Carnegie’s Maid: A Novel
: Chapter 30

May 2, 1866

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

“Mr. Scott, you have always been an incorrigible tease,” my mistress exclaimed. The almost coy manner she adopted with Mr. Carnegie’s once mentor and now business partner always astonished me, for she utilized that demeanor with no one else. But then, there was no one quite like the handsome Scots-Irish Mr. Scott, who had risen through the railroad ranks like her Andra and who had pulled him up alongside himself. Upon him alone, Mrs. Carnegie bestowed her erstwhile charm, and Mr. Scott was polite enough to respond.

“Only because you inspire it in me,” Mr. Scott retorted.

After her almost girlish giggles subsided, Mrs. Carnegie rang for after-dinner cordials. Mr. Holyrod arrived with his silver tray, brimming with colored liquors gleaming in their crystal decanters. He poured whiskey for the silver-haired, august Mr. Thomson, the president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and sherry for Mr. Scott. Mr. Carnegie declined, as usual, but Mrs. Carnegie uncharacteristically took a sherry too. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“A delicious dinner, ma’am,” Mr. Thomson said, leaning forward to clink his glass to hers. These words were the most he’d spoken during the evening. When I’d first encountered him, I’d attributed his quiet to a haughty reserve, until Mr. Carnegie explained that the successful businessman was actually quite shy.

“It was our pleasure to serve you, sir,” Mrs. Carnegie answered gravely. Like Mr. Scott, Mr. Thomson had been instrumental in her Andra’s early and continued success, and she always treated him with particular care. No sour glances for him.

“I gather you gentlemen will be discussing Union Iron Mills and Keystone Bridge Company tonight,” my mistress said.

Messrs. Scott and Thomson glanced at Mr. Carnegie, assessing whether he approved of his mother taking the lead in their business conversation, particularly when it involved two companies in which they held secret interests. He nodded. One of the qualities I most admired in him was his faith that a woman could match his business savvy. Few fellows held that belief.

“I would not dare intervene except to wish you well in securing the bridge contracts that will be necessary to the success of the ventures,” she continued. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

As my mistress started up the grand front staircase, the gentlemen retired to the library to enjoy a few cigars. I followed Mrs. Carnegie up the steps to her bedchamber, cognizant of Mr. Carnegie’s eyes upon me. Waiting until I reached the top of the stairs, I smiled down on him. As we’d embarked on our new business dealings, I learned that my feelings had not changed, and I guessed that his hadn’t either. But we made no mention of them. We conducted conversations almost exclusively on the topic of industry, disregarding the latent emotions we shared.

Whether the effect was from the sherry or Mr. Scott’s attention, Mrs. Carnegie hummed while I unlaced her many layers, slipped on her nightdress, brushed her hair two hundred strokes, and rubbed cream into her hands. As she walked over to her bed, she said, “Clara, I’ve forgotten the book I’d like to read before bed. It is on the credenza in the library. Go fetch it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As I had no wish to disturb the men’s conversation, I tiptoed down the servants’ staircase, careful to avoid the step that made the loud creak. Padding down the back hallway, I wondered how I could slip the book out of the library with minimal interruption.

A roar sounded out from the library. My instinct prompted me to race down the corridor to make certain no one was injured, but when I heard Mr. Carnegie yelling, I stopped. Were the gentlemen having an argument? I slowed down and listened.

“Do I not own one-half of your allocation in Keystone Bridge?” I recognized the usually smooth voice of Mr. Scott, now simmering with fury.

“Yes, you do. But that does not give you the right to dictate the decisions I make for the company,” Mr. Carnegie responded in kind. Aside from the fight I’d witnessed between him and his brother, I had never heard him angry. “Nor does your five percent, Edgar.”

“Never said it did,” Mr. Thomson said. His voice bore none of the agitation of Messrs. Scott and Carnegie.

“Let me remind you of the deal we struck,” Mr. Carnegie said in a seething tone. “Pennsylvania Railroad, under your direction, commissions bridges by entering into contracts with Union Iron Mills and Keystone Bridges. Union Iron Mills supplies iron for the bridges, which Keystone Bridge then constructs. You gentlemen make money on the contract between Pennsylvania Railroad and Keystone Bridge and again when the Keystone Bridge purchases the necessary iron from Union Iron Mills, because you two own interests in both Keystone Bridge and Union Iron Mills. Unknown interests, of course.”

“Sounds about right,” Mr. Thomson said into the pause, puffing on his cigar. The pungent cloud drifted into the hallway, and I stifled a cough. “As long as it’s on the up-and-up.”

