What the Lady Wants (10 page)

I
t was the height of the holiday season, and since Nannie was still in France with the children, Delia and Arthur continued to extend invitations for Marsh to join them for dinners or accompany them to special events and parties. As a result the three of them became a fixture on the Chicago social scene that season. They were out together three, sometimes four nights a week.

One Saturday afternoon, Arthur had even convinced Marsh to take a day off and go skating with them. The three of them ventured to the lagoon in Lincoln Park. It wasn't quite round, shaped more like an egg that just hit the skillet. Blade marks of previous skaters gone by were etched into its frozen surface. Bare trees peppered the land that separated it from Lake Michigan. Delia cleared a space on one of the snow-covered benches and sat to tighten her skates while she watched Arthur and Marsh whirling around. They swerved this way and that, in between the other skaters. A rosy pinkness filled Marsh's cheeks as the wind
blew his white hair back off his forehead. He was naturally athletic, as was Arthur, and the two of them glided effortlessly until Arthur's front skate caught the back of Marsh's blade and they both went tumbling down.

They were still laughing when Delia skated across the ice, reaching them in the center of the lagoon. As she tried to help them up, she lost her balance and went down, too. The three of them had their arms and legs entangled, laughing. Delia looked over and saw Arthur rest his head on Marsh's shoulder, his body shaking as he fought to compose himself.

After that, they skated three in a row with Delia in the middle, her arms looped through both of theirs. She felt like the luckiest girl, surrounded by two of the finest gentlemen she'd ever known. It seemed to her that there, on that ice, in that one moment, the three of them had achieved a perfect balance—each of them leaning on one another, each of them advancing.

But the spell was to be broken the following night. It was a blustery cold evening and the three of them attended Annie and Gustavus Swift's annual winter pageant at the Edgewater Club. Actually, Delia and Arthur had gone together and Marsh met them there later when he was done at the store. When Marsh arrived Delia was talking to Nathaniel Fairbank, an industrialist best known for his Gold Dust Washing Powder and Fairy Soap. As soon as she noticed Marsh standing in the entranceway, she broke away from her conversation with Mr. Fairbank.
Marsh is here! Now the party can begin.

As he made his way over to her, Delia offered him a playful smile. “Don't you look handsome tonight, Mr. Field.”

“And you, my dear neighbor, look ravishing as ever.”

Delia wore a burgundy silk taffeta gown she'd had made just the week before. She set her hands on her hips, posing as if modeling for him. Marsh laughed, giving her a devilish grin. Delia
was still smiling as she glanced over and saw that some women from the Fortnightly Club were watching her. She dropped her hands to her sides and felt her shoulders sink forward.
What was she thinking? How could she have been so indiscreet?
She immediately reined herself in, excused herself and went to her husband's side.

“Is Marsh here yet?” Arthur asked, taking a sip from his drink.

“I'm not sure. I haven't seen him.” As the lie left her lips it bewildered her. There'd been no reason to deny having seen Marsh. It was as if she'd just handed herself something tangible to feel guilty about.

As the party progressed, she was constantly aware of Marsh's whereabouts. In the foyer, in the ballroom, everywhere she turned, he was there. When their eyes met, her body flooded with a sensation she couldn't quite name. It was all-consuming, thrilling and unnerving.

When it was time for dancing, the guests moved into the ballroom and the orchestra played while couples joined in. Gowns twirled this way and that as partygoers looked on, sipping champagne, enjoying the merriment.

When Delia asked Arthur to dance, he said, “In a minute, my pet. Just give me a minute here.” He'd been chatting with Lionel Perkins and Cyrus McCormick. “Or better yet,” he suggested, “go ask Marsh. He'll dance with you.”

The orchestra had just started the cotillion and Delia went over to Marsh. “Arthur's engrossed in conversation. He sent me over to ask if you'll be my partner?”

Though her invitation had been perfectly proper, she was surprised when he said yes. They took to the floor with three other couples: Bertha and Potter Palmer, Harriet and George Pullman and Malvina and Philip Armour.

