What the Lady Wants (25 page)

He closed his eyes and tried to move his lips. He tried to say something. It was a soft murmur. She thought she heard him asking for Marsh.

“Be still, darling. Don't move.” Tears were streaming down her face. “I love you, Arthur. You're not alone. You're our family, you hear me? You, me and Marsh. You have us and you always will.”

Arthur closed his eyes again as a tear leaked out.

The doctor rushed in and Delia stepped aside, crying freely now as she watched him reach inside the oxygen tent, checking Arthur's pulse, holding his eyelids open with his thumb. He filled a syringe, and before he had even finished administering it, Arthur drifted away.

“What happened?” she asked in a panic. “What's wrong?”

“I just gave him more morphine for the pain. Sleep is the best thing for him. We'll see if we can get him breathing on his own later.”

For the next two days Delia stayed by Arthur's side. Gradually he began to improve and as his pain eased up they lowered the morphine dose. By the end of the week, Arthur's sisters had come and gone along with the judge and Paxton. Now it was just Delia and her mother-in-law in the sickroom. Delia waited until Arthur fell asleep before she announced that she was going home for the evening. After nearly a week of being at his bedside, she was in desperate need of a good night's sleep.

“But I'll be back in the morning.”

“You needn't come back,” Mrs. Caton said as she rearranged a bouquet of flowers that Abby had dropped off for Arthur earlier.

“Of course I'm coming back,” said Delia.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Caton looked at Arthur, sleeping. “I think you've done enough damage already. You've dragged my son and my family's good name into your disgrace. This entire city knows about you and Marshall Field.”

Delia didn't even consider denying it. “For your information, I've never kept any secrets from Arthur. I've never been anything but honest with him from the very beginning. We have an understanding.”

“That's absurd.” Mrs. Caton scowled, her faint eyebrows knitted together.

“I don't expect you to understand, but your son and I have a very special love for each other. It may not be the kind of love
either of us expected, but it's genuine and I will be here for him, just as I know he would be here for me.”

“He never should have married you.”

“Maybe he shouldn't have, but I wouldn't trade the life we have together for anything.” Delia grabbed her hat and bag. “I'm leaving now, but whether you like it or not, I will be back.”

D
elia never met Marsh in Europe that winter. Instead she stayed in Chicago and looked after Arthur, who by the end of February was recuperating back at home. Since he was unable to manage the stairs, she had the servants convert one of the sitting rooms into a temporary bedroom for him.

Not long after Arthur returned home, she came into his room. “You have a visitor,” she said with a smile, sidestepping around the rickety cane wheelchair just inside the doorway. “Can I show him in?”

“Who is it?”

“Who do you think?”

“Tell him to go away.”

“Oh, Arthur . . . really?”

But Arthur just turned away and stared at the wall.

Delia glanced back to Paxton, who was waiting out in the hallway. She shook her head sadly. “I'm sorry,” she whispered as she walked him back toward the parlor.

Paxton frowned. “I guess I'll try again tomorrow.”

“Don't take it personally,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm. “He's terribly depressed. He's in a great deal of pain. He still can't walk and he loathes that wheelchair.”

“What does he do all day?”

“He drinks,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I can't blame him for that.”

“And how are you holding up?” he asked.

“Me?” She almost laughed. “I'm fine.”

Fine.
That was the answer she gave everyone, but in truth she was far from it. Delia was tired of having to be strong. And it wasn't just for Arthur's sake. Lately she felt as though her entire family leaned on her for support.

Her sister was in a state over whether to fund Augustus's latest business venture, a post office car sorting system for the rail lines. It was a subject that had come up time and time again and Delia was tired of arguing with Abby about it. All she could think was,
Thank God Father isn't here to see this.
It would have broken his heart to see his daughter squander away everything that he'd worked so hard for.

