Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel

November 11, 1863

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Paintings crowded the crimson parlor walls: scene after scene of rolling farm hills, herds of lamb, cows in their pastures, images of home, all. The artwork covered nearly every inch of the etched cerise velvet wallpaper. It was almost as if the Carnegies were afraid of empty space. What did they fear might creep through a break in their sumptuous barrier? Dad used to always say that the Martyns’ thick castle walls were designed to keep out poverty as much as invaders.

“So this is your latest candidate, Mrs. Seeley?” a small, squat woman with a pug nose said from the depths of an armchair tufted in more red damask. I had almost missed her amid the suffocating layers of ruby that swathed the parlor. From the laughter spilling out from her while we waited in the front hall, I assumed she would be at least a touch merry, but the dark eyes peering up at me from the armchair were suspicious and stern.

Unlike her son, the woman’s accent was thick, like a slab of butter on Mum’s brown bread. It was thick enough to recognize as Scottish.

Was this the woman I was meant to serve?

“Yes, Mrs. Carnegie.” Mrs. Seeley’s voice suddenly sounded meek. Perhaps she was presenting a softer version of herself to counter Mrs. Carnegie’s remark about her despotic nature. Or perhaps Mrs. Carnegie intimidated the prepossessing Mrs. Seeley.

“She looks the part, but can she play it?” Mrs. Carnegie asked with a cock of her head and a sip of her tea.

“All her references attest to her excellent work.”

“Then she has served in the finer homes?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carnegie.”

The woman’s eyes squinted, taking the measure of me. “If she’s accustomed to the leading homes in Ireland, why has she been gawking at my parlor?”

Mrs. Seeley recovered a bit of her natural confidence and said, “Perhaps yours is even finer than those.”

Mrs. Carnegie chuffed a bit at this, and I could see that flattery had an effect on the prickly matron. I stored this information and then curtsied to her as if I were a daughter of Castle Martyn paying respects to the visiting king of England.

She waved her hand, signaling me to get up, but I saw that she enjoyed the gesture. “No need for such airs, girl. We are just ordinary folk around here.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carnegie.” Still, I did not overstep by raising my eyes to hers.

“She’s polite enough,” Mrs. Carnegie said to Mrs. Seeley. “But is she a worker?”

“By all accounts, yes. You do understand I would bring only my finest to you.”

“The last girl you sent me did not meet anyone’s definition of finest, Mrs. Seeley. Or anyone’s definition of average for that matter. I caught the girl napping midday when it was time to help me change my clothes for luncheon. Slovenly is what I’d call her.”

I thought about that blacklist on Mrs. Seeley’s wall and watched as a cowed expression appeared on Mrs. Seeley’s face. She said nothing in defense of her candidate. Or herself.

“Does she understand the routines?” Mrs. Carnegie moved onto another topic.

“She’s just arrived, ma’am, but I’ve been told she’s fast learner.”

“You haven’t yet explained to her how I like things done? The routines of this home?” Mrs. Carnegie sounded incredulous.

“There has been no opportunity, Mrs. Carnegie. She only arrived from Philadelphia a few hours ago. I can take a moment now if you like, but she is described as knowledgeable and highly adaptable.”

“I suppose that if she is experienced and adaptable as you claim and as her character maintains, then it shouldn’t be a problem. After all, our house keeps to the same schedules as the finest in Europe.”

“Of course, Mrs. Carnegie.”

“I’m fine with her being Irish, but I must be certain she’s not Catholic. These Catholic Irish running from the havoc wreaked by their famine and pouring onto American shores are not like the hard-working Protestant Irish who immigrated in earlier years. This new Catholic crop is rough and uneducated, and they’ll destroy the fabric of this country’s shaky democracy if we let them, especially in these days of Civil War unrest, just like they did back home in Scotland when they stole factory jobs away from Scottish men and women. An Irish Catholic servant might suffice as a scullery maid but not as my personal maid.”

Mrs. Seeley was long in replying, giving me time to wonder. Were the whispers by Misses Coyne and Quinn true? Had the Carnegies immigrated recently themselves, making Mrs. Carnegie keenly aware of the hierarchy among immigrants and giving rise to her comment? Certainly, Mrs. Carnegie’s accent suggested as much, as did Mrs. Seeley’s hesitation in responding.

“Of course she isn’t Catholic, Mrs. Seeley. She comes from a fine Anglo-Irish Protestant household that found itself down on its luck. So Miss Kelley entered service.”

I waited as Mrs. Carnegie looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing. In my silence, I felt terribly disloyal to my family. My people were fiercely Catholic, and so staunch were my parents in their faith that in my final moments with Dad, on the dock before I set sail, he exacted a commitment from me: “Promise me you will keep to the one true Catholic faith while you are in that heathen land.” Not proclaiming my faith when faced with such disparaging pronouncements about Catholicism felt like treachery, but I could not stop thinking about the benefits I could deliver my family if I kept quiet and procured this position.

Finally, she said, “I will take her for a thirty-day trial period. Neither you nor she will receive payment unless I’m satisfied.”

“I understand, Mrs. Carnegie.”

“We are in agreement then.” She stretched her foot out and pressed a button that was on the floor. “I’ve sent for Holyrod. He will arrange for her bags to be carried to her room on the third floor, and she can begin immediately after she has unpacked her belongings.”

“Ah, her bags. That’s another issue altogether, ma’am. Her belongings were lost in a storm at sea.”

“She has nothing?”

“Nothing but what she’s wearing.” Mrs. Seeley was careful not to mention the unsuitable dress in which I actually arrived and that the dress I was wearing didn’t even belong to me. This information would not speak well of my propriety.

“There was a time when one dress would be enough,” Mrs. Carnegie muttered under her breath. “We can see to it that she has an alternate dress for service and a chemise for nighttime. Although it will come from her wages.”

“That is understood, Mrs. Carnegie,” Mrs. Seeley answered quickly.

Mrs. Carnegie hoisted herself from her chair with an unsteady step. Instinctively, I rushed to her side to help—I hadn’t suspected from the strength of her voice and opinions that she might be infirm—but she brushed my hand away. Then she looked straight into my eyes.

In her gaze, in such close proximity, I saw something familiar. Intelligence. Determination. Even grit perhaps. Something I didn’t expect in a lady. But something I knew very well from the eyes of my father. It was the quality that procured us a much larger farm than most one-acre tenancies. It was the grit that gave our family land enough for varied crops, which had been the key to our survival of the famine. A survival that now depended on me.

I admired that grit. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t scared of it. And it didn’t mean that I wasn’t scared of her.