Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

November 4, 1865

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

I had believed nothing could be bleaker than an Irish winter. Gray skies without a hint of sunlight. Barren tree branches reaching toward the sunless sky. Relentless cold and damp that no amount of fireside warmth could thaw. But I was wrong. Nothing was worse than the onset of the Pittsburgh winter after Mr. Carnegie’s departure.

Not that the weather was harsher than the winter I’d previously served at Fairfield. The frigid temperatures and the bitter winds and the snow made dark by the unyielding black smuts drifting from the city to the countryside were all the same. No, the sole difference was Mr. Carnegie. Not until he departed for his trip to Europe did I understand how much hope and lightness he brought me, even when our park afternoons had ended.

Without him, my life became an unending routine of service to an ever-demanding taskmistress, made increasingly difficult with the harsh change of seasons.

Without her beloved Andra to soften her, Mrs. Carnegie oversaw Fairfield and the Carnegie business investments with a domineering fist. Although the elder Mr. Carnegie left behind strict instructions to his younger brother on managing the family affairs, Mrs. Carnegie insisted on ruling alongside him like a co-regent.

Instead of accompanying her to morning calls throughout Homewood and afternoons of whist at neighbors, I began traveling with her to the Carnegies’ downtown offices. I stood by her side while she attended meetings with the younger Mr. Carnegie to review the affairs of Cyclops Iron, Iron Forge, Union Telegraph, Lochiel Iron, Keystone Bridge, Central Transportation, Columbia Oil, Pioneer Coal, Adams Express, and a number of other brick, coal, locomotive, and iron ventures. Always quiet during the meetings—she was ever cognizant of reinforcing the impression of the younger Mr. Carnegie’s leadership—my mistress’s strength and intellect were unleashed behind closed doors with her younger son at home at Fairfield. She came alive in this new role, and I realized how brilliant she was. And I learned about the industrial forces in play in post–Civil War America.

The absence of the elder Mr. Carnegie not only fueled my mistress’s tongue, but also freed her younger son from his subservient role to some extent. I watched as he stood up to his mother’s edicts in those private business conversations. And while his mother had instigated the younger Mr. Carnegie’s pursuit of Miss Lucy Coleman for the family’s sake, he now sought out the courtship for his own reasons. The twosome shared a comfortable banter and attraction evident to any bystander, and it pleased me to watch him pursue the young woman for her own sake during the increasingly frequent family dinners between the remaining Carnegies and Colemans.

In truth, Mr. Carnegie was never really absent. Multiple times a week, lengthy letters with exotic stamp marks arrived at Fairfield. My mistress and her son acquired the habit of reading the letters aloud to each other in the hours after dinner. She reveled in his descriptions of the Atlantic crossing on board the newest and quickest ship called the Scotia; laughed over his trip home to Dunfermline, Scotland, where he stayed up all night singing Scottish songs with relatives in a town that seemed “miniature” to him after America; and soaked up his accounts of theater, restaurants, concerts, museums, operas, and architecture on the continent. Her son was becoming a gentleman, and while she missed him terribly, she delighted in the status of his well-earned trip, even bragged about it with her friends.

But the letters did not bring me comfort. In fact, they only worsened my mood. To hear of his adventures, accompanied by his friends, with words full of wonder and merriment, made my situation bleaker by comparison because it threw my lingering feelings about him into bold relief.

“Are you listening, Tom?” my mistress barked at her son.

Reluctantly, Tom lowered the newspaper he had been enjoying by the roaring fire and feigned attention. I surmised that his interest in these travel letters was minimal, as he received his own regular missives from his older brother with demands that he send written reports on the state of the family’s business interests and that he undertake specific tasks at the different ventures. The younger Mr. Carnegie believed himself to be capable of making decisions on his own and often disagreed with his brother’s determination to continually reinvest the capital they made. If the young Mr. Carnegie were in charge, I had heard him complain to his mother, he would operate far more conservatively, putting the money safely away or paying off accumulated debts. But he never disobeyed his elder brother, who insisted this post–Civil War period was the time for aggressive investment as the demand for iron and railroads was sure to rise. For all his blunderbuss, the younger Mr. Carnegie wouldn’t dare challenge the elder.

