November 11, 1863
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Mrs. Carnegie and I didn’t face each other again until after dinner.
After forty-two days rocking on board the Envoy on the relentless Atlantic in a mix of boredom and anxiety and another eight days spent lurching in the horse-drawn carriage over the Allegheny Mountains, once my life as the new Clara Kelley started, it began immediately. While I had not expected a lengthy reprieve in my new quarters with time to wash away the residual grime from the city and the road, I had thought I might receive a full introduction to the staff and a brief tour of the Carnegie mansion to acquaint myself with the building’s layout. Instead, Mrs. Seeley took her immediate leave of me and Mrs. Carnegie, Mrs. Carnegie passed me into the hands of the cold Mr. Holyrod, and Mr. Holyrod put me to work for my new mistress.
Mr. Holyrod instructed me that I was to begin to prepare Mrs. Carnegie and her bedchamber for the evening. What in the name of Mary did this entail? Why would someone’s bedchamber need preparing if all they were planning on doing there was sleeping? While I had always toiled hard at my family farm, that work was limited to tending the animals, keeping the house tidy, cultivating and harvesting the crops, and helping with the wash and the family meals—never the finer service. What the work of a lady’s maid involved, I had no idea, other than old remembrances from Mum of her days as a scullery maid. I had been so fixated on securing the position, I had forgotten that I would actually have to perform the job.
But Mrs. Carnegie would expect me to know, and I endeavored to glean information from Mr. Holyrod as he led me through an incomprehensible series of hallways and back staircases into her bedchamber. Interjecting a note of respectful meekness into my tone, I asked, “I want to make certain that I serve Mrs. Carnegie well. Would you mind sharing with me her evening routine? Each lady has her own particular desires.”
Mr. Holyrod sniffed. “I imagine her habits are similar to those of other ladies you’ve served. She’ll want help with her dressing; her clothes will need cleaning and mending; her hair will need styling; her person will need cleaning and tending; and she will need accompaniment to her various social activities.”
As we reached the top of a curved mahogany staircase, he paused, turning to me. “But please do not presume that I will be giving your instructions, Miss Kelley. I’m not certain how it works in European households, but in American homes, neither the housekeeper nor the butler oversees the lady’s maid. That is the province of the mistress alone. The lady’s maid role is singular and separate from the rest of the staff in that respect.”
I wondered why he was loath to assist me. Was he so inundated with his own duties that taking on the tutelage of the new lady’s maid, who was not technically his responsibility as he was quick to point out, seemed overwhelming? I would think a happier mistress would yield a happier household. But I spoke aloud none of these thoughts. Instead, I said, “Of course, Mr. Holyrod. I thank you for your insights.”
Unlatching the door at the top of the stairs, he stepped back to allow my entrance. I crossed the threshold into a bedroom suite nearly as opulent as the parlor. Lined in ultramarine silk wallpaper hand-painted with alabaster roses and decorated with curtains and bed coverings in fabric of the same lush pattern, the bedroom felt like the inside of a private garden with actual blooms wrapping around and dangling from a trellis border. A matching chaise longue, for a lady’s afternoon rest while still confined by a corset I presumed, sat at the foot of a wide bed bordered by wooden head and footboards carved with roses, and a marble dressing table faced it. A wide fireplace presided over it all, topped by a mahogany mantel with a painted cherubic statue at its center.
Rendered speechless by the sumptuous bedchamber interior, I stared around the room for a long moment, imagining the luxury of sleeping in the silken space. By the time I regained my composure and turned to thank Mr. Holyrod, he was gone. He must have padded away, closing the door behind him with a silence that no doubt served him well in his profession. Left to myself, I felt unmoored, as if I no longer knew how to behave without someone for whom to perform.
