Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

May 5, 1864

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

“Do you think a picnic would be appropriate, Clara? It may be early days, but it seems as though the Union’s position is quite strong, and it is well past our turn to host an event.” Mrs. Carnegie was staring out the window at the spring-bright morning, fresh with promising magenta and ivory buds.

The verdancy of the day reminded me of early summer mornings in Galway, and with the reminder of home, my mood darkened. The gnawing sensation that something was amiss with my family had grown in the days since I had sent my letter to Eliza.

“Revelry, of course, has been out of the question in recent weeks, but General Grant’s leadership of the Union armies seems to have lightened people’s spirits,” my mistress continued.

She and I were alone. She was always at her softest, most vulnerable, when it was just us two. In public, she preferred wagging an accusatory finger at me for any number of invented violations. My mistress enjoyed wielding her newfound power and flaunting her status, and while I didn’t enjoy being the brunt of her displays, it added to my sought-after indispensability. Particularly since, in private, she relied upon my expertise, even though it was pretend.

“I believe so, ma’am,” I answered as I turned my thoughts away from home and started brushing her hair the requisite two hundred strokes of the morning. “Not to mention that many would find the Senate’s recent approval of the Thirteenth Amendment to be reason enough for conviviality.”

Several weeks earlier, I had overheard Mrs. Carnegie and her boys toast to the Senate’s decision to pass the constitutional amendment prohibiting slavery and involuntary servitude. That evening, I’d planned my own private celebration for the hour after I’d shepherded my mistress into bed. Once I bade her good night, I’d padded down to the kitchen to make myself a steaming cup of tea to sip on while rereading the moving discourse on slavery in Aurora Leigh. But the kitchen wasn’t empty. To my astonishment, Mr. Ford was sitting at the kitchen worktable—a first for the hardworking cook—and he was crying.

The sight of the enormous man, usually jovial, wracked by emotion shook me. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Ford?”

He smiled through his tears. “I’m better than all right, Miss Kelley. I never thought I’d live to see the day that the federal government would ban slavery.”

Relieved that his tears were happy ones, I sat down next to him. “It’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than wonderful, Miss Kelley. It’s miraculous. It means that if the Union wins this war, I might see my wife and daughter again. Walking free down the streets of Pittsburgh, just like me.”

His disclosure surprised me. “I didn’t know you had a family, Mr. Ford.”

“It’s too painful to talk about it most days.” He wiped his face with the edge of his apron and sighed deeply. “But not today.”

To encourage him, I placed my hand over his and asked, “Do you mind telling me about your family?”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared down at my pale white hand atop his wide, brown one. Keeping his eyes fixed upon our hands, he said, “My wife, Ruth, has golden eyes. Not the usual chocolate brown of my people, but flecked with gold so they sparkle in the sunlight. And my daughter, Mabel… Well, she’s got those eyes too. On a warm summer evening with the sun setting, you should see the pair of them all lit up.” He chuckled.

I smiled. “They sound lovely.”

“Lovely, yes, but tough too. Ruth anyway. Mabel was just five back then. Ruth was the one who made the plans and pushed us to run.”

“Run?” I didn’t understand what he meant.

He looked up from our hands and stared into my eyes. “Run from the plantation, of course.”

I felt stupid. How could I have not understood that Mr. Ford had once been a slave? And that his family was still enslaved? It made my worries about my own family pale by comparison.

My eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry. Where are they now?”

He withdrew his hand from mine. “I don’t know. The last I saw them was on the underground rail. We were in a tunnel in North Carolina that connected to the basement of a church that took in runaways, and we heard dogs barking overhead. I was the master’s cook, and I knew he wouldn’t let me go without a chase from his precious hunting dogs. The barking got louder and louder. So loud, we knew the men and the dogs were down in that tunnel with us. I pushed Ruth and Mabel onward—toward the passageway into the church—while I stayed behind to fight off the men and dogs as best I could. I knew it was their only chance. When the dogs came tearing at me, I realized that Ruth and Mabel hadn’t gone ahead like I’d told them to, that they’d returned to fight alongside me.” He grew quiet. “The next thing I remember is lying under a collapsed section of the tunnel. Ruth and Mabel were nowhere to be found. Believe me, I looked.”