“You have my rapt attention, Mother,” Tom answered.

She glanced over at her younger boy, eyes squinting suspiciously as she asked, “Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice, Tom?”

Tom dropped the paper to the floor, folded his hands upon his lap, and said, “Of course not, Mother. I am waiting.”

“Excellent,” she said with a victorious smile. “Listen up.”

Dearest Mother and Tom,

It is a Sunday and therefore, a day of literary labor, as we boys have dubbed it. As you know, my task is to make a record of our travels in the form of long letters to you, and I hope you will indulge me in the finer details of our journeys.

We continue to take the continent by storm. We get along famously here in Dresden, Germany, each of us keeping to our established roles. Vandy is our resident German speaker and jack-of-all-trades; Harry serves as our postmaster by mailing all letters and ensuring the safe travel of our luggage; and I am the consummate planner and chief enthusiast, by which I mean I map out the excursions and spur the boys along. The boys cannot keep up with me, tiring far too easily, but then, no one has ever kept my pace but you, Mother. As usual, Harry and Vandy try to restrain my determination to visit every museum, sight, theater, and restaurant of note, without success.

We arrived in Dresden but two nights ago, greeted by a most exquisite jewel box of a city. Impressive church spires stared out at us out over the winding Elbe River, where all manner of boats sailed. Despite evidence of industry, the skies, the river, and buildings bear none of the dark marks of progress so prevalent in Pittsburgh. Quick study that I am, I am learning the language of Dresden’s breathtaking, often fanciful, buildings, especially the baroque and rococo structures that inhabit the center of the city like the Coselpalais. These churches, palaces, and government offices are unlike any of the structures in the New World or Old that I’ve encountered so far, with artwork to match. I am torn as to whether to name as my favorite the Sophienkirche, the city’s sole Gothic church built in early 1200s if legend can be believed, with its massive twin steeples, or the marvelously rococo, eighteenth-century palace the locals simply call the Zwinger. If pressed, I would likely pick the Sophienkirche, because it houses an enormous Silbermann organ where, rumor has it, Bach himself once performed.

Shall I regale you with details of the opera we heard at the famed Semperoper? No, since we have been speaking the language of architecture, I will first describe to you the opera house itself, worthy of visiting even without the exquisite singing that resounds within its hallowed walls. Considered one of the most beautiful opera houses, it boasts of three different architectural styles—renaissance, baroque, and Greek classical revival—a boon for a student like myself who finds the styles much easier to distinguish when studied side by side. Have I impressed you yet, Mother, with my new art terminology?

Vandy’s German has been indispensable in this regard. It assists us not only in our study of art and culture, but in our conversations with actual locals, not the guides we usually hire to educate us about the cities we visit. Last evening, after a hearty meal, we sat down to drink bottles of beer like every local German man in the establishment, and after we had quaffed down a few, we engaged in a lively discussion with a local tradesman, with Vandy as translator.

While I enjoy the expansive education I am receiving here, I miss the connection I felt with the local history in Dunfermline. There, aunts, uncles, and cousins were quick to tell tales about our very own ancestors, with descriptions so lively, it seemed as though the ancestors had walked the town streets that very afternoon. Here, we learn impressive histories about peoples with whom we have no connection, and while interesting, I do not feel the same bond I felt in Scotland, with its incomparable history, tradition, and poetry. How fortunate we are in our birthplace.

How does life fare at Fairfield for you and Tom, Mother? Do you still attend and host tea with the Reynolds Street ladies? Does your lady’s maid, Clara, continue to meet your high standards? Does she fare well herself?

Mrs. Carnegie stopped reading aloud and looked over at her younger son. “How kind of Andrew to inquire after the staff, Tom. Don’t you think? He could have just as easily spared the paper. Such a generous spirit.”

I wondered at Mr. Carnegie’s question, which I understood he meant for me. How did I fare, in these bleak days without him?