June 14, 1866
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The guests cheered as the elder Mr. Carnegie held up his crystal goblet for a toast. “To Lucy, the lovely bride of my dear brother, Thomas. We welcome you into the Carnegie family.” He glanced over at his mother as he spoke, instead of the rather wan, nervous bride to whom he referred.
My mistress gave him a rare, broad smile. Her long-held aspirations that her youngest son would marry one of Pittsburgh’s most eligible society maidens, conveniently also the daughter of an iron scion, had come to fruition. Perhaps even more rewarding to her was that the dreaded “Committee of Matrimony” had been an empty threat, and my mistress still had her Andra at her side.
From the vantage point of my post behind Mrs. Carnegie, I looked at the bride and groom. Wearing an ivory lace wedding gown, the pale color made fashionable by Queen Victoria for her own wedding, the new Mrs. Carnegie made the traditional gown her own by adding a cascade of ruffles on the skirt and swaths of handmade Scottish lace on the bodice. Again adhering to the customs made popular by the English queen, in her brown, upswept hair, the bride wore a wreath made of orange blossoms, which symbolized purity, and myrtle, which represented love and domestic happiness and brought a haze of innocent loveliness to the otherwise rather plain bride. She carried these same flowers in her bouquet, and they filled every silver vase on the expanded dining room table. The intense citrus and herbal aroma of the flowers permeated the room, bringing the warmth of the summer day indoors.
The wedding guests, crowded around the dining table made festive with a pressed linen-and-Belgian-lace tablecloth and a new set of china engraved with the couple’s initials in silver, raised their glasses. Sunlight streamed through the clear glass of the dining room windows, turning the crimson cabernet filling the raised goblets into glistening, suspended rubies. The groom leaned toward the bride, her downturned eyes hesitant, and they bestowed upon one another a delicate kiss, perhaps their first.
As the crystal clinked, Mr. Holyrod and the footmen simultaneously set out the first course on the table, scalloped oysters. The guests, nearly all Homewood friends familiar with one another from many occasions together but for two Scottish relatives who had been dressed up for the occasion and tucked into a remote corner of the table, grew merry. I kept my eyes and ears open for interesting tidbits, but the chatter around me centered on the day’s ceremony and the lavish feast spread before them.
In between courses, the bride’s father cleared his throat and then stood up. Mrs. Carnegie shot a concerned look at her elder son, and I too wondered what Mr. Coleman was doing. He had already given the first toast to the bride and groom, and with that, his responsibilities had ended. It seemed he had a second toast in mind.
Mr. Coleman raised his glass. “It isn’t often that you perceive the family your daughter is joining as your own kin, especially if they are from far-flung Scotland”—he paused while the guests laughed—“but Mrs. Coleman and I do. We feel blessed to be joining the Carnegie and Coleman families and would like everyone to raise a glass to our fruitful unions.”
Fruitful unions? Even though I knew Mr. Coleman ostensibly referred to another sort of fruitfulness, I almost laughed thinking about how “fruitful” the iron manufacturing and oil drilling union of Mr. Coleman and Mr. Carnegie had been. It was one of Mr. Carnegie’s few ventures outside his dealings with Messrs. Scott and Thomson.
Mr. Coleman and the elder Mr. Carnegie raised their goblets to each other, and I realized this toast was not for the newlyweds. My mistress beamed at her older son. In her eyes and those of Mr. Coleman, this day was as much his as it was his younger brother’s.
Mr. Holyrod and his team of footmen cleared the oysters, and another course appeared, this time, lobster salad. This parade occurred seven times over the next two hours, delighting the guests with plates of pineapple salad, consommé royale, roast sirloin with horseradish sauce, braised spinach and asparagus, trout quenelles, stuffed eggplant fruit, and roasted partridge with bread sauce. As the guests expressed their incredulity at the lavishness of each course, I couldn’t help but view the feast in quite a different way. To me, the sumptuous meal was no different from the decoration of Fairfield itself, as explained to me by Mr. Carnegie, with each course telegraphing to the guests an esteemed quality about their hosts.
The presentation of the wedding cake was meant to follow the final course. But instead, Mr. Holyrod and the footmen laid out silver platters of meringues filled with coffee cream, canapés of caviar, cheese soufflés, and strawberries and cream. This disruption to my mistress’s carefully crafted schedule enraged her. I could tell from the tightening of her jaw and the squaring of her shoulders. But she did not want to appear anything other than refined on her son’s wedding day, so she continued talking with Mrs. Wilkins to her right as if the silver trays were meant to appear first.
