Carnegie's Maid

by Marie Benedict

In that fleeting moment, before she quickly lowered her eyes again, he witnessed the sharp intelligence that lay beneath the placid demeanor required for a lady’s maid.

Thirty-three and an income of $50,000 per annum! By this time two years I can so arrange all my business as to secure at least $50,000 per annum. Beyond this never earn—make no effort to increase fortune, but spend the surplus each year for benevolent purposes. Cast aside business forever, except for others.

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

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.

In the short walk from the carriage to Mrs. Seeley’s establishment, I saw filth the likes of which I’d never imagined. Black clouds billowing in plumes from tall stacks. Buildings turned ashen from sooty air, outlines of posters in white, like ghosts on their walls. Why didn’t anyone tell me that industrialization would look like biblical hell?

The man looked up at the sound of our footsteps, and I stared into the darkest face and eyes I’d ever seen. He was the first man of color I’d ever encountered. This was who the Americans were fighting their Civil War over.

Dad used to always say that the Martyns’ thick castle walls were designed to keep out poverty as much as invaders.

“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.”

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.”

In her gaze, in such close proximity, I saw something familiar. Intelligence. Determination. Even grit perhaps. Something I didn’t expect in a lady.

There, amid the invisibility of the nameless, faceless passengers that surrounded me and in complete contravention of a culture that admonished women for expressing any public emotion, I allowed myself to cry.

For whom was I crying? For all the immigrants like the Lambs, who came to America seeking a better life but settled instead for a soot-infested home and dangerous work in the mills and gave thanks for it? For the education Dad bestowed on me that held no purpose other than to sharpen my wits to become the perfect servant? What did it say about society that the best a lowborn, educated girl could hope for was respectable servitude? It was as if all of Dad’s teaching gave me a glimpse into a world for which I longed but had no means of entering.

“I am also moved by Mrs. Barrett Browning’s personal beliefs, the abolishment of slavery in particular.” He nodded emphatically. “That’s a belief I share as well. President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was an inspiration indeed. It moved me to write an antislavery pamphlet of my own.”

“Miss Kelley, you should not have to thank me for treating you humanely in the face of disrespect. I was raised by grandfathers who had a long-abiding disdain for the aristocracy and the inequitable treatment of men and who pursued Chartist political beliefs unpopular with the British rulers that advocated for equal rights for the rich and poor alike. I am not about to stand idly by when a classist remark is doled out here in democratic America.” He inhaled deeply. “Now back to Mrs. Browning.”

There, standing before the two very different entrances to the Carnegie family home, however, we could no longer pretend a divide did not exist between us.

As I scuttled through the opulent entryway into the plainer back hallways that led to the kitchen, I thought how, most days, the war didn’t touch Fairfield. This luxurious cocoon was well-nigh immune to what was transpiring across the country. The war only impacted the Carnegies on their balance sheet.

No, he’s paying for a replacement to take his place, though it’s possible the ladies don’t know about it.” “Won’t he get in terrible trouble for doing that?” “No, miss. The government created the Enrollment Act so that rich folk could avoid fighting. Perfectly legal.” “Who on earth would agree to take his place?” “Plenty of folk who need the money. Heard an Irish fellow right off the boat got $850 to fight for him.” I felt sick. Such an enormous sum of money would be hard for any desperate immigrant to resist.

During one formal dinner where I stood in attendance, I heard Mrs. Wilkins complain that “negroes” were being admitted to West Point. I had to work hard to suppress a victorious smile when, in response, the elder Mr. Carnegie replied, “Imagine! I have heard rumors that some are even admitted to heaven.”

Would I always live in this nether space of service? Always present but never seen, never engaging, my presence interchangeable with any number of others? I’d overheard Mr. Holyrod lecture the rest of the staff about the dignity of service, but I couldn’t see any dignity in invisibility. Where was the dignity in constantly suppressing your own needs, views, and rights for others?

The juxtaposition of the finery against the rustic background seemed incongruous. The Carnegies and their guests seemed to be enjoying nature as if behind glass. As if it the rustle of the wind and the buzzing flies couldn’t penetrate their world.

The younger Mr. Carnegie turned toward his brother for the first time since entering the room. “That’s rich, Andrew, taking the high road when your own feet are filthy with the muck of your dirty dealings.”

But if a poor Scottish immigrant could carve out a fresh, successful path for himself, maybe there was some way I could too. I began to believe this, even though I was a woman and the climb from one societal echelon to another had only been accomplished by men. And only very recently at that.

An investment is the opportunity to purchase ownership shares in a company. It gives you a piece of the company, if you like. When the company does well, the part owner receives a monetary payment called a dividend.” He laughed. “Money for doing nothing. It’s incredible.”

