What the Lady Wants (30 page)

He looked at her, puzzled. “But we were going to travel and spend more time together. Isn't that what you want?”

“I mean it. You're no good to me this way. Go back to work. It's what you love. It's what you do. It's who you are.”

He nodded, kissed her cheek and turned around and went back into Marshall Field & Company. He worked until ten o'clock that night and was back in the store by seven the next morning.

Soon he was back to working twelve- and fourteen-hour days. He worked through his grandsons' baseball games and track meets and Delia wasn't surprised. As much as he tried to be a family man, it was a lie. He would always be who he truly was: the Merchant Prince.

1905

D
elia was back at the house on Calumet Avenue to get a necklace from her jewelry box when she heard the horn blast. Rushing to the bedroom window, she gazed out and saw that Paxton had just pulled up in his new motorcar. It had a gleaming white body with red leather interior and a wooden steering device.

“But I don't need to go for a ride in that contraption,” she heard Arthur saying as she came down the stairs. “I'll take my coach over that iron horse any day.”

“You're jealous,” said Paxton. “Just admit it.”

“Please,” said Arthur. “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“What's all the commotion about?” asked Delia as she joined the men in the foyer.

“Arthur here is being an old stick-in-the-mud is all,” said Paxton.

“Why? Because I don't want to go for a ride in that ridiculous machine of yours?”

“You're just jealous. Now come for a ride. Delia, you too.”

“I don't want to ride in that thing,” said Arthur.

“That
thing
is a brand-new 1905 Studebaker, I'll have you know.”

Delia laughed. “You two are something else. Come,” she said, looping her arms through both of theirs, “let's go have some tea.”

They moved into the parlor and Delia and Arthur sipped tea while Paxton had a whiskey. The two men continued to battle over coaches versus motorcars.

“I'm telling you there's no way that heap of metal is ever going to replace the horse,” said Arthur.

“I agree,” said Abby as she and Catherine came in to join them.

“I don't,” said Catherine, sitting on the sofa next to Delia. “Sorry, Uncle Arthur, but I do think motoring is the way of the future.”

“You mean to say that you'd rather ride in that box than in my coach,” said Arthur, a hand splayed over his heart.

They laughed but a few minutes later the argument between Arthur and Paxton heated up again. Delia was always struck by how competitive they were. A good horse race or a round of golf always managed to rile them up. Perhaps that was just the male ego or maybe they longed to be each other's heroes.

The following week they were at it again. The two of them were playing lawn tennis while Delia and Penelope sat in a gazebo, sipping lemonade and watching, listening to the steady
ping, ping, ping
of the ball playing off their rackets.

“It's amazing how Arthur can get around now. I mean after his accident and all.”

“It still hurts him plenty, though,” said Delia. “Especially when it's damp out.”

Paxton let out a yelp after missing a shot.

“They're so very close, aren't they?” said Penelope. “Truly the very best of friends.”

Delia nodded as she shaded her eyes and watched the two of them.

“Hardly any room for anyone else, is there?”

Delia turned around and looked at her. Penelope's eyes grew wide, pleading for reassurance or perhaps just answers.

Delia pressed her hand to her chest. They had never discussed this. She never thought they would. “They share a bond,” she said finally. “They always have.”

Penelope reached for her lemonade and then thought better of it and set the glass back down. “I've tried my best to be a good wife.”

Delia looked at Penelope, at all the confusion and frustration on her face. It was as if she were looking into a mirror from years gone by. “I'm certain that you are a good wife.”

“Obviously not good enough.” Penelope twisted up her mouth and wrinkled the bridge of her nose. “All these years I've been trying to compete.”

Delia shooed a fly away, stalling. She was unprepared to have this conversation. “Oh, honey,” she said finally, “but you can't compete. You just can't.”

“It hurts me so to know that his son and I aren't enough.”

“You mustn't think like that. It's so much more complex. It's something you and I can't understand.”

“Aren't you angry?”

Delia thought for a moment. “No. Not anymore.”

Paxton missed another shot and leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, come on now,” Arthur teased. “Don't tell me you're getting tired already. . . .”

Delia saw Penelope's eyes tearing up. That could have been her, the long-suffering wife, had it not been for Marsh. “I think in this case, in a situation like ours,” said Delia, “it's perfectly fine for you to seek out your own happiness.”

Penelope looked at her, stunned.

“All right,” said Arthur, “your serve. Hurry it up now.”

“But Paxton
is
my happiness,” said Penelope. “I'll never love anyone the way I love him.”

“Come on now,” said Arthur. “I don't have all day. Paxton? Hey, Paxton—very funny. Cut it out.”

Delia gazed over at the court. Paxton had dropped his racket, his arms flailing in the air.

“It's true, you won't,” she said, turning back to Penelope. “But there are other kinds of loves in this world. Don't deny your own chance at happiness.”