The music swelled around them and they all joined hands as
their circle moved through the steps. There was a rigadoon followed by a sideways glide to the right and then a glide back to the left before their hands moved toward the center to form a star. Delia felt a spark each time her fingertips touched Marsh's, and each time their eyes met, the other couples ceased to exist. She was terrified but elated. It was this clash of emotions that only Marsh roused in her. She didn't know what to do or where to go with these feelings. He overwhelmed her so. After they'd turned to the right and then to the left, the four women stepped toward the center and then glided back toward their partners before the men did the same.

Delia was so lost in the dance that at first she hadn't noticed Arthur standing at the edge of the dance floor with a wounded expression on his face. She watched his eyes move from her to Marsh and back to her. With just a glance she knew that he was sulking. She could tell by the way he made his eyes go sad and full of self-pity. It was the look he mustered whenever he wanted something that he couldn't come right out and ask for, leaving it up to Delia, or whomever he directed the pout at, to figure out what was bothering him.

As soon as the dance was over, Delia excused herself and left Marsh's side to rejoin Arthur. “Oh, there you are, darling,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come,” she purred. “Come dance with me.”

Apparently, her attention was enough to restore his good mood. He let her lead him onto the dance floor. Delia danced with a flourish, accenting her every move with a sway of her hip, a tilt of her head, a graceful wave of her arm. Halfway through the dance she acknowledged an ugly truth to herself: even though Delia had changed partners, she was still dancing with—or rather for—Marsh. His eyes never drifted from her performance—
and that was exactly what it was: a performance. As soon as she realized what she'd been doing, she shifted her focus and went back to dancing solely with and for her husband.

The dancing went on until the party thinned out and the orchestra played its final number. Delia and Arthur laughed as he kept twirling her even after the music had stopped. As they stepped off the dance floor, Delia fanned herself with her hand, trying to catch her breath while Arthur dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

She excused herself, and as she was walking into the lavatory, she overheard a cluster of women talking. She didn't pay attention to them until she heard her name.

“. . . and Delia calls herself a friend. Poor Nannie . . .”

Delia knew that voice. Sybil Perkins. She froze in place and leaned against the wall for balance.

“. . . Oh, and the way they carry on. Levi says it's just a pigment of my imagination, but I know better.” That comment was clearly the unmistakable mangling of Mary Leiter.

“She calls him
Marsh
now and he calls her
Dell
,” added Sybil. “And did you see them dancing earlier tonight? Shameful.”

Delia drew in a deep breath.
How dare they talk about me like that! I haven't done anything wrong.
She deliberately took a step forward and then another until the women saw her reflection in the vanity mirror. Eyes flashed wide, mouths gaped open and Mary Leiter stopped speaking midsentence. They were embarrassed and Delia was satisfied that she'd made her point; she was aware of them gossiping about her and they knew it. Before they could say or do anything to minimize their guilt, Delia turned sharply on her heels and left the powder room.

When she stepped back into the ballroom she felt certain that everyone was watching her, judging her. It was as if she were
becoming larger, more obvious, more central to the room. She wanted to go home. But Marsh, who usually turned in early, was instead suggesting to Arthur that they get a nightcap.

“What do you say, Dell?” asked Arthur.

“I'm sorry, what?” She was lost in her own thoughts, distracted by all the eyes on her.

“We're going to get a nightcap across town,” said Marsh.

“Shall we?” Arthur held out his arm to her.

Anything to get her out of that room. She accepted her husband's arm and walked past a group of women watching as the three of them left the party.

Soon they'd arrived at the Sherman House lounge. It was a large, cavernous room, dark with a giant fireplace that crackled and sparked, casting the room in a warm glow. After she'd had a glass of brandy, Delia put the gossips out of her mind. She felt happy again, even giddy. She was sitting with Marsh on the settee, while Arthur took the armchair across from them. Delia and Marsh were doubled over, chuckling, recalling how George Pullman had told his wife while they were dancing not to complain about being dizzy because “waltzing was the way of the whirl.”