The most important factor in his decision-making, however, was the requirement that he had insider knowledge about the company and its dealings. This notion seemed illegal to me, but when I asked a gentle question about its propriety, Mr. Carnegie assured me of its legality, although neither one of us spoke of its morality.

“How would the average person—man or woman—who wasn’t able to secure free passage into one of the rare lending libraries like Colonel Anderson’s that give access to the common man rise above his station? You’ve said that education—and research—were key to your success.” His proud, expansive posture deflated a bit. “I suppose the average man would be at a disadvantage there. Although not all knowledge comes from books. Life presents its own education.” “Not the sort to which you’ve been referring, Mr. Carnegie,” I said rather harshly, the inequity angering me a bit.

But without a son to influence, a husband with whom to partner, or money to invest, how would I forge a path like hers either? How could a woman make the near-impossible climb from a lower class?

“Sometimes, I feel like you are the only person in the world I can talk to. The only one who knows and understands me, with whom I can have a frank conversation.”

I examined its many ruffles and ebony crystals, marveling at the cost of a gown that looked almost identical to many black silk frocks in her armoire. The same sum of money would have allowed Patrick’s wife to stop taking in needlework for a year, which she did by candlelight after her five children had gone to sleep. It would permit my family to rent a simple house of their own for upward of a year.

I wiped away the tears trickling down my cheeks. “The potato famine may be gone, but Irish poverty is not, Mr. Carnegie. My family faces it every day. You’ve explained to me how the memory of poverty motivates you and inspires your strong sense of duty to your family. Well, the same memory haunts me and drives my decisions.”

Mr. Ford reached for my hands, holding them tightly in his own. “Listen, Miss Kelley, I’ve seen this situation before, and I hope you’ll take a word of caution from a tired, old man who’s seen too many masters and servants crossing the boundaries between them. It never ends well for the servant.”

“Clara, I have at least ten professional advisers working on this Pullman matter, and you—my mother’s lady’s maid—have arrived at the solution. In less than a minute. You are a genius.”

“It’s not morbid if it’s history, Mother,” Andrew responded. Glancing over at him, I wondered how he could make such a statement. History often produced the grisliest of results. Simply because those events were past did not make them any more palatable.

What would he think of the fact that my people were living nine people to a room in the Five Points slums and paying four dollars—nearly one week’s pay—for the pleasure of a single room with no windows or indoor plumbing but plenty of rats? Would he downplay the fact that my own family was living four to a room in my aunt’s damp, candlelit attic with the closest outhouse a quarter mile away? Had Andrew forgotten who he was and from where he came? He was an immigrant, no different from the thousands of impoverished immigrants inhabiting this country but for his recent success.

The city sprawled out before us, and I strained to capture a view of the sights before the livery sped by them. Tall, elegant buildings stood alongside empty lots covered with hardscrabble wooden shacks. Men and women with pushcarts hawking clams and flowers and chestnuts and exotic foodstuffs competed with striped-awning storefronts displaying the latest in ladies’ hats and gloves. Cows and goats roamed in open fields next to elegantly outfitted men and women strolling down the paved sidewalks. The smells wafting in the open livery window were a scintillating mix of perfumes, roasted nuts, factory smoke, and animal dung. I could not wait to send a letter to my family describing the curious mixture that composed New York City. Perhaps it would take their focus off their troubles.

As my mistress, Mrs. Rhinelander, always says”—the girl raised her voice to a higher pitch and adopted an almost English accent—“‘Our ways should not be widely shared. That would be too democratic, inviting into our society all manner of people who do not belong.’”

His eyes widened in surprise at my question. “Why would I let them conquer me?” I had never heard him speak so bluntly about his ambitions. My voice rose as I said, “These old New York society people maintain that all people are not equal, that they are superior to all other classes. I thought you believed in freedom and opportunity for all people. That view is the antithesis of what these people espouse.”

“You were right, Mr. Ford. It always ends badly for the servants.” Folding my hands into his, he sighed. “The masters are all cut from the same cloth, slaver or not.”

I brought this situation upon myself by pretending to be someone I am not.” “If that was a crime, we’d all be in jail, Miss Kelley. We are all pretending in this life. One way or another.”

I had played at so many roles in the years since landing in America, I had lost myself. Sacrificed myself to one set of ideals and then another—American and Irish, commercial and altruistic, Fenian and Chartist and Democratic, Andrew’s and my own, new and old—until I no longer knew my own mind. No more. I stepped out into the night, onto my own fresh path.

Every time I look into the eyes of my Ruth and my Mabel, I see your eyes. I have you to thank for getting me back my family. John Ford

You found me just before I was beyond all hope of recovery. Your morals, your convictions, and your honesty brought me back from the brink, away from the idolatry of money and self. You reminded me of who I really am, who I was meant to be, and who I can help. For that, I will be forever grateful.