Carnegie's Maid by Marie Benedict

Author:Marie Benedict [Benedict, Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2017-10-24T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

April 15, 1865

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The Scottish consular position sought by Mr. Carnegie did not come to fruition. My mistress was elated at the news, but only until her son made plain that he intended to leave Pittsburgh regardless. He never explained to her his need to flee, although I understood. And he knew it.

Mr. Carnegie continued to keep busy, away from Fairfield. On those few occasions he could not avoid me, I would feel his eyes on me as I served his mother, and quiet would overcome the previously gregarious Mr. Carnegie. Only on social occasions would he reenter the fray, turning back into the affable, confident industrialist. This transformation, striking in its quickness, often reminded me of a conversation he and I shared in a rare moment alone in the Fairfield parlor.

“What do you see in this room?” he had asked me.

The question had confused me at first. The answer seemed obvious, but I’d learned that nothing about Mr. Carnegie was ever obvious. I’d walked around the room, giving simple answers. “I see fine paintings hung one above another. Louis XV chairs upholstered in red silk fabric with long fringe and short, turned legs. A floor laid in parquet marble and covered with a red, flowered rug. Walls hung in crimson damask with a frieze of full-blooming roses painted above it. A Carrara marble fireplace topped by an onyx mantel clock and candelabra from France and porcelain vases from England. On the center table, a ewer and stand from Austria, a painted tile from Germany, and small ivory figurines from the Orient.”

He gawked at me. “That is a mightily impressive recitation, Miss Kelley. How on earth do you know such minute details about this room?”

I smiled, a slightly devilish grin. “I’ve heard your mother describe it often enough to her guests.”

“Of course you have. How silly of me to ask.” He laughed. “Would you like to know what other story this room tells?”

“Please.”

“This room is actually meant to be read like a book, with each object functioning like a word in a story.”

I stared around the parlor, trying the tease out the story in the room. Nothing came to me from the crowded, overstuffed, chaotic space. “I confess to ignorance. Will you read the room to me?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He walked over to my side, placing his hand against my elbow as he would to any lady visiting Fairfield. I felt like a guest instead of a servant.

Pointing with his free hand to the center table and the mantel, he said, “The specimens you’ve so perfectly described tell the ‘reader,’ or guest, that the family residing in this home is well and widely traveled.”

“I see.” I didn’t mention that the Carnegies had not traveled to the Orient as the figurines might suggest, but I understood how this “word” worked in the room’s narrative and how a family might manipulate those “words” to send particular messages to their guests.

Moving his hand from my elbow to my palm, he guided me to the wall most crammed with paintings.

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