Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

November 4, 1863

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The carriage was not empty. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I saw that there were two other girls inside. Both were near my age, with the reddish hair of my people, but there, the similarities stopped. Wearing dresses with crinoline underskirts peeking out at the hem, thick silk sashes, high necklines with lace collars, and wide pagoda sleeves, the girls had clothes finer and more fashionable than anything I’d ever owned. Finer than anything I’d ever seen, in fact, except the two occasions I served as a temporary kitchen maid for a holiday meal at Castle Martyn, the medieval citadel owned by the Martyn family, who served as landlord to all the farmers in our region.

Who in the name of Mary was this Clara Kelley I’d become?

From their gawking, I saw that the girls found me as alien as I found them. But I could not let on, or I risked losing my place in the carriage. How could I best ensure that I stepped into the mysterious shoes that the other Clara left me to fill?

Not by speaking in my usual manner, that was for certain. These girls didn’t look as though their accents would match my farmer’s daughter’s West Ireland lilt, no matter how posh our fellow neighbors found it compared to their own, thanks to Dad’s education of us girls. And I guessed the other Clara Kelley spoke like them. Not me.

Mrs. Seeley’s man poked his head into the carriage. “Miss Kelley, I need to load your trunk onto the carriage. Where is it?”

How could I answer that the rucksack slung over my shoulder contained the entirety of my worldly possessions? The real Clara Kelley undoubtedly had traveled with trunks large enough to carry the kind of dresses these girls wore, and my bag was so small that it wouldn’t hold even a single one of my treasured volumes of history and poetry, only my necessaries. No matter my efforts, Dad’s battered copy of Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, which he had used as inspiration for his earlier political involvement with the Fenians and I used as a primer to understand American life before my departure, would not fit. Leaving behind those books, from which Dad had educated all his daughters (much to the outcry of our farming neighbors), was nearly as hard as leaving behind my family.

I answered, “My apologies, sir. I should have told you that my trunk was lost en route.” I prayed that these words bore a good approximation of an Anglo-Irish accent, with which I assumed my carriage-mates spoke. My model was the Martyn family.

The Martyns. It pained me to conjure them up in any form, even as a reference point. Their actions were the cause of my departure. When rumors surfaced again about Dad’s years-earlier alignment with the Fenians—an Irish-led movement that maintained Ireland should be its own state, that farmers should have fair rent and fixity of tenure, and that all people should have rights and the ability to better themselves, it had arisen from the near nonexistent assistance offered by English leaders to the sufferers of the Irish famine—the Anglo-Irish Martyns retaliated. Bit by bit, the Martyns took away land from the twenty-acre tenant farm Dad had amassed, a size permitting the crop diversity that allowed our family to survive the famine, unlike so many with the standard one-acre tenancies that could grow one crop only, the decimated potato. Our family needed another source of income to bank against the reduction in the family’s earnings, and I was to be that other source. Lord Marytn, his wife, and their daughter might as well have placed me on the Envoy themselves and steered the ship through the rough Atlantic waters to America.

“Lost?” the driver asked.

Did he not understand my feigned accent, or was it skepticism I saw in his eyes? Either way, he was questioning my explanation, and I had to stay firm.

“Yes, sir. Lost in a squall.” As soon as the lie spilled from my lips, I regretted it.

The girls, who had been surreptitiously watching this exchange behind the slow wave of their fans, openly stared. They too were on board the Envoy, and while the boat regularly cut through rough chop and suffered through the storm that had flooded steerage, no squall had pummeled the old whaling ship. Would the girls reveal my lie?

He tilted his head in clear disbelief. “A squall? These girls said nothing of it. Nor have I heard any talk of a squall among the sailing folk.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded emphatically. The girls’ askance expression or no, I had to adhere to my claim and convince this man.

Shaking his head, in disbelief or frustration, I could not tell, the man slammed shut the carriage door. I was left alone with the two girls, who had curiously chosen to keep my secret. For now.

The crack of a whip broke the awkward silence, and the carriage lurched forward. The careening took us off guard, and at first, we were all preoccupied with restoring our belongings and ourselves to order. Once the carriage began rumbling along with only the odd jerk when the wheels hit a rock or rut, the uncomfortable quiet and scrutiny began again.

I stared out the window, pretending to be engrossed in the passing sights. It started as a ruse to avoid the girls’ gaze, but as the minutes passed, my astonishment was genuine. As the carriage left the harbor and progressed into the grid of Philadelphia streets, I saw no gray stone buildings climbing with moss and ivy. None of the verdancy and history of Galway existed in this new city. Instead, the streets were wide and straight, intersecting at right angles, and abounded with redbrick buildings trimmed with bright-white columns and window sashes as well as freshly painted signs proclaiming the name of the purveyors and their wares. Everything here looked tidy and freshly hewn, though not as elegantly designed as the Dublin and London buildings and squares of which I had seen engravings in Dad’s books.