“Hey, Paxton,” shouted Arthur. “Come on now. Paxton? Paxton! Oh my God—PAXTON!”

Penelope let out a scream and Delia turned around just as Paxton's legs buckled and he collapsed onto the lawn.

•   •   •

A
week after Paxton's funeral, Delia was sitting with Arthur in the solarium. A shadow veiled his face and she could almost see the darkness coming from inside of him. He was still in his bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon, starting in on his second drink of the day. She didn't say a word. How could she stop him from drinking at a time like this? His world had just been shattered and there was nothing she could do to comfort him. Or herself. Delia couldn't begin to address her own feelings of grief, for she, too, had lost a dear friend.

So they sat together and stared out at the garden, watching the bees fluttering in and out of the rose blossoms, listening to
the breeze rustle the sycamore leaves. Life was going on without even a pause. People died every second of every day, but this was Arthur's loss and thus Delia's, and she resented the nonchalance of the universe, just accepting Paxton Lowry's death as a matter of course.

She also resented the sounds of Abby and Catherine's bickering filtering in from the other room. It all seemed so trivial to her. Mother and daughter were once again arguing about Albert Beveridge.

“But he is a good man,” she heard Catherine telling her mother.

“If he makes it to the White House, that's one thing,” said Abby. “And if he doesn't, then what? What kind of a life will you have?”

“Spencer warned me that you wouldn't like him,” said Catherine. “It's just like with Lurline. You don't think anyone's good enough for your children and it's just not true. You refuse to give anyone a chance. . . .”

Delia got up and closed the door. “Can I get you anything?” she asked Arthur.

He stared into the amber liquor in his glass and said, “I've been thinking . . . I've given this a lot of thought and well, I've decided to grant you a divorce.”

At first she thought she hadn't heard right. It was so out of the blue, so unexpected. She looked into his eyes as if seeking confirmation.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “And life is much too short. Much too unpredictable.”

“But, but . . .” She had a million questions. “What about your mother?”

“As I say, life is much too short.”

She always thought that if this moment ever came, she would
have been elated. Instead, it felt bittersweet. There were so many tentacles to their situation; they were all tied to one another in such complexity.

“Thank you,” she said solemnly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But I won't kid you, I'm terrified. I'm afraid to go it alone without you. I'm not sure how to manage without you in my life.”

“I'll always be in your life, Arthur. You know that. You and Marsh and I are a family. That will never change.”

He smiled but his eyes were weeping and it nearly split her down the center. She sat with him while he finished his drink, the two of them holding hands.
This is friendship,
thought Delia.
This is love.
They would always be there for each other.

•   •   •

M
arsh was leaving in the morning for a business trip to Europe and Delia waited until he was out of the store to tell him the news. They were walking arm in arm along the lakefront, south of Grant Park to the site of the Columbian Museum of Chicago that was soon to be renamed the Field Museum. Delia could already see it coming into view. It was one of only two buildings that remained from the world's fair.

On that beautiful summer evening just as the sun was setting, Delia turned to Marsh and said, “Mr. Field, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

He stood back and gave her a quizzical look.

“Arthur has agreed to grant me a divorce. I'm going to be a free woman.” She was smiling. He was not. This gave her a scare. Her heart began to hammer. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't be pleased. His blue gray eyes narrowed and she nearly stopped breathing. “You
do
want to marry me, don't you?” He hesitated for an agonizing minute and she braced herself for a fall.

“Now what do you think?” He began to laugh as he picked her up and whirled her in a circle.

They were giddy as they made their way back to the Field mansion. He rang for his butler, asking for champagne, and as he cupped Delia's face in his hands, he kissed either cheek and then finally her lips. Through the years there had been millions of kisses between them, some quick like a punctuation mark, others long and exploring and still others filled with urgency and passion. Yet, this kiss was different from all the others. This one kiss said that in the world filled of people, you are my very favorite one. You are my one and only.

She didn't think she could possibly love him any more or any deeper and yet here she was, in his arms, falling for him all over again. He was going to be her husband and suddenly it was more than just a label.

Just as their kisses had taken on every expression imaginable, so had their lovemaking. In the early years they relied on the intensity and fiery passion to convey their feelings and desire for each other. But as their love matured they no longer needed to ravish each other to prove their affection. Like a vivid painting whose definition blurs and softens the closer you stand to it, so was their love. Intimacy had taken on a different kind of pleasure now. A richer, deeper, more satisfying pleasure. That night they made love slowly, tenderly, like two old souls dancing.

The next morning after they said good-bye Delia made her way around the corner to the house on Calumet. With each step the elation over wedding plans seemed to fade. Delia couldn't stop thinking about Arthur. Even though he had given her his blessings, she felt she was betraying him, abandoning him, leaving him behind.

