October 14, 1900
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
I unfolded the letter, spreading it out over the walnut surface of the study desk. The paper on which it was written, over thirty years old now, was nearly translucent with wear. I’d read and reread the words until I had them memorized, but still I carried the letter with me every day since I received it. It had become almost like a talisman for me, a reminder of the righteousness of the path I chose. Before I stepped through the doors of his building today, I needed to read it one last time.
The script on the first sheaf was written by a man I did not know, at the behest of a man I once knew very well. It was dated January 1869.
Dear Clara,
I don’t know what became of you when you walked out that door in 1867, but I hope this letter reaches you somehow and finds you well. I know how you struggled with your choice that April day, and I wanted you to know it wasn’t for nothing. You did the right thing. You’ll see that when you read this paper I found crumpled up in the master’s study.
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
Sliding Mr. Ford’s letter to the right, I stared down at the undated, second sheaf of paper. It contained handwriting very familiar to me, not only because I’d studied the words. I knew the script intimately before the letter was ever written. It belonged to Andrew.
Dearest Clara,
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.
I do not know why you left me. Knowing the goodness of your heart, I can only assume you had reasons of the utmost importance. You have left me utterly heartbroken and inexorably changed. And although I forgive you, I will never forget you.
I have searched for you for well over a year. I have hired detectives and bounty hunters and I have employed my own security men as well. They have looked in Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and pretty much everywhere in between. Even the staunchest of private detectives found not a trace of you after you left the bank in Pittsburgh. It was as if you never existed. But you did exist, Clara. You stamped your mark upon me, and I will stamp your mark upon the world to prove your existence and remind myself to stay your course. As you would have desired, any fortune I amass will be dedicated for the betterment of mankind, particularly the education and improvement of the poorer and immigrant classes by the establishment of free libraries. I only wish—
I always wondered how he planned on ending the letter. As I was smoothing the letter out over the desk surface—it was still crumpled after all these years—a little girl wandered into the study.
“Are you ready yet, Great-Auntie?” Maeve called me Great-Auntie due to my age, even though I was technically a cousin of sorts. She was the little granddaughter of my beloved cousins Patrick and Maeve, for whom she was named.
Was I ready to see what I had wrought? I nodded, and together, we donned our coats and stepped out of the Lambs’ home.
One harrowing carriage ride later, over the uneven cobblestones of Forbes Avenue, Maeve and I stepped out to examine Andrew’s building. She gripped my hand as we climbed the steep steps to the three arched bronze doors guarding the entrance. Occasionally, we would stop, giggle, and catch our breath. The stairs were a challenging climb for us both, although we were equally determined to reach the top.
I wondered what patrons of the building would make of us if they happened to glance out the window. Would they wonder at the relationship between the auburn-haired girl and the petite woman with gray hair streaked red who held the girl’s hand? Would they simply assume I was her grandmother, or would they guess at our more complicated stories?
On the first landing, Maeve looked up at the letters carved into the granite facade above the doors. “What does that say, Great-Auntie?”
“Free to the People,” I answered with the lilt I hadn’t managed to shake in the thirty years I’d lived in America. I lived among too many fellow Irish folk in Boston, the city where I’d settled after fleeing Pittsburgh, to do anything but reinforce my accent, particularly since the patients I served in my nursing practice were invariably Irish. Not to mention I’d been successful in shipping my family to Boston with some of the funds Andrew gave me, so I was greeted with their Galway lilt most days.
“What does that mean?” Maeve asked.
“It means that this marvelous library with all its books and treasures inside is free for all people to use. It is a wondrous gift that allows all people to become educated, even when they cannot afford school.”
“Like you, Great-Auntie Clara? You’re a nurse, and you need a special school for that.” The proud way she said nurse made me smile. Perhaps one day, I’d inspire Maeve to pursue a career. It almost made worthwhile the sacrifice I’d made to forge my independent path—a family of my own. Women, who only recently could climb above their born stations, could not have both. In the end, I do not think I would have wanted marriage or a family with anyone but Andrew. I guessed he felt much the same way, as it had taken him twenty years after I left to finally marry.
Continuing our ascent after stopping for another breath, we scaled the next set of stairs to the second and final landing. I reached for one of the bronze doors, but before I pulled it open, Maeve said, “There are more letters, Great-Auntie.” She pointed to a granite expanse above the columns that sat atop the doors. “What does that say?”
“It says Carnegie Library.”
“What’s a Carnegie?”
I laughed. Andrew had grown so famous in the years since I left him, it was hard to imagine that even one as young as Maeve would not know him. “A Carnegie is a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’ In this case, Carnegie refers to Andrew Carnegie, who is the man who built this free library and thousands more libraries with his own money. A man who gave the gift of books and education to every person, regardless of how much money they had.” A small, private smile crossed my lips as I thought on the role I played in planting the seed for these libraries—for his vast charitable works, actually—in Andrew’s mind.
“Did he give the people any other gifts?”
From the way Maeve’s eyes sparkled, I knew she was imagining the sorts of gifts she received at Christmas, china dolls and sugary confections. “Oh yes, Maeve. Not only has Mr. Carnegie established hundreds of libraries around the world, maybe thousands one day, but he has also created educational institutions, museums, and performance halls, and there’s talk that he will be forming institutes for peace, teaching, and the recognition of heroes.”
Maeve’s eyes widened, and she said, “He must have a lot of money.”
“By all accounts, he is the richest man in the world. Richer than any man who has come before him or will likely follow.” Knowing Andrew’s intellect and nature as I did, his status did not surprise me, nor did his continued ruthlessness—as evidenced by the hard line he’d taken against steelworkers in the Homestead Strike—which he undoubtedly justified to himself as helping to raise money for his causes. Only rarely did I feel remorse at not sharing that ascent with him, at sacrificing the chance at love for my family. I regularly consoled myself with the role I played in inspiring Andrew’s philanthropy, the scope of which would better the lives of thousands, if not millions, of people. Who knew if I would have had the same impact if I’d stayed by his side? Perhaps his memory of me was my strongest legacy. “And the rumor is that he plans to give it all away.”
“Did you ever meet him, Great-Auntie Clara? You know a lot about him.”
I laughed again. “I did, little Maeve. I did. In fact, I knew him well. When I lived in Pittsburgh, long ago, I was his maid.”