“It is, Edgar. Nothing illegal about it. Moreover, you two take none of the risk but reap all of the reward. I take the risks by putting together the deals, arranging the financing, ensuring a safe design is rendered, and overseeing construction of the bridge and the railroad that crosses it. All I ask of you two is to approve the commission. And once we expand beyond the Pennsylvania Railroad’s reach, you won’t even have to do that. Nowhere in our arrangement is there a provision giving you control over the decisions. That is my prerogative.” His voice was hard and unyielding. I found it particularly shocking to hear him use this tone with two men who, by all rights, were his superiors.

Where was the genial man I knew? Had the man who had become, once again, my patient teacher disappeared? In the six weeks since he had returned, we had decided that the safety of the Fairfield walls provided opportunity aplenty for the occasional fifteen stolen minutes of business discussion, despite the variable presence of his mother, brother, and any number of household staff. It was far safer than the out-of-doors, as Miss Atkinson’s discovery of us in the park last year, paired with her disclosure of the encounter to Mrs. Carnegie, proved. Passing in the hallway, he would apprise me of a new business development in iron or steel or the railroads, and I would jot it down in my journal. As I carried his mother’s linens up the stairs, we would quietly review a letter he’d received. When dinner guests sauntered out of the dining room in favor of the parlor, he would return to discuss a guest’s whisper I’d overheard about a different process for strengthening iron and steel rails for the railroad. I kept my journal tucked in the generous pockets of my servant’s gown, ready for conversation whenever a moment might transpire.

Mr. Scott persisted. “The bridge project you’re chasing is too large and complicated. Stick to the local ones. The margins may not be as big, but the risks—which you’re always lording over us—are smaller.”

“I hadn’t figured you for a coward, Tom,” Mr. Carnegie roared. “If we fail to bid on any of the large bridge commissions soon to be on the market, we can count on a rival securing the contract. And the next one and the next one. I have no intention of losing a single contract, especially the big ones. Do you understand me? I will undertake any means necessary for the success of these ventures.”

Chair springs squeaked as a man hoisted himself up. “That will be enough, you two. You know I admire your grand ambition, Andrew, but let’s not forget that without us railroad men here, many of these schemes won’t bear fruit,” Mr. Thomson said.

“And let’s not forget that without me, none of these schemes would happen at all,” Mr. Carnegie responded. He had no intention of backing down from these powerful men or bending to their will.

The ticking of the clock grew louder as the library stilled. Had the men reached a standoff? Had I missed my opportunity to slip away unnoticed? When I heard a rustling noise in the room and the clip of footsteps, I seized my opportunity and started to back away from the main library door. But I bumped directly into someone.

I swung around. It was Mr. Carnegie. He must have left the library by the door next to the fireplace.

“Clara, were you listening?” he whispered.

I jumped back, hitting the wall. Was he angry that I’d been in the hallway? While I heard no spite in his voice, his conversation with Messrs. Scott and Thomson had scared me. I no longer believed I knew the sort of man he was. He seemed as changeable as a síofra. Could I really trust my family’s future with him?

I made up an excuse. “No, I was retrieving something for your mother. I must be quick. She’s waiting for me.”

“Did you overhear the conversation I just had with Messrs. Scott and Thomson?”

“No.”

“That’s a lost opportunity.” He sounded disappointed.

“What do you mean?” I could not imagine that he actually wanted me to overhear that damning conversation.

“I had quite the heated debate with Scott and Thomson about how these Pennsylvania Railroad, Union Iron Mills, and Keystone Bridge contracts must work. I made certain that they understood I will succeed at all costs. I will do whatever it takes, and so must they, if they wish to do business with me.”

“I am sorry that I did not overhear your exchange, Mr. Carnegie. Please excuse me. I must go, or your mother will be missing me.” I curtsied and raced down the servants’ hallway and up the back staircase to the relative safety of my mistress’s bedchamber. I would rather risk Mrs. Carnegie’s ire over my failure to deliver her book than face the gentlemen in the library.

As I ran up those stairs, I thought about how, in the darkness, in the privacy of my room, after a long day tending to the mercurial Mrs. Carnegie, I had begun to think about Mr. Carnegie as more than a business tutor again. I considered how, when daylight came, I carefully banished those thoughts so that they didn’t emerge in his presence. Equilibrium was necessary for the delicate balance of the shifting roles I played daily. Roles, I reminded myself, upon which my family depended for their survival, in truth. But now, with Mr. Carnegie’s changeable nature laid bare, I would have to work harder to keep those thoughts at bay. I would have to be more cautious on the tightrope I walked, for it could shift on his whim.

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