“Oh, it was just too funny,” said Delia as she dabbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Especially coming from George.”

“I've never heard him even attempt a joke.” Marsh pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, for his own eyes were tearing. His shoulders were shaking as he continued to laugh.

Delia glanced over at Arthur, who sat expressionless, watching them. She composed herself enough to say, “I'm sorry, darling. I guess you had to be there.”

“I guess so.” Arthur wrinkled his brow and skirted a finger about the inside of his shirt collar as if he felt constricted by it.

Delia tilted her head, trying to catch his eye, but Arthur seemed more interested in his brandy. She saw on his face that
same look she had seen earlier while she was dancing with Marsh. He was feeling left out and she attempted to pull him back into the conversation.

“Arthur,” she said with too much enthusiasm, “don't you think this was by far the best winter pageant the Swifts have ever thrown?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and signaled to their waiter for another drink.

•   •   •

B
y the time Delia and Arthur returned home that evening, Arthur had snapped out of his sour mood and was happy again. He was drunk as usual and Delia was even tipsy herself. They waved to Williams, their butler, indicating that the servants were not needed that night.

The two of them laughed and danced their way up the staircase. Arthur twirled her round and round until she collapsed onto her bed, woozy from their twirling. Pushing herself up from her elbows, she sat until the room stopped spinning and then made her way over to her vanity. Arthur sat on the side of the bed, working his way out of his necktie while Delia unclasped her earrings and tossed them on her vanity like a pair of dice.

“Marsh does like his late-night brandies, doesn't he?”

“As if you don't,” said Delia playfully, shooting him a glance through the threefold mirror.

“It's good to see him relax, have a little fun. Next to my father, I've never seen a man who works as much as ole Marsh. Frankly, I don't think it's healthy.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Delia, unpinning the braids from the crown of her head. “I think hard work is good for a man. Makes them useful and productive. A little hard work wouldn't hurt you at—” Delia did a quarter turn on her vanity stool, letting the air escape from her mouth before she clamped her lips shut. Arthur
looked deflated and she instantly scolded herself, blaming the slip on her last brandy.

“If this is about the horse farm, I'll have you—”

“It's not about the horse farm.”

“I've been waiting to see how long it would take you to bring that up.”

It had been nearly two months and Arthur had yet to follow through on any of the plans Marsh had worked out with him. Each time she asked about the farm, Arthur had responded with a million excuses, and if pressed, he turned it into an argument. She should have known he'd never do anything with it. He was lazy. She hated to admit it, but it was the truth.

Arthur turned away and tugged on his waistcoat. “I suppose I could work myself into an early grave, but personally I'd rather enjoy my good fortune. If that's a crime, then I suppose I'm guilty as charged.”

“I'm not accusing you of anything. You know I think you'd make a brilliant horse breeder. And a brilliant lawyer, too.”

“I
am
a horse breeder
and
a lawyer in case you forgot. Practicing law bores me to tears. Is that what you want for me? Being chained to a desk and pushing papers about all day long? You sound like my father.”

She got up from her vanity and went to his side. “I only want you to be happy.”

“Then quit comparing me to Marsh.” Arthur got up and went down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Delia stayed in her room, refusing to run after him. She had to admit that he was right, she did want him to be more like Marsh. She couldn't help it. Nor could she help her attraction to Marsh. But at least she had no intention of doing anything about it. Didn't that count for something? And didn't it matter that she was sick inside over it? That she felt like a despicable friend to
Nannie and an even worse wife to Arthur? She had no right to complain about her agony, but surely Arthur knew she hadn't chosen to feel this way about Marsh.

About an hour later, Arthur knocked on her door. “May I come in? I couldn't sleep.”

She scooted over in bed, making room for him next to her. They lay side by side, wide awake, neither one speaking.