay of my youth rather than luxury.” This was a true enough statement, given Dad’s insistence on the education of his girls.

  A triumphant expression passed across his face. “Ah, then I was right. Your heritage was rich indeed.”

  Hoping to turn the subject away from my background, I returned to the topic of poetry. “Has Robert Burns always been a favorite of yours, Mr. Carnegie?”

  “There’s none better for a fellow son of Scotland. Do you have a particular favorite of your own?”

  Many months had passed since I’d had an intellectual conversation with anyone, so I had no answer at the ready. I considered his question carefully. “Many poets beguile, Mr. Carnegie, but I do have a particular fondness for Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

  “I’ve heard the name and read a few of her works, but I confess to being no scholar of Mrs. Barrett Browning. Is there a poem you especially cherish?”

  “That is a difficult choice, Mr. Carnegie. Each of her poems is a treasure. However, if I were pressed to pick one, I’d select Aurora Leigh, which is not a traditional poem but more of an epic. It takes up nine books.”

  “Nine books?” He exclaimed. “Your favorite poem is one that takes up nine books? It must be incomparable.”

  Laughing behind my hand, I answered, “It is.”

  “What draws you to Aurora Leigh?”

  Which of the many controversial social issues raised by Mrs. Barrett Browning in Aurora Leigh—chief among them the obstacles women must overcome to be independent in a world dominated by men—would be the safest to choose? I couldn’t risk scandalizing Mr. Carnegie. “I suppose it’s the strength of the main character, who is a writer named Aurora, and her passion for scholarship.”

  “I see. Do you identify with Aurora?”

  “I suppose I do, in some respects.” I didn’t want to dive too deep into Aurora Leigh’s murky pool of issues, so I turned the conversation back to the poet herself, to a viewpoint she espoused that I knew—from overheard conversations—the Carnegies shared. “I am also moved by Mrs. Barrett Browning’s personal beliefs, the abolishment of slavery in particular.”

  He nodded emphatically. “That’s a belief I share as well. President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was an inspiration indeed. It moved me to write an antislavery pamphlet of my own.”

  “So you are an ardent supporter of the Union Army cause, sir?”

  “I am indeed, Miss Kelley.” He puffed up a bit. “At the outset of the war, I served Assistant Secretary of War Scott in the War Building in Washington. I was his assistant in charge of the Transportation Department, ensuring that the military railroads and telegraphs were safe and strong.”

  “That’s commendable, Mr. Carnegie. I’m certain that you have helped far more soldiers in that role than on the field.”

  I meant for my words to serve as a compliment, but he winced. I guessed that his decision not to fight alongside the soldiers on the battlefield wasn’t as highly regarded by others.

  “It was certainly an honor to assist a country that has done much for me. And that work gave me the opportunity to meet President Lincoln, as he would often come to the office and sit at the desk awaiting replies to his telegrams, which was a great privilege. Of course, I continue helping the Union cause with my endeavors to bolster the iron industry and iron production. Iron is in great demand for the war effort, and my iron businesses help supply it.”

  The conductor walked through the car, calling out “Homewood Station!”

  As Mr. Carnegie and I rose, he said, “This has easily been the swiftest ride from downtown Pittsburgh to my home in Homewood thanks to you, Miss Kelley.” He held my elbow as I stepped down onto the platform, as if I were a lady instead of a maid in his home.

  When we reached Reynolds Street, I took my place behind him, as I did with Mrs. Carnegie. But unlike his mother, he did not stroll ahead. He slowed his step to match my pace. “Tell me more of this Mrs. Barrett Browning,” he said as we walked.

  Conversing easily on the topic of poetry the whole length of Reynolds Street, we had very nearly reached Fairfield when a familiar-looking lady approaching us from the other direction slowed her pace and stared at us.

  Mr. Carnegie paused and, obviously recognizing the woman, tipped his hat. As it did not seem appropriate to leave my master’s side, I stood nearby, my gaze lowered. Then he said, “Good day, Miss Atkinson. It’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

  With the mention of her name, I recalled the woman. She was the unmarried daughter of the Carnegies’ neighbor Dr. Atkinson and had been in attendance at one tea and two dinners at my mistress’s invitation. Small-boned and delicate of features, the sharp-tongued woman had beautiful, raven-colored hair but was otherwise quite plain. Her marital status had been discussed at several ladies’ teas at which she had not been present.

  “Why, Mr. Carnegie, I thought that was you, but you had me confused,” she replied. I did not lift my gaze to assess her expression, but I heard the sarcasm in her voice along with a wry, flirtatious tone.

  Mr. Carnegie answered in his usual genial tone. “My apologies, Miss Atkinson. It pains me to think that I have engaged in some action that might confuse you. Can you share the nature of my behavior so that I might never repeat it?”

  “Well, Mr. Carnegie, I do not think I have ever witnessed a Reynolds Street man walking side by side down the boulevard in deep conversation with a maid. I almost didn’t recognize you because of it.” She giggled, as if the very idea was comically preposterous.

  I froze, waiting for Mr. Carnegie’s reaction. Perhaps the kindness he showed me on the streetcar and in his home would disappear when faced with the judgment of his social acquaintance. Was his social climbing paramount above all else? It certainly was one of my mistress’s primary goals.

  The pleasantness in his voice turned cold. “I have no wish to alarm you, Miss Atkinson, but I also will not apologize for enjoying a conversation about Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning with Miss Kelley.” He turned toward me. “Miss Atkinson, may I have the honor of introducing you to Miss Kelley?”

  I curtsied deeply, keeping my eyes on the ground. My position in the Carnegie home was tenuous—built as it was upon a lie—and I had no wish to jeopardize it by alienating my mistress’s social circle, even if her precious son provided the impetus. “Good day, Miss Atkinson,” I offered without looking up. I wanted to make certain she had no cause for calling me impertinent.

  “Good day, Miss Kelley,” she replied, her tone easily as icy as Mr. Carnegie’s. “And to you, Mr. Carnegie, as well.”

  I did not glance up until I he
ard the clip of her footsteps. Once I did, I locked eyes with Mr. Carnegie. “My sincerest thanks, sir.”

  “Miss Kelley, you should not have to thank me for treating you humanely in the face of disrespect. I was raised by grandfathers who had a long-abiding disdain for the aristocracy and the inequitable treatment of men and who pursued Chartist political beliefs unpopular with the British rulers that advocated for equal rights for the rich and poor alike. I am not about to stand idly by when a classist remark is doled out here in democratic America.” He inhaled deeply. “Now back to Mrs. Browning.”

  We continued our conversation about poetry until we finally reached Fairfield. There, standing before the two very different entrances to the Carnegie family home, however, we could no longer pretend a divide did not exist between us.

  As he approached the main stairs to the Fairfield, I curtsied to him. “Good evening, sir,” I said, and before he could respond, I turned to walk behind the house to the servants’ entrance.

  Chapter Twelve

  March 16, 1864

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  The ladies erupted in laughter. Even the typically somber-faced Mrs. Carnegie smiled at the comment. I tamped down my own surprise at her reaction—indeed at the abundant merriment so atypical for the Carnegies’ receiving room during the ladies’ afternoon teas—to maintain my impassive servant’s expression.

  Mrs. Jones echoed Mrs. Vandevort’s remark. “I too am thankful that my status as a matron does not require that I have the nineteen-inch waist demanded from these young girls today.”

  “Nineteen?” Mrs. Vandevort cackled. “I heard that the girls are whittling down their waists to thirteen inches with these newfangled corsets.”

  “How on earth do the girls eat in such constrained conditions?”

  “Rarely. And daintily when they do.”