November 18, 1863
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
I rejoiced in my mistress’s ignorance. It allowed me the latitude of time to gain my bearings in this house and in this role. But I knew that in order to survive in this role, in order to convince the other society ladies whom we would encounter in the afternoon of tea and whist that Mrs. Carnegie would be hosting on that eighth day that I belonged, I needed every advantage I could glean for myself. Not only did I have to make myself indispensable to my mistress, but I also had to become a necessary shield for those moments when she was unsure of herself and her behavior didn’t precisely match the dictates of the social rules.
From the moment a rap on my window woke me at five o’clock in the morning—the Carnegies employed a “knocker upper” armed with a long cane and a lantern to tap us servants awake—I memorized my mistress’s preferences on those matters in her particular control. I studied precisely how she wanted her hairstyle, the manner in which she liked her bustle arranged, whether she preferred lavender or rosewater scent, the temperature she wished for her morning washing water, the exact brush she mandated for cleaning her dresses, the sorts of thread she preferred for the mending of her stockings and undergarments, and especially the number of steps she liked me to walk behind her. She never liked me too close to her in public. I closely monitored her facial expressions to understand which of my behaviors pleased her and which were not up to snuff.
My attempts at indispensability, however, did not stem solely from this ability to please. When Mrs. Carnegie seemed unsure about a habit governed by society’s whim, when she searched my face for approval about the proper place setting for tea or the most suitable way to perch her bonnet upon her head, I broke out of the silent servitude she liked best and quietly filled in the gaps in her social graces with the practices of my fictional Anglo-Irish mistresses. I knew that the conventions of the European elite trumped any tradition of the provincial Pittsburgh upper classes, and my suggestions would provide her with the comfort to proceed in society.
My task was made easier by the fact that we spent the seven days in relative isolation. Her sons Andrew and Tom, the elder and younger Messrs. Carnegie respectively, who, as unmarried gentlemen, also resided in the family home, were away. At first, I assumed that they were soldiers in the American Civil War about which I’d read and that my fleeting glimpse of one son reflected a brief visit home from the front. But Mr. Ford, the sole member of the staff who showed me any kindness, told me that the Messrs. Carnegie had been deemed critical railroad employees by the elder Mr. Carnegie’s former boss, Mr. Thomas Scott, who was now the assistant secretary of war. As such, the brothers were exempt from actual fighting, and their absence was explained by the business of war rather than its bloodshed. I found this curious, as I assumed they would not want the exemption but would want to fight for the country where they’d had such success, even though they were immigrants.
The day before the tea and whist party, it occurred to me that the one thing I couldn’t fabricate was an understanding of whist, which I might well need to know when I attended Mrs. Carnegie at her event. The game had been played by the highborn for over a hundred years, and I doubted that my lack of understanding could be explained away by European variances in the game.
After I settled Mrs. Carnegie in her room for her usual afternoon rest before dinner, I asked her leave to tend to some mending in the housekeeper’s room, the often empty room where I took my breakfast, tea, and supper separate from the rest of the staff. The protocol referenced by Mr. Holyrod, in which the lady’s maid fell under the control of neither the butler nor the housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart, a prickly woman who was short of stature and temper, dictated my detachment from the rest of the servants, another reason they kept their distance.
Instead of turning toward the housekeeper’s room as I’d told Mrs. Carnegie, where I had the option of doing my mending in the event that I did not feel like working in my bedroom, I turned down a long hallway. I tiptoed past the parlor where the household maids were dusting and skirted into the library. The day before, while tending to Mrs. Carnegie in the library as she selected a volume to read during her rest period, I had spied a copy of Mrs. Perkins’s Guide to Managing House. Perhaps an explanation of whist was contained within its pages.
Gleaming mahogany bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling in the library, necessitating a sliding ladder for access. The only interruption in the vast expanse of books was a marble fireplace faced by two leather, wing-backed chairs, each with a book rest clamped to an arm for ease of reading, and a frieze of green-and-gold-embossed leather that ran above the bookshelves. My fingers itched to touch the spines and crack open volumes in the history section, such as Edwards Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire or Herodotus’s The Histories. I had always lost myself in Dad’s history lectures—tirades, more like—and his beloved texts. But I stilled my itchy fingers. I was here for a purpose.
Sliding Mrs. Perkins from its place on the crowded bookshelf, I crept into the darkest corner of the library, hoping to stay invisible if I inhabited the shadows. I turned to the table of contents, and while I saw no mention of whist or any game specifically, certain categories did describe social engagements. Yet even sections titled “Morning Calls,” “Afternoon Visits,” or “The Dinner Party”—which could prove helpful for future social occasions I might have to attend as Mrs. Carnegie’s maid—offered no guidance for an afternoon of tea and whist.
As I hunted through Mrs. Perkins, I stumbled across a description of the role of lady’s maid.
The Lady’s Maid: Daily Duties
Before the Mistress awakens, you must return her clothes from the evening before to her armoire and prepare her clothes for the morning.
No later than eight o’clock, you must wake the Mistress by bringing her tea and bread, a newspaper, and any correspondence. Depending on her desires, you must light the fire, run her bath, help her to dress, tend to her person, and style her hair.
At half past nine, while the Mistress takes her Breakfast, you must tidy and clean her Bedroom and arrange outdoor clothes should she choose to go walking after the Family’s Breakfast.