And then there was Marsh and his children. Ethel and her husband never returned to Chicago. Instead, immediately after their honeymoon they took up residence in London so Ethel could be closer to her mother. Delia had started to write to Ethel after the wedding fiasco, trying to apologize, hoping to explain. But in the end, she never sent a single letter or telegram, realizing that Ethel was in an impossible position. Any act of kindness or even diplomacy toward Delia would be a slap in the face to Nannie. Though it broke her heart, Delia knew the best thing she could do for Ethel was leave her alone.

Shortly after the wedding Ethel found out she was pregnant. “She's not even eighteen yet. A child having a child,” Marsh said
upon hearing the news. They were in the solarium working in Delia's indoor garden, planting primrose seeds. Gardening had become a favorite pastime of theirs and reminded Marsh of his childhood days back on his father's farm. Usually he found it relaxing, but that day Delia could see it was having no soothing effect at all.

“Maybe this is just the thing she needs to make her grow up.”

“Doubtful,” grunted Marsh, lifting the watering can. “And on top of that, Junior told me he's ready to propose to Albertine and—”

“Marsh, that's wonderful.” She dropped her shovel and went to hug him, but he went on watering the seeds.

“And—are you ready for this?” He raised one eyebrow. “They're going to move to London, too. Nannie's request.” He set the can down hard, sending the water sloshing about. “If he goes to London, he'll never come back and take over the business.”

“Oh, Marsh, even if he stayed here, do you really think he'd come work for you?”

Marsh removed his gardening gloves and slapped them onto the ledge. “Why can't he see what's he's throwing away? Doesn't he understand that I'm trying to build something here? The boy is twenty-two and has never worked a day in his life. My father worked me—out in the fields—and you know what that taught me? It taught me how to grow something, from scratch. I always wanted to grow something that would last. Forever.”

“Sounds like you're seeking immortality, Mr. Field.”

He tilted his head and smiled in a sad way. “I always thought of the store as something that Junior would take over. I was building a business that would stand for generations to come. Junior's supposed to carry on and then his son will pick up where he leaves off. That's always been the dream. And now Nannie's
got him turning his back on me and running off to London. Why can't he see what I'm trying to do here?”

•   •   •

A
fter the engagement party several weeks later, Junior came by to visit with his uncle Arthur. And unlike the times Paxton came by, Delia knew Arthur would welcome a visit from Junior. The two played chess in the parlor while Delia read in the next room. She couldn't help but overhear them talking about Marsh.

“He doesn't listen,” said Junior. “He's never once asked me what
I
want. . . .”

She knew that no one understood his predicament better than his uncle Arthur. Perhaps that's what made the two of them so close. Arthur saw himself in Junior, and he had always seen a bit of the judge in Marsh. In fact, she'd long suspected that Arthur had initially sought out Marsh's friendship because of his longing for a relationship with the judge.

Arthur still tired easily in those days and he needed to lie down after their first game of chess. After helping Arthur back to bed, Junior joined Delia out in the solarium.

“He's getting better each time I see him,” said Junior.

“We're hoping that he'll be able to graduate to crutches soon. Getting out of that wheelchair would certainly cheer him up.”

“He doesn't like that chair, that's for sure.”

“Can you blame him? It's been two and a half months.”

“I'm sorry you and Uncle Arthur won't be able to come aboard for the wedding. I told Albertine we should just get married here, but her family wants the wedding in Europe.”

“We're disappointed, too. But he can't make the crossing and I won't leave him here alone.” She smiled and gave Flossie a few strokes on her head. “I'm going to miss you, though,” said Delia. “I selfishly wish you and Albertine were staying in Chicago.”

“Mother asked us to come there. I couldn't bring myself to say no. It's no secret that she's not well,” he said. “And Albertine is quite fond of Mother, as you know.” Junior opened his silver cigarette case and propped a Duke's Best between his lips.

Delia remembered the days when it would have been a lollipop. Smoking was one of his latest eccentricities. He said he preferred Duke's Best to other popular cigarette brands or cigars. My goodness, she thought, how had he grown up so quickly?

“You'll come visit, though, won't you, Aunt Dell? And of course, we'll be back for the fair.” He lit his cigarette and waved the smoke away from Delia's face. “I think it's for the best that I go. I need to get out from under my father's shadow.”

