Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

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.”

The laughter subsided as Mrs. Vandevort asked, “Any word from the war?”

Mrs. Jones responded. “My husband believes that the appointment of Ulysses S. Grant to general-in-chief of the Union Army by President Lincoln will bode well for our forces. General Grant plans on grinding down the Confederates with offenses on many fronts—Eastern, Western, and Mississippi.”

“Your husband’s views are, of course, well founded, Mrs. Jones. But I cannot help but wonder whether this strategy of multiple fronts won’t lead to more casualties,” Mrs. Vandevort said.

“So many young men lost already,” Mrs. Jones whispered with a slow shake of her head.

None of the ladies in this room had lost sons or husbands, but certainly they knew many people who had. I watched as Mrs. Carnegie’s always-erect posture stiffened further. War talk made her uneasy. She felt as though she had to explain the presence of her sons at home instead of on the battlefield, even though no one would ever openly challenge the choices of Andrew and Tom Carnegie.

Mrs. Carnegie interjected, “Andra dined with General Grant here in Pittsburgh when the general was journeying to and from Washington. General Grant, of course, knew Andra from his War Office days when he was in charge of military railroads and telegraph lines.”

“How did Mr. Carnegie find General Grant?” Mrs. Vandevort asked politely. I sensed that the ladies understood what Mrs. Carnegie was trying to do.

“During their dinner, the general spoke freely about his war plans. Andra found him to be shrewd and deliberate in his strategizing but without any affectation.”

Mrs. Jones sighed. “Perhaps we are in good hands then.”

Mrs. Carnegie looked relieved that her contribution was well received. I watched her gaze shift from her visitors to the mantelpiece clock. When she glanced toward me, I knew that I needed to find out why the tea and pastries had yet to be delivered.

As I scuttled through the opulent entryway into the plainer back hallways that led to the kitchen, I thought how, most days, the war didn’t touch Fairfield. This luxurious cocoon was well-nigh immune to what was transpiring across the country. The war only impacted the Carnegies on their balance sheet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ford.” The cook stood before his vast stove, alone in the kitchen, a rarity.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kelley. Let me guess, the mistress is wondering where her tea has gone to.” Mr. Ford ambled over to the enormous wooden table commanding the kitchen’s center upon which sat a tray of bite-sized cakes. Miraculous how he managed to turn out magnificent foodstuffs with the war rationing.

“You have guessed correctly, Mr. Ford.”

“It seems as though our housemaid Hilda has gotten lost at the market. Lord only knows how she can take so long finding some onions,” he explained as he began filling the silver tea urn with hot water from the stove.

“I would be happy to take the tea in to the ladies myself, Mr. Ford.”

“Are you certain?” He looked surprised. It was outside the purview of the lady’s maid to actually carry trays and serve tea to larger groups, but I thought Mr. Ford understood by now that I did whatever was necessary to please Mrs. Carnegie.

“It’s no trouble at all.”

As he placed the silver sugar bowl and creamer upon the tray, he asked, “How is the call with Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Vandevort going?”

“The talk has turned to the war.”

He shook his head and whistled. Everyone at Fairfield knew the war was not Mrs. Carnegie’s favorite topic. “That’s got to be a tough subject right now.”

“What do you mean, ‘right now’?”

“Well, the elder Mr. Carnegie was just drafted into the Union Army.”

My stomach lurched. Although I worried about his deployment for the sake of his mother, I’d grown fond of Mr. Carnegie since our exchange on the railcar and didn’t want him to risk his life. “You mean he’s going to fight in the war?”

“No, Miss Kelley. Things would be a bit easier for the mistress with her society friends if he were. No, he’s paying for a replacement to take his place, though it’s possible the ladies don’t know about it.”

“Won’t he get in terrible trouble for doing that?”

“No, miss. The government created the Enrollment Act so that rich folk could avoid fighting. Perfectly legal.”

“Who on earth would agree to take his place?”

“Plenty of folk who need the money. Heard an Irish fellow right off the boat got $850 to fight for him.”

I felt sick. Such an enormous sum of money would be hard for any desperate immigrant to resist. I shuddered thinking of that fate befalling Patrick. How could Mr. Carnegie, who proclaimed to staunchly support the Union cause and equality among all men, lure a desperate immigrant with no stake in America’s war to his near-certain death so that he might emerge from the war unscathed?

Lifting the heavy silver tray, I thanked Mr. Ford and walked down the back hallway. As I drew nearer the receiving room, I heard a man’s voice among the ladies. I said a silent prayer that it was the younger Mr. Carnegie who’d stopped to chat with the neighborhood women. I didn’t know how I’d react to the elder after hearing Mr. Ford’s news. Even as I made my wish, I knew it wouldn’t be the notoriously shy Tom Carnegie regaling the ladies with stories.

It was indeed Andrew Carnegie, standing in the room’s center, captivating the ladies with a tale about how his iron reinforced the beam of an unstable bridge minutes before the Union forces crossed it for a battle. He nodded to me as I lowered the silver tray to the sofa table but didn’t greet me by name. A personal welcome to a servant would have been most unorthodox, even for the democratically minded Mr. Carnegie.

“There is no coffee on the tray, Miss Kelley,” Mrs. Carnegie said in a tone I knew to be condemnatory.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Carnegie. I thought the ladies wanted tea,” I answered, blushing at the thought of Mr. Carnegie witnessing this chastisement.

“Mrs. Vandevort is a coffee drinker. You should know that,” she said.

“My apologies. I will return to the kitchen straightaway.”

Moving as quickly as was appropriate toward the kitchen, I heard the heavy footsteps of a man echoing in the vast entryway behind me. I assumed Mr. Carnegie had taken his leave of the ladies and was heading into his study. Instead, the clop of his shoes followed me into the servants’ hallway.

“Miss Kelley, a minute of your time, please,” Mr. Carnegie said.

I turned toward him, shuttering my disappointment in him behind a small smile. “Of course, Mr. Carnegie. I am at your disposal.”

“I have something for you.”

“For me?” Had I left something behind in the receiving room?

Reaching inside his jacket, he slid a wrapped parcel from his inner pocket and handed it to me. It felt surprisingly heavy in my hands. What was this item? And why was he giving me anything at all?

“It’s a gift for you.”

“A gift?” I was confused as to why the master of the house would be giving a present to a servant. Suspicion grew within me, and I instinctively took a step backward. Old Galway gossip about preyed-upon servant girls loomed in my mind.

“Yes,” he said with a broad, innocent grin. He seemed unaware of the possible implications of his gift, but how could he be? He was no neophyte in the world, surely. “I’d be honored if you’d open it.”

I didn’t know what to do. It was unsuitable for the master of the house to bestow a present upon a maid, particularly the lady’s maid who was under the specific control of the lady of the house. But I couldn’t very well reject his overture out of hand, improper though it was.

Deciding upon a middle ground, I demurred. “While I’m most honored, Mr. Carnegie, I’ve done nothing to warrant such generosity.”

“Oh, but you have, Miss Kelley. You’ve opened my eyes to the wonder of Mrs. Barrett Browning’s poetry.” He pressed the package into my hands. “I found a first edition of Aurora Leigh, and I want you to have it for your personal collection.”

“No, sir, I am not deserving. Please allow me to return it to you. Perhaps you can place it in the library for the entire family to enjoy.”

“It is my intention, Miss Kelley, that this book inhabit your room. You are used to a world larger than the one in which you now serve my mother. I insist that you broaden it, beginning with this gift. As Mrs. Barrett Browning says, ‘The world of books is still the world.’”