Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

April 7, 1867

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

I should have been glad for the respite. Mrs. Carnegie left Fairfield by carriage directly after she shared breakfast with the new Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie in the breakfast room, gifting me with an expanse of time for the smaller tasks of a lady’s maid—sewing, darning, and mending. But I wasn’t glad. I was worried.

My mistress had been unusually quiet and rigid during her evening rituals last night and her daytime preparation this morning. I was not privy to the justification Andrew had offered for our presence alone in the library or to his explanation for my obvious upset. I had not seen him since I stormed out. Because I did not know what he proffered, and because I had no understanding of what might transpire next, I matched Mrs. Carnegie’s quietude as I served her.

This silence alone would have provided fodder for concern, but her sudden departure without informing me of her plans was very troubling. She kept me abreast of every aspect of her schedule so that I could tailor my time accordingly, and indeed, I accompanied her on most of her calls. Where had she gone?

After an anxious hour in her bedchamber organizing her gowns, gathering mending, and looking for evidence of her whereabouts, I walked down to the kitchen. The staff was in a flurry, readying a luncheon for the new Mrs. Carnegie to share with her friends, some of the younger set from Homewood. I wondered if this displacement caused my mistress’s exodus. Maybe her departure had nothing to do with me and Andrew.

“Will my mistress be back for the luncheon?” I asked Mr. Ford as he arranged tea sandwiches on a silver tray.

Hilda tittered in the background as Mr. Ford answered, “She hasn’t told you?”

Mock whispering to the new scullery maid, Anne, Hilda said for my benefit, “Isn’t the lady’s maid meant to know her mistress’s schedule?”

“No.” I spoke directly to Mr. Ford. “Our paths crossed this morning before we could review today’s calendar.”

“I can’t be sure, but I think I heard her say to the younger Mrs. Carnegie that she had an appointment downtown.”

An appointment downtown? She hadn’t mentioned it to me, and I usually accompanied her on those outings. Part of me longed to send a message to Andrew to inquire—about his mother, about us—but another part of me sensed danger. What in the name of Mary was happening? What did I want to happen now, after my quarrel with Andrew? Had I jeopardized my family?

The housekeeper’s parlor was mercifully empty of Mrs. Stewart, who was busy taking inventory of the linen cabinets. Without her negative chatter and gossip, I could better hear the goings-on of the house. I listened to Hilda and Anne dust the parlor, Mr. Ford hum while chopping vegetables for the day’s soup, Mr. Holyrod instruct James in the proper way of polishing silver, and the new Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie sneak a kiss outside the door to the breakfast room.

I heard everything but my mistress.

Finally, at four o’clock, six hours after her departure, her distinctive footsteps crossed the entryway. Dropping my mending, I raced up the back staircase so I could meet her at her bedroom door. No matter what had transpired with Mrs. Carnegie yesterday, no matter what had passed between myself and Andrew, I needed to know where I stood.

Assuming a stance of service, I greeted her. “I hope your appointment downtown was satisfactory, ma’am.”

She grinned at me. Not a pleasant, welcoming smile but a malignant smirk. If the corners of her mouth hadn’t turned upward, I might have considered the expression a scowl. “Clara, precisely the person I wanted to see.”

On her heels, I walked into her bedchamber. “May I help ready you for dinner, ma’am?”

She stared at me, her face a strange mix of disgust, triumph, and betrayal. The horrible smile had disappeared. “What a perfect servant you are, Clara. Always anticipating my needs. Always handy with the brush, the needle, the buffer.”

“Yes, ma’am. I try my best,” I answered hesitantly. Somehow her words did not sound like a compliment, not only because her commendations were so rare. Her voice contained an off note.

“Always ready with advice about the proper dress, appropriate behavior, correct language. All based on your vast experience as a European lady’s maid, am I correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Except this is your first position as a lady’s maid, isn’t it, Clara?”

My heart started racing, and my breath became shallow. She knew.

“Do you know where I had an appointment today?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

Mrs. Carnegie began pacing around the room. “I met with Mrs. Seeley. You remember her, don’t you? The woman who paid for your ticket here? Arranged for transportation from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh? Placed you in this position?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I had her undertake a little investigation for me. On a hunch based on months of watching you and Andra. Much to her astonishment, she learned that the Clara Kelley she hired for me died on the Atlantic crossing. It seemed that she left behind a fellow named Thomas, nearly a fiancé, who had become keen to make contact with her and with whom she’d exchanged a few letters. At my prodding, Mrs. Seeley got in touch with this Thomas, as Clara had no family of which to speak, and after reviewing the records of the Envoy, the boat Clara boarded from Dublin, Mrs. Seeley pieced together what happened. Somehow, someway, you—whoever you are—took the real Clara Kelley’s place.” Her voice rose, and spittle spewed from her mouth. “When I think of all the trust I placed in you…”

I backed away from her. “I will leave Fairfield right away, ma’am.”

She advanced toward me. “You will do more than leave Fairfield—and this city—immediately. You will foreswear contact with my son forever. It was the hint of a relationship brewing between you two that prompted my inquiries. I would have never let my precious Andra marry a lady’s maid, but I would die before allowing him to consort with a liar and an impostor.”

Stepping away from me, she inhaled deeply, patted down her hair, and said, “If you try to make contact with Andra in any way, I will inform him that you are a pretender and a fraud of the worst sort. One who usurped a dead girl’s identity for her own gain. If you leave now and never speak to him again, I will allow him to believe that the lovers’ spat I interrupted yesterday drove you away.”

Drawing toward me again, she poked one buffed fingernail deep into my chest. “Don’t you dare think I’m offering you this option out of mercy for you. I am doing it for my son. That way, he can move toward his destiny without suffering the humiliation of your deception.”

What choice had Mrs. Carnegie left me? What choice had I left myself? If Andrew found out who I was, if he discovered that I’d been lying to him for years, wouldn’t he leave me himself? Not to mention, if he learned of my deceit, would he exact revenge upon me and, through me, my family? Would he somehow interfere at the bank so I could not withdraw money from the account that my family so desperately needed? I had witnessed a dark side of Andrew emerge, and I could not take that risk to my family. Even if some minuscule chance existed that Andrew might forgive my lies and marry me regardless, I could never gamble away my family’s welfare. Andrew could never discover who I really was, and disappearing forever was the only way.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Carnegie,” I said softly, closing the door—and my future with Andrew—behind me.

Sobbing quietly as I walked up the staircase to the servants’ floor, I tried to console myself. If Andrew still believed that I was the Anglo-Irish tradesman’s daughter Clara Kelley—the woman who had inspired him in business and affection and who challenged him to carve a different, better path than the one driven solely by avarice—the chance existed that my influence might remain. Even though I would be gone.