“Miss Kelley?”

I looked away from the window. “Yes, Miss—” I realized that I had not been properly introduced to the girls.

“I am Miss Coyne, and this is Miss Quinn. You told the driver that you were on board the Envoy?”

Now I understood. Even though the girls chose to keep my secret from Mrs. Seeley’s man for reasons known only to them, they weren’t going to let me off so easily in the privacy of the carriage. I would have to maintain my confidence, no matter our shared, unspoken understanding that my story was, at least in part, fabrication. “Yes, I was.”

“In the second-class cabin?”

“Yes.” I hoped I sound convincing. I needed to tread carefully, or they might reveal my lie to Mrs. Seeley’s man and ruin this opportunity.

“Curious. Neither Miss Quinn nor I saw you during the long days of travel.”

“Nor I you. Although from my vantage point, I did not see much of anything or anyone during the voyage.” My words, spoken slowly and deliberately to maintain the accent, sounded false to my ears.

“Your vantage point?”

“The floor of a laundress’s cabin. My seasickness was so profound, no one would bunk with me.” I gestured to my dress. “It also explains the dowdiness of my attire. None of my own gowns survived my illness. I was forced to buy clothing from a shipmate.”

The girls recoiled in unison at the very word seasickness. Although they might have suffered from the same affliction, it was not considered polite to discuss the reality of the common sailing condition. It shut down the conversation, as I’d hoped.

I returned to my window and tried to keep my attention fixed on the world of curiosities unfolding before me. But the whispering of the girls distracted me, and I used the opportunity to try and glean a few words and phrases from their hushed mutterings. “Seeley,” “service,” and “Mrs. Carnegie” were only a few that stood out from their murmurs.

“Did I hear the driver say that you were headed to Mrs. Seeley in Pittsburgh?” The other girl, Miss Quinn, spoke this time.

“I am. Are you as well?”

“We are indeed. Do you know to whom you will be posted?”

What did she mean by “posted”? Wracking my mind for a response, I thought on the whispers I had overheard and pieced together an understanding of her question. Perhaps she was asking to whom I would be placed in service. Was that the role Mrs. Seeley played, matching employers with servants? If so, she must be asking what family I would be serving.

After an uncomfortably long pause during which my fear of giving the wrong answer paralyzed me, Miss Quinn asked, “You aren’t going to serve Mrs. Carnegie, are you?”

I grasped at her suggestion. “Yes. Yes I am.”

The girls shot a glance at one another. I interpreted nothing of its meaning. “You are to be the new lady’s maid to Mrs. Margaret Carnegie? We were considered for that role, but then Mrs. Seeley realized that our educations qualified us for the more important positions of tutors.” This time, their meaning was unmistakable. Clearly, they deemed me unsuitable for the role. Most mistresses would agree. I looked like a farmer’s daughter—which I was—and such girls were rarely permitted above the station of scullery maid, if they were ever permitted into service at all.

“Yes,” I answered, steeling my voice. If the girls wished to challenge this role I was playing, then better the battle commence here than in front of Mrs. Seeley. Whoever she was. At least then I would already be in Pittsburgh.

Miss Quinn was cowed by the steadiness of my stare, and her eyes shifted to the floor. But Miss Coyne held my gaze and finally spoke the thoughts that had been brewing. “Well, you certainly don’t look the part. A servant’s appearance conveys not only her standing but the standing of her mistress, as a lady’s maid should well know. As tutors to the daughters of the Oliver and Standish families, I can assure you we would be rejected out of hand if we were to appear for our positions dressed like you, Miss Kelley. Seasickness or not.” She crinkled her tiny nose as if the very thought of nausea conjured up its smell. “But then you will be serving the Carnegie family, and I understand that they are new in their rise. Perhaps they don’t yet know the difference in servants.” The girls giggled at Miss Coyne’s boldness.

If Miss Coyne hoped to discourage me by her words, she was wrong. In fact, her words had the opposite effect. They only wedded me to this new role I played, firing the stubborn determination Mum and Dad often accused me of having in droves. It was that determination they hoped would serve me well in America and perhaps pave the rest of the family’s way here, if the Martyns exacted the worst upon the family.

Reminding myself of my parents’ síofra label, I thought about how this new Clara Kelley would respond. I smiled sweetly and folded my hands in my lap. “Doesn’t Proverbs say that ‘strength and honor are her clothing’? I think I’ll let my character—character of which Mrs. Seeley is undoubtedly aware—speak for me in lieu of my clothes.”