Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

December 8, 1866

New York, New York

The uniform-clad nurse softly closed the door to my mistress’s room. “Her cough is subsiding, sir, but she will need the breathing treatments regularly.”

“Do we let the front desk know when we need you?” Andrew asked, his brows furrowed in concern for his mother.

A few days prior, malaise had overcome my mistress, an uncommon state for one so full of vigor. Yesterday, a dry cough had settled into her chest, which rattled her son but which I recognized as simple exhaustion. New York City, with its late evenings and brisk pace of walking, tired her, and she needed rest. Only illness would give her that permission.

“I will stay with her throughout the evening, sir. Until morning comes, and we can reassess her condition.” The nurse slid me a look and said, “I do not believe it is serious, however.”

“You are certain?” Visible relief softened Andrew’s brow. He was unaccustomed to his strong mother evidencing any weakness, and the sickness, albeit a mild one, had unnerved him.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Would you like to see her before she naps?”

“Indeed.” He sighed deeply and entered her bedroom alone.

I felt relieved that he’d left the room. Since our discussion in the park, relations between Andrew and myself had been strained. I recoiled from the harsh side of himself he’d shown, along with his message. He wanted to secure an invitation to join the elite, and no place existed for me there. I needed to halt my residual fantasies, however hard I’d tried to suppress them, that Andrew and I might one day act upon our feelings, and focus on my duty to my family. My continued emotional tie to Andrew jeopardized that, and I was not certain that I could separate our business relationship from it. I needed to be satisfied with my salary and the generous present of shares Andrew had bestowed upon me. Very kindly, so that he would have no reason to retaliate through termination or the rescinding of my stock, I kept my distance and sidestepped his persistent efforts at private conversation.

The nurse and I were alone in the parlor. Staring at her crisp, white uniform and marveling at her efficient, direct manner, I wondered at her position. “Have you been a nurse for long?”

“As a girl, I was inspired by the newspaper accounts of Florence Nightingale. Are you familiar with her?”

“Yes. As a girl in Ireland, I heard stories about her work in the Crimean War.”

She smiled. “Such dangerous, inspiring nursing she did there. As a young woman, I searched for opportunities to nurse like Miss Nightingale, but it was religious women who primarily undertook nursing work here in our country. We did not have a formal school to teach nursing like the one Miss Nightingale formed in England. When the Civil War broke out, the Union Army put out the word that it was looking for women to create a corps of nurses, most of whom would receive training in the field hospitals. I volunteered immediately.”

“I had no idea that women served in the army.”

“I am not surprised. We were volunteers, and as such, our positions were unofficial. To my knowledge, no newspapers reported on our work.”

Impressed by her initiative and bravery, I said, “Thank you for your service in the war, Miss…?” I realized that I did not know her name.

“Carlyle is my surname.”

I curtsied and introduced myself. “Miss Kelley. It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Miss Carlyle.”

Stitch after stitch, I darned holes in Mrs. Carnegie’s black silk stockings. I shifted position on my narrow bed, uncomfortable at doing this work on my bed in the dark, windowless servant’s chamber instead of a comfortable chair in my mistress’s dressing chamber with bright daylight and gaslight to illuminate my needlework. But I was without choice, as my mistress had released me to my room when Miss Carlyle took over her care for the rest of the day. The reprieve gave me time to think about the nurse’s profession. I had never considered that professions for women existed outside service or marriage, if one considered marriage a profession. What other positions might there be? I knew that Andrew had hired women to serve as telegraph operators, one of the rare other opportunities.

A knock sounded on my door. I hesitated before answering it, as no one had ever contacted me here before. In the hallway, I passed the other servants, all women as the men had their own wing, with a cordial nod, but no one had made efforts at friendliness, as everyone’s time here was fleeting.

“Miss Kelley,” a female voice called to me. “A delivery boy has a package for you.”

For me? Who in the name of Mary would be sending packages to me? Certainly not my family, and no one else even wrote letters to me. I took the large package from the matron who cleaned and supervised the female servants’ floor, and after closing the door behind me, I laid the long, rectangular box, nearly as tall as myself, on my thin blue coverlet. The box was tied with a satin, rose-pink ribbon and smelled of a lavender sachet.

I pulled the ribbon’s end and watched as the knot undid itself. Hooking my fingers under the lid, I gingerly lifted off the top. A sleek, cerulean-blue gown sat within the box, the silken layers of its skirt and bustle tucked carefully inside. A wide velvet ribbon of a darker blue encircled the waist and crisscrossed the bodice until it reached the neckline. There, tiny azure crystals trimmed the gown, giving the illusion of a sapphire necklace.

This exquisite formal gown, appropriate for a ball or an evening at the Academy of Music, must have been accidentally delivered to my room. Although how a dressmaker’s delivery boy could have made such an obvious and egregious error was unfathomable. Especially when he asked for me specifically.

I began to repack the box and take it down to the front desk when I noticed a small card within the folds of the gown. No name appeared on the envelope, and it was not sealed, so I slid out the note.

For Clara—To help me carve out a different path. Forgive me. Please meet me in the lobby at seven o’clock for an evening at the Academy of Music. Andrew.

Did I dare accept? Did I dare to hope? Or had I already indulged my girlish, innocent fantasies for long enough?