“Is that the real reason you're leaving?”

Junior fiddled with his cigarette case. “I won't lie, it's a big part of it.” He gazed up at Delia and she saw the sadness in his eyes. “Do you have any idea what it's like being his son? His
only
son? Let's face it, no matter what I do, I'm never going to accomplish even half of what my father has. Everyone's watching, waiting to see what I'm going to do. And no matter what, it's never going to be enough. Father's set the bar too high. It's too much pressure for me.”

Delia didn't know what to say. She'd known that Junior was intimidated by his father since he was a young boy, but she'd never heard him articulate it before. It touched her deeply that he was willing to confide in her. He was telling her the very things he needed to but could never say to his father.

Junior raised his cigarette to his lips and paused before taking a puff. “I'd rather get as far away from his business as I can than try to live up to his standards and end up failing. And I would fail. I'm not like him. I know Father doesn't want to hear it, but even if I wanted to become a merchant, don't you see, he's
ruined it for me. I know I've been a huge disappointment to him but—”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Oh, Aunt Dell”—he flicked his ash and laughed—“you're a terrible liar. I
know
he's disappointed. He's told me so from the time I was twelve and didn't want to be a cashboy. And then when I turned sixteen and didn't want to be a clerk. Or a buyer. Or a manager and so on and so on . . .”

Delia recalled an argument she'd witnessed between Marsh and Junior just a few weeks before on that very subject. Marsh had an assistant's position open at the store and offered it to his son. Junior had politely turned him down, which sent Marsh into a rage.

“And why? Because you're lazy, that's why. Just once I'd like to see you get off your duff and do something worthwhile.”

Delia wanted to disappear as soon as Marsh raised his voice, but his temper had exploded without warning and there was no place to hide. She watched Junior slouch deeper and deeper into his chair.

“You're spoiled. That's what the problem is. You and your sister—both of you are spoiled rotten.”

Junior's expression suddenly changed. “And whose fault is that?”

It was the first time Delia had ever heard Junior talk back to his father and it would be the last, too. Marsh stormed over to his chair and clutched Junior by the collar, thrusting his knuckles into his throat. Junior's eyes were bulging from his sockets in panic. It was Delia who had finally pulled Marsh off him. Junior was in tears and Marsh had nearly put his fist through the wall.

The smoke from Junior's cigarette drifted Delia's way and
brought her back to the moment. “So what will you do now?” she asked.

“I want to travel and take my time thinking about my future. Besides, I'm going to inherit a fortune. I'm rich. I figure I don't need the money, so why should I work?”

Delia shook her head. “Oh, Junior, look at your uncle Arthur. Do you want to end up like him? His father's reputation and the easy fortune he made as a young man have crippled him more than that accident. Don't make the same mistake. You don't have to go work for your father, but find something you can make your own. Don't waste your future. I beg of you.”

A tight expression registered on his face.
“Well,” he said, checking his pocket watch, changing the subject, “I should get going. I have dinner tonight with Albertine's family.” He reached over and gave Flossie's head a pat and then leaned in and kissed Delia on the cheek. “Oh, and Aunt Dell?” He straightened up, buttoning his jacket. “Take care of Father after we're gone. I know you will, but I had to say it just the same.”

“You have my word.” She gave him a smile. It was clear to her that Junior had confessed to her knowing that she would find a way to explain to Marsh why Junior was turning his back and walking away from the family business.

D
elia looked at the calendar in her engagement book. It was April 18, 1891. Junior's wedding day. Marsh had already departed for France on the
Majestic
over a week ago. From France he was going on to England and Italy to meet with more heads of state on behalf of the world's fair. Had it not been for Arthur's accident, Delia would have joined Marsh in Europe. But she was determined to stay by Arthur's side for as long as he needed her.