What to do? I decided to familiarize myself with Mrs. Carnegie’s bedroom suite so I would at least appear skilled in the handling of her belongings. I opened drawers and trunks and wardrobes, locating her under and outer garments. But instead of lingering among the exquisite fabrics and delicate embroidery as I would’ve liked, I explored the inside of her dressing table, learning the sorts of brushes and creams and perfumes she preferred, and memorized its marble surface with its very particular array of four ivory-backed brushes, a matching comb and mirror, a small leather case, and four ivory-topped jars containing flower-scented oils. I studied the dark-colored dresses in the small room off her bedroom, which contained her gowns, trying to understand the manner in which the various flounces and bustles affixed to the dress itself. I marveled at her bathroom, a wonder of running water that poured into a porcelain sink topped with marble, claw-foot tub, and flushable toilet.
Yet nothing impressed me—or astonished me—more than Mrs. Carnegie’s study. At its center stood an escritoire covered with papers. Peering over the sheaves, I expected to see invitations to social engagements, menus for the housekeeper and cook, and letters to and from acquaintances. Instead, the rose-colored stone desktop was nearly obscured by papers containing rows of figures next to the names Piper and Schiffer and contracts for an iron company. What was the mistress of the house doing with such papers in her possession? Did Mrs. Carnegie undertake the role of consulting on these ventures? Was it common for a woman of the higher classes to engage in business? Certainly, married or widowed Irish women of my acquaintance worked, but only in the home, unless their circumstances were desperate and factory jobs were necessary.
The little clock on the fireplace mantel chimed, and I realized the dinner hour would soon be concluding. Remembering a pile of mending I spotted in the closet, I sat in a simple chair along the wall and busied myself with it. I figured that when Mrs. Carnegie arrived, I should at least look the part of lady’s maid.
I began to darn a pair of plain, black silk stockings, trying to keep my stitches invisible as Mum had taught me. In the safe refuge of Mrs. Carnegie’s bedchamber, made warm by the fire roaring in her fireplace, freshly lit for her comfort, I started to drift into sleep. Just as the needle and thread dropped, along with my lids, footsteps thudded down the hallway, jolting me awake. I scrambled for the fallen needle and thread and resumed sewing before Mrs. Carnegie entered the room.
The door swung open wide, and I stood at attention. Without a word or a glance to me, she strode into her bedchamber. Settling into the upholstered chair at her dressing table, she began unpinning her hair without even a look into her mirror or in my direction. It was as if she begrudged my presence instead of viewing me as a necessary part of her daily routine. Or perhaps she was testing me.
I rushed to her side. Even though I knew almost nothing about the precise duties of a lady’s maid, I imagined it was poor form to not attend your mistress’s evening disrobing. “Please allow me to help you, ma’am.”
Narrowing her already small eyes, she glanced at my reflection in her mirror. Her expression was inscrutable, but she lowered her hands and allowed me to proceed with the business of readying her for bed. As I unpinned the rest of her hair and undid her old-fashioned hairstyle—hair drawn into a high bun with a smooth loop meeting over each ear—her body stiffened. I saw that this ritual, presumably second nature to most ladies, made her uncomfortable. Why would a woman of her stature be made uncomfortable by a maid’s ministrations? Was she indeed newly wealthy, as Misses Quinn and Coyne had intimated?
When I finished her hair, she rose to allow me to tend to her attire. While I knew other ladies might find her gown plain and somber, with its black, patternless fabric and sole adornment the vertical pleats running down the sides, its design was far more intricate than anything we wore at home. I made a quick study of her dress, searching for the easiest way to remove it. Once I located a row of hooks hidden beneath a decorative seam down the back, I began to unlatch them. My already shaking fingers fumbled on the minuscule hooks, and I despaired of ever reaching the vast layers of clothing that I knew lay underneath. I expected barbs from her sharp tongue, but she was oddly quiet as she watched my efforts through the mirror. The damnable mantel clock ticked out the long minutes as I slowly unearthed and undid the horsehair crinoline that gave her dress its voluminous shape, the corset cover and vest that covered the crinoline, and the petticoats, corsets, and silk stockings that hid underneath.