Words failed me. But I couldn’t let his story go unacknowledged, so I stammered out a few inadequate condolences. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry, Mr. Ford.”

The chair creaked as he pushed himself to standing. As he walked toward the stove, he turned back and smiled over at me, the same welcoming, jovial smile he gave me every day. I realized then that the affable, kindly man I believed Mr. Ford to be was simply a mask he wore. That none of us were who we appeared to be.

“We’ve all left people behind, haven’t we?” he whispered and then bent down to tend to the stove fire.

Mrs. Carnegie interrupted my thoughts with more commentary about the picnic, an event that seemed frivolous in light of its tragic backdrop. “True enough, Clara. Most of our acquaintances would welcome a celebration over the Thirteenth Amendment. Mrs. Wilkins excepting, of course,” she said.

I understood her reference to her well-heeled neighbor. During one formal dinner where I stood in attendance, I heard Mrs. Wilkins complain that “negroes” were being admitted to West Point. I had to work hard to suppress a victorious smile when, in response, the elder Mr. Carnegie replied, “Imagine! I have heard rumors that some are even admitted to heaven.”

“Of course, ma’am,” I said, continuing the brushing ritual. The process calmed my mistress, and I sensed agitation over the notion of the picnic. More questions would undoubtedly follow. “I suppose that the specific impetus for the picnic needn’t be explained to Mrs. Wilkins.”

“True.” She paused, and I watched her face as another question formed. “We wouldn’t be accused of callousness, would we? In light of losses others have suffered?” Ever cognizant of her position as a recent immigrant without a personal stake in the war, particularly since neither of her sons were fighting, she was wary of appearing unfeeling to her adopted countrymen.

“No one would ever accuse you or your sons of that, ma’am. I believe most of your circle would welcome the opportunity for a bit of merriment. The war years have offered little enough of it.”

“As long as Andra approves.” She had made her decision but wouldn’t send invitations, plan the menu, or issue orders to the staff until her beloved son blessed the undertaking. The younger Mr. Carnegie, Tom, ever in his older brother’s gregarious shadow, was never consulted on social matters and only superficially on business ones. Sometimes, he seemed even more invisible than me.

“I’m certain Mr. Carnegie knows best.”

The awkwardness I felt over the elder Mr. Carnegie’s gift of Aurora Leigh had abated in recent weeks. His travel had lessened, and he and I had been in each other’s regular company as I stood by Mrs. Carnegie’s side at morning calls, during parlor visits, and throughout formal company dinners. He never referenced our exchanges or his inappropriate gift. In fact, he only acknowledged my presence in the most cursory fashion, as was appropriate for the master of the house. While I felt almost as if I’d imagined our conversations, I couldn’t forget about his decision to send a poor immigrant to serve in his stead as a soldier.

I studied Mrs. Carnegie’s long, silvery-white hair in the mirror and wondered if this was the moment to summon my courage for a suggestion. “I’ve noticed that the ladies have begun experimenting with a different hairstyle.” Mrs. Carnegie’s center-parted style topped by a high bun hadn’t been fashionable for a decade even in Ireland, and I worried that one of the women in her circle would mention this. The blame would then fall upon me, as the state of the mistress’s hair was the purview of her lady’s maid. I could not risk this sort of condemnation.

“Is that so?”

Her flat tone revealed nothing of her actual feelings about my suggestion, giving me no avenue but to plow forward. “Yes, ma’am. In the modern style, the hair is drawn back smoothly without a part, and the bun is worn at the nape of the neck rather loosely. Sometimes, a snood or net is used around the bun.”

As she considered whether my brash idea was worthy of commendation or punishment, her face took on a pinched appearance. “How would I wear a bonnet with that sort of hairstyle? The front of my hair would look a fright when I removed the bonnet indoors.”

“I presume that you might instead sport one of the smaller hats that perches upon the head. Then the style would not be disturbed.”

“I’d look a right jaunty fool with one of those caps sitting on my head. No. We will style my hair the same way it’s been styled for years, and I will keep to my bonnet. I’d rather look like an old-fashioned matron than embarrass my Andra with tomfoolery. His place comes before all else, because it is on his position that our family rises.”

For the first time, I realized how alike my situation was to that of Mr. Carnegie. Although the scale was quite different, the stakes were not. The well-being of both our families rested on our success.