After the Family’s Breakfast, if the Mistress intends to go out, you must assist her in changing into her outdoor attire. You must accompany the Mistress if she is going out.
After Luncheon, assuming that the Mistress does not require your particular service, you must brush her dresses, undertake needlework or repairs to her clothing, or wash her underwear and personal articles. The Mistress will rest until it is time to ready for Afternoon Tea.
You must dress the Mistress for Afternoon Tea, which will be taken at five o’clock.
While the Mistress takes her Afternoon Tea, you must tidy her bedroom once again and begin to prepare her attire for Dinner.
From half past six onward, you must assist the Mistress to dress for Dinner.
After eight o’clock, you must tidy the Mistress’s Bedroom, ensuring that her flowers are fresh, her linens are ironed, her chamber pot is emptied, her bottles are filled, and her hairbrushes and combs are cleaned.
You may spend the remainder of the evening at your leisure, until the Mistress retires to bed when you will need to assist her undressing and tend to her hair, nails, and grooming.
“Captivating reading, is that?” A man’s voice boomed across the library.
I jumped up and turned to see a man leaning against the doorframe, legs crossed and a merry grin on his lips. His bushy, red beard and sweep of darker red hair across his high forehead added to his blithe appearance. His stance was comfortable and his smile broad and unwavering, as if he’d been enjoying his vantage point for some time. His humorous mien, pierced by his square chin and distinct cheekbones, only heightened my unease.
“I do beg your pardon, sir.” I curtsied deeply, careful to keep the book behind my back. A true lady’s maid would have no need of Mrs. Perkins. She would already know all the details of her position. This man had caught me in a much more compromising situation than the mere prohibited act of reading books in the family library would suggest. My very selection of books could be my demise.
“Please do not apologize, miss. We enjoy our reading here in the Carnegie household. No shame in that,” he said, the smile never leaving his lips. I detected a hint of a Scottish brogue in his voice, albeit much softer than that of Mrs. Carnegie. Was this one of her sons? The one I overheard joking with her in the library? It was the only laughter I’d heard from her in the seven days since I arrived.
How should I respond? I took the safer—but harder—road. “I do not think my mistress would be well pleased to discover that I was reading in the family library, sir, when I was supposed to be mending. I must excuse myself to report my malfeasance to her and take what punishment she decides is merited.”
He began walking toward me, and as he grew nearer, I realized he was small in stature, a shortness that did nothing to diminish the largeness of his presence. His smile softened, and his brow knotted in sympathy. “Ah, miss, there is no need to fall on your sword. I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Was his proffered lifeline a trap of some sort? A test arranged by Mrs. Carnegie? Would he expect something untoward in exchange for his silence? Even in my small village in Galway, I had heard rumors of various masters’ improper demands from their maids.
I didn’t know how to answer.
Into the silence, he asked, “You’re the new lady’s maid, aren’t you?”
I nodded and choked out, “Yes, sir.”
“My mother is notoriously hard to please, and by all accounts, you’ve achieved the impossible task of making her happy. I wouldn’t disrupt that for the world.” His broad smile returned. “Anyway, I’ve heard a bit about your background, and I’m guessing a highborn lass such as yourself must be accustomed to regular use of the library. I’ll keep your secret…as long as you tell me what you’re reading.”
I stepped back, burying Mrs. Perkins even deeper in the folds of my gown. His voice sounded kindly enough, but was his offer truly innocent? Either way, I couldn’t take the chance. Mrs. Carnegie might forgive me if I confessed to her directly but not if my crime was reported by another. Especially one of her beloved sons. “I do not think that secrets are the proper course, sir.”
The smile faded, and his brow raised in alarm. “I’ve upset you, miss. My apologies. I truly meant to set you at ease. May I legitimize your visit to the library by reading aloud to you a passage from my favorite poet, Robert Burns? In that way, your time here will have been at my request and not your own idea. There would be no need to share it with my mother.”
I nodded in relief, although the thought of remaining in the library while the master read poetry aloud to me was most peculiar, even inappropriate.
He strode over to a table piled high with brown, leather-bound volumes. Glancing at their spines, he slid out one particular book. Without even consulting the table of contents, he opened it to a poem he called “Is There for Honest Poverty.” As he read the poem aloud to me, his brogue deepening with each word, it sounded familiar. But from where? Politics, not poetry, were the usual language of my upbringing. Poetry was something I enjoyed alone, on blustery nights at our farmhouse near Tuam.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
With that verse, I realized why the words sounded familiar. Years ago, Dad and his political mates sung this poem aloud at their meetings, a sort of rallying cry for egalitarianism, one of the Fenians’ core views, and even now, he occasionally sang this tune. This reminder of Dad’s beliefs and the threat to my family’s well-being because of the Martyns’ reactions to old rumors of those same politics—the very reason I was standing in this odd land listening to a stranger read poetry—brought tears to my eyes.
Mr. Carnegie finished his elegant recitation and glanced over at me. I wiped the tear from my cheek in the hopes he wouldn’t see it, but from the softening in his expression, I could see that it was too late.
In the stillness that sat between us, I heard the soft sound of a bell ringing in the background. With a curtsy but without another word, I dashed away. I knew Mrs. Carnegie was ringing that bell for me.