She closed her engagement book, smoothing her hand over the leather-bound cover, remembering the days when there was scarcely a blank space left to jot down even the briefest of comments. She'd been ostracized by society for so long now she had to admit she hardly missed the endless chatter at the luncheons and teas, the petty scrutinizing over everyone's gowns at the galas and balls. No, she didn't miss that at all. And besides, caring for Arthur kept her so busy now, she wouldn't have had time for her old schedule anyway. She sat back in her chair watching as
Arthur made his way into the library. Four months after the accident he had finally graduated from the wheelchair to crutches.

“You're doing much better on those,” she said.

“I'm getting the hang of it.”

She helped him get situated in his chair.

“I still wish you would have gone to France for the wedding,” he said.

“And leave you behind? You know I wouldn't do that. Besides, can you imagine what Nannie would do if I showed up? Not to mention Ethel.”

“Ethel will come around. She loves you.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “But seriously, Dell, you've got to get on with things. You can't just sit around the house and look after me.”

“Maybe I like looking after you. Did you ever consider that?”

Arthur gave her a skeptical look. “I know better than to believe that.”

Delia smiled. “Right now you need me and that's all there is to it.”

Williams came into the library and announced that Mr. Caton had a visitor.

Delia turned to Arthur. “You know it's him. Won't you please just speak to him? He comes by nearly every day. It's breaking his heart.”

Arthur went silent. He pursed his lips and looked out the window.

“Please? Just say hello to him.”

“I can't. I can't have him see me like this. Like a cripple.”

“Oh, Arthur, this is temporary. He knows that. It won't matter. I promise you that. Please say hello to him. Please? Do it for me.”

He sighed, keeping his gaze focused on the window.

“Arthur, please?” She tried again.

He turned back around and she could tell he was beginning to give in.

“Please? For me?”

At last he offered a barely perceptible nod.

Before he had a chance to change his mind, Delia followed Williams out to get Paxton. When she told him Arthur would see him, Paxton's face came to life.

“Now I'm nervous,” he said to Delia. “I don't even know what to say to him.”

“It'll be fine. I promise.” Delia took his hand in hers. It was clammy.

In a moment of vanity, Arthur must have been trying to hide his crutches because when they came back into the room, the one crutch was stuck under the chair. He was leaning on the chair, frantically tugging on it, hoping to free it. The frustration and humiliation on his face was heartbreaking. It was Paxton who walked over, helped Arthur back into his chair before he bent down and pulled the crutch free, setting it out of the way, behind the door.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, unable to look at Paxton.

Delia could see his eyes turning glassy. She excused herself and went to send a telegram to Marsh. As she was closing the French doors behind her she heard whispering: “God, do you have any idea how much I've missed you.” She couldn't tell if it was Paxton or Arthur who'd said it, and it didn't matter. They both needed to say that and they both needed to hear it, too.

•   •   •

A
few weeks later, on a lovely spring morning Delia and Bertha were wheeling through Lincoln Park. Bertha with all her baubles was on a Swift safety bicycle and Delia in her new bloomers was on a Rover safety model with Flossie
riding up front in the basket. The sunlight glinted off the diamonds on Flossie's collar, sending prisms of light across the handlebars.

There were dozens of other riders out that day, some still pedaling the old-fashioned three-wheelers. Delia adored cycling, but because Arthur was still recuperating, she went either alone or with Bertha, who also needed a companion since Potter insisted he was too old. Delia thought that was nonsense. Marsh was a fan of wheeling and at fifty-seven he wasn't much younger than Potter.

That day Bertha wanted to ride by the location of her future home up north. It was still just a stretch of barren swampland that butted up against the lakeshore. Delia couldn't imagine how they were going to make this section of town inhabitable.

“What are you going to do with all the frogs?” Delia asked, noting the green, slimy frog ponds collecting in the swampy land.

“Potter assured me that they will be relocated to a lovely new swamp,” she said with a confident nod.