Knowing that my mistress was playing a part, I glanced around the room and wondered at what parts all the guests were playing. The Colemans seemed fat and comfortable on the iron and oil trade, but who were they really? Was Mrs. Coleman as vapid as she appeared and Mr. Coleman as ruthless? Perhaps, behind the closed doors of their own estate, it was quite the reverse. Maybe that was true of every guest. Certainly, it was true of me. My own family would have hardly recognized me.
“Clara,” my mistress whispered to me, her face turned away from her guests. Unable to tolerate the disruption of her plan any longer, she asked me to see Mr. Ford about the whereabouts of the wedding cake.
Curtsying to her back as I took my leave, I hurried down the back hallway into the kitchen. The wedding feast was nearing its end, which meant that everyone but Mr. Ford was in the scullery, scrubbing the mountain of china and silver that had been dirtied during the feast’s nine courses. The bulk of the work over, a mood of relief had settled upon them, as I could hear from their gentle jibing of one another, a sport in which even Mrs. Stewart partook on this celebratory occasion. It was a camaraderie for which I’d long given up hope.
The wedding cake stood in the middle of the battered kitchen table. It was a delectable confection of three stacked cakes, each one a little smaller than the one beneath. Artfully festooned with white fondant swirls and curlicues, the beautiful cake was plated and ready for presentation. All except for the sugared rose petals that were meant to decorate the top layer, that was. Those lay on a plate beside the cake, and Mr. Ford stood next to it, immobile.
I saw why Mr. Holyrod brought out the silver trays of delicacies before the cake in violation of Mrs. Carnegie’s orders. He had no choice. The cake itself wasn’t ready.
“Mr. Ford, are you quite all right? Mrs. Carnegie is wondering where on earth the cake is. It was meant to be brought out before the pastries.”
He didn’t answer me. He just stood there, eyes glazed, staring at nothing.
“Mr. Ford,” I entreated him. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I looked into his eyes. “Mr. Ford, can you hear me?”
His eyes focused somewhat, but he still did not seem clear. “It’s you, Clara. I mean, Miss Kelley.”
“Mr. Ford, it is young Mr. Carnegie’s wedding day, and the guests are waiting on the cake. If you tell me what remains to be done, I can do it for you, and you can go take a rest.”
Without answering my questions about the cake, he said, as if continuing a conversation we had been having, “You see, this wedding has put me in mind of my own wife. My Ruth. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her just now.”
“I am certain Mr. Carnegie’s wedding has brought back memories, but—” I stopped myself from admonishing Mr. Ford to ready the cake. Wasn’t Mr. Ford’s heartbreak more important than the precise timing of the wedding cake? I decided to share with Mr. Ford a matter about which I’d been debating in the hopes it would help him. “Mr. Ford, after we discussed the letter from the Freedmen’s Bureau last winter, the one about your wife and daughter, I decided to talk over further measures with the elder Mr. Carnegie. I knew from several conversations that he was acquainted with General Oliver Howard, the man in charge of the Freedmen’s Bureau. Mr. Carnegie inquired of General Howard directly as to the whereabouts of your family, and the matter is being investigated again as we speak.”
“General Howard?” he said, his voice indistinct and a bit fuzzy. As if I’d awoken him from a sleep.
“Yes. If anyone can help find your daughter and wife, he can.”
He began pacing around the kitchen, still deep in his memories. “That’s good. That’s good.”
Mr. Holyrod burst into the kitchen. “Where is the bloody cake? It’s well past time for serving it.”
I had never heard Mr. Holyrod utter a curse word before, no matter how impatient with the staff he became. For a moment, I was shocked into immobility. I quickly regained my composure and covered for Mr. Ford. “Nearly ready, Mr. Holyrod. Mr. Ford just has a few crystallized rose petals to add to the top layer, and he was about to complete this final task when you walked in.”
Mr. Holyrod glanced over at Mr. Ford, who hadn’t spoken or hastened over to the table to finalize the cake. Understanding that something was amiss, Mr. Holyrod directed his instructions to me. “We will clear the plates and return for the cake in less than a minute. I expect it to be ready.”
“It will be ready, Mr. Holyrod.”
Waiting until Mr. Holyrod flew out of the kitchen, I raced to place the sugared rose petals on the top of the cake in some semblance of a design. I didn’t bother asking Mr. Ford for guidance, as he was lost in the past.