Finally, I reached her chemise. There my mistress stood, in a plain, white cotton chemise with her arms and lower legs exposed and her white hair spread out over her shoulders like a maiden. She looked petite and oddly vulnerable, and for that moment, I no longer felt in awe of her but simply uncomfortable. I shifted my gaze to the ground.
Mrs. Carnegie must have sensed my discomfort, because in an effort to reassert her power, she said, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I had no idea to what she referred. Mentally, I ran through the possible ministrations a society lady might want before retiring to bed but came up wanting. “My apologies. I am yours to educate, ma’am.”
“You haven’t tended to my hands, girl,” she said, gesturing to what must have been a nail kit that sat upon her dresser.
The expression on my face must have been one of stupefaction, because she pointed to a crystal bowl and a few silver instruments lying beside it and yelled out, “Get the water and then start trimming and buffing.”
“Of course, ma’am. I will not forget again,” I answered with a curtsy, and then I raced into the bathroom to fill the little crystal bowl with water.
Mum often regaled us with stories of the Castle Martyn ladies’ demands, but as I watched the water run, I didn’t recall a single tale about shaping the ladies’ nails. Potatoes, not the toiletry, had been her purview. What in the name of Mary was I meant to do?
When I returned to the bedroom, Mrs. Carnegie had sat back down upon her ultramarine, tufted dresser chair. After setting the crystal bowl down on the dresser, I kneeled before her and asked, “May I inquire in what order you would like me to proceed, ma’am?”
She paused for a moment, searching my face. “In what order would your prior mistresses have proceeded?” From her expression, I could not tell if this was a test or a quest for information.
Glancing over at the array of instruments—two tiny pairs of scissors, a leather buffer, and several jars of oil—I improvised. “Typically, my ladies would begin by soaking their hands, after which I would trim the nails. I would then buff their nails and finish by massaging cream or oil into their skin. But of course, if your habits are different, I will follow your instructions, ma’am.”
“Your usual practice will suffice. Assuming they buffed the nails for a full five minutes,” she said and stretched out her fingers.
As I dried Mrs. Carnegie’s hands and began to trim her cuticles, I noticed that her hands were deeply stained and chapped and her joints were swollen beyond what age would suggest. In fact, her hands resembled Mum’s. These were the hands of a woman who’d worked hard for decades, not the delicate hands of a lady.
As I rubbed the rosewater cream into her hands, we shared an uncomfortable moment of locking eyes. A cold breeze drifted across the room, and I realized that the windows were cracked open slightly. Into the quiet, I stammered, “Would you like me to have the fire lit for you first thing in the morning, ma’am? Your room will be quite chilly.”
She stared at me as if I’d asked if I could murder her in her sleep. “I hope you don’t think this is a home where wanton luxury is practiced, girl.”
I stopped rubbing. “Of course not, ma’am.”
“I hope not. Mrs. Seeley’s last girl thought that my sons minted American dollars. I assure you that our success is due to hard work and thrift.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Even if we were spendthrifts, the doctor recommends that we keep the windows open at night to allow air to circulate in the bedrooms and foster a sanitary home environment.” She stood and pulled herself up to her full height, tiny though that was, and asked, “I assume you undertook this practice in the other homes in which you worked?”
An accusatory tone tinged her question, and I paused, uncertain what the correct answer should be. Would the masters and mistresses of the Anglo-Irish homes in which the true Clara Kelley worked have slept with open windows? It seemed unlikely in the constant dampness and cold of the Irish weather, but perhaps this open-window business was a foible common to all upper-class folk.
In my moment of vacillation, fear flickered across her face, and her eyes searched my face for traces of judgment. I was confused. It seemed she cared about my judgment of her almost as I much as I cared about hers.
I understood something about Mrs. Carnegie. This world was indeed new to my mistress as well. And the only thing that saved me in my first hours as lady’s maid was my mistress’s own ignorance.