The whole move to this no-man's-land reminded Delia of how her father had been a Chicago pioneer in the 1850s. And my, what a different city it was today. Delia looked off in the distance and saw the skyline that seemed to change month by month. The new Rookery Building on LaSalle Street soared eleven stories high and construction was visible on the Monadnock Building on Dearborn. Every day in the papers she read about the ongoing battle with New York to claim the tallest skyscraper in the country.

Delia and Bertha continued cycling and made their way back toward the city. On the way, Bertha shared a bit of gossip that nearly made Delia ride off the sidewalk.

“Surely you're joking,” Delia said as she slowed her bike and looked at Bertha. “They really think I have a tunnel? A tunnel in my backyard that connects my house to Marsh's! And they think I meet Marsh inside this so-called tunnel? That's ridiculous!”

“Of course it's ridiculous.” Bertha veered to the left and pedaled up a slight incline. “I wasn't even sure if I should say anything to you about it.”

“No, no, I'm glad you did,” Delia reassured her as she waved to another cyclist coming up the path. “I just can't believe people actually think I built a tunnel in my backyard.”

“They say you supposedly built it at the same time you built the solarium. They say that was just a distraction for the construction of the tunnel.”

“I know who started this rumor,” said Delia as they came to a fork in the pathway. “It was Sybil Perkins, wasn't it?”

Bertha didn't comment one way or the other and instead tried to change the subject. “Mary Leiter says you're not to be trusted. She called you ‘a wolf in cheap clothing.'” Bertha burst into peals of laughter.

“So they think we have a love nest, do they?” Delia started to pedal faster with Bertha following. “And what else?”

“Well, they say you've decorated this tunnel in the finest Italian marble. They say it's nicer than your house. There's also been talk about a gold bed frame that Marsh bought for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh, yes, because isn't that just like him. He's just the type to throw ten thousand dollars away on a bed.” Delia tried to laugh as she steered over a bump in the path.

“Supposedly you two meet in the tunnel every evening. They say Nannie discovered the tunnel and that's why she left Marshall. Supposedly, supposedly, supposedly . . .” Bertha looked over
her shoulder and saw that Delia had brought her cycle to a stop, her one foot on the ground, keeping her balance. “Are you all right?”

“What? Yes. I'm—I'm fine.” She looked across the way and did a double take.

“Dell, are you all right?” Bertha asked again.

Delia looked at Bertha and pointed to a man sitting on a park bench beneath a giant elm tree. “Isn't that Augustus over there?”

Bertha shaded her eyes. “Why, yes. It is. Let's go say hello.”

As they drew closer, Delia saw that Augustus was carving an apple with a pocketknife, meticulously skinning the peel into long ruby strips that dropped onto a crumpled brown paper sack on the bench beside him. Some of the juice had dribbled onto the newspaper in his lap, making the ink run. He was so engrossed in his apple that he didn't notice when Delia and Bertha pedaled up beside him. It wasn't until Flossie yelped that he looked up, nearly dropping his pocketknife.

“I'm sorry. We didn't mean to startle you,” said Delia with a laugh, reaching over to pet Flossie, who was stirring about in her basket.

“Oh, Delia. Mrs. Palmer. My goodness. What a surprise.” He set the apple down on the paper sack and grappled with his coat pocket, searching for his handkerchief. His fingers were shiny with apple juice.

“I'll say. What are you doing all the way up here? Don't you have work today?”

“Yes, yes, I do have work today. Lots of work, in fact. Just taking advantage of this beautiful morning.” He wiped his hands dry and straightened his spectacles. “It is beautiful, isn't it?” he said, reaching for his pocket watch. “Oh my, look at the time. I had no idea. I am late, aren't I? I have to run. I have a big meeting down at the office.”

“We'll have to all get together soon,” said Bertha.

“Of course. Of course. Wonderful to see you ladies,” he said as he packed up his newspaper, haphazardly stuffing it inside his valise, leaving edges of newsprint jutting out of the top. “I'd best run along now. I have that meeting. Down at the office.”

Delia glanced down at the apple resting on the juice-stained paper sack. “Oh wait, you forgot—” But it was too late. Augustus was already hurrying down the pathway.