Arthur was in the sitting room when she returned, still in
the same bathrobe he'd been wearing the day before. He hadn't shaved or bathed in days. An untouched newspaper, neatly folded, sat at his side along with a glass of bourbon.

“I'm sure Marsh was pleased,” he said.

She went over and put her arms around him, leaning in to kiss the top of his head. “You're a good man, Arthur.”

He gave off a soft sound, half laugh, half sob.

“How about a hand of cards?” she asked, desperate to lift his spirits.

“Can I ask one final favor of you?” he said as if he hadn't heard her.

“A
final
favor. You know I'll always do anything for you.”

“I want you to accompany me to New York next week. There's a dinner, in honor of my father. A memorial. They're presenting him with an award and I told Mother I would go and accept on behalf of the family. I'd like you to accompany me, as my wife, just this one last time.”

“Are you sure you're up for this?” She was surprised that Arthur had agreed to it and that his mother would have encouraged it. But then again, as far as Mrs. Caton was concerned, her son had
only
lost a close friend, nothing more.

“I think it'll be good for me. I owe it to Mother and to the judge.”

“Then of course I'll go to New York with you. Of course I will.”

J
ust one month after Paxton passed away, at the end of July, on a balmy, steamy afternoon, Delia and Arthur headed for New York City. The train station smelled of creosol and Delia brought a handkerchief to her nose as passengers rushed in and about them, boarding the train.

She had reserved a first-class Pullman coach for the two of them with plush velvet seats, crystal chandeliers and a private sleeper car. Two porters were on hand for anything they needed.

Arthur spent much of the trip talking about Paxton. “Remember how he loved the theater? Loved going to plays? Couldn't stand to be a moment late . . . The last time I was in New York, it was with him. . . .”

The train rolled on as the hours passed, and the next day, the flashing red lights blinked and the bells began clanging as they approached their stop. The porters opened the doors at Grand
Central Station, letting a rush of hot air in along with the heady smell of coal and smoke.

When they arrived at the Waldorf Astoria, Arthur stood in the lobby and sighed woefully. “Paxton always loved to stay at this hotel.”

“Oh, Arthur.” Delia felt a sting. She knew this was where they stayed when they were in Manhattan. “I'm sorry. I should have made a reservation somewhere else.”

“No, no. I love the Waldorf. This is perfect. Just perfect.”

The bellhop showed them to their rooms, a penthouse suite with adjoining bedrooms. It was beautifully appointed with bouquets of fresh flowers and baskets of fruit, cheese and a bottle of wine, which Arthur asked the bellboy to open.

They had a glass of wine and talked about the award for his father and about getting tickets to see
Little Johnny Jones
on Broadway. Arthur then rose to go change for dinner, but before he left he went over to Delia and gave her a tight embrace and a long kiss on the cheek.

“I do you love you, my pet. Always know that much is true.”

She looked into his face, sensing that something was off, something in his tone, in his eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's perfect.”

He had said the word
perfect
a few too many times since they'd arrived in New York. Delia watched him go into his room. “Arthur?” she called to him, and when he turned back around she simply said, “I love you, too.” She stood there for a moment, waiting until he disappeared before she went into her adjoining room to get ready for the dinner.

She took her time getting dressed, and after considering two gowns that she'd brought for that night, she chose a beautiful blue satin by Worth embellished with crystal beading along the
bodice. Having not brought Therese along, Delia was struggling with her buttons and needed Arthur's help.

“Arthur? Arthur, can you help me with these but—”

She heard a blast. A blast so loud and sharp and piercing, her whole body went stiff. She froze in place, afraid to move.
Please dear God, don't let that be a gunshot.
A moment later, all was quiet. Too quiet.

“Arthur?” Delia's heart was racing as she got hold of herself and ran through the suite, calling for him. “Arthur!”

He didn't answer.

She tore into the second bedroom, frantically looking and calling for him. The bed looked untouched, the pillows fluffed. She saw that the bathroom door was closed and rushed toward it. As she reached for the glass doorknob, her hand began to shake. It was as if she knew what she'd find on the other side. The longer she took, the longer she waited to turn that knob, the longer it wouldn't be true.

She drew a deep breath and threw the door open. Everything seemed fine. The white fluffy towels were hanging on their gold racks. Arthur's shaving kit was laid out on the vanity with his brush resting in the soap dish. His slippers were tucked in the corner. All was in its place. But then she shifted her eyes and saw the spray of blood on the wall. When she looked in the mirror she screamed. She saw Arthur's reflection, faceup on the marbled bathroom floor. A pool of blood was collecting beneath his head, soaking his blond hair dark and spreading out in all directions. The gun was lying next to his hand.

She was still screaming and keening when she heard the pounding on the penthouse door. She crawled across the suite, unable to stand. Her head was in a fog of shock and horror. When she managed to open the door, she saw two men from hotel
security. They said they'd heard the gunshot and rushed upstairs. Delia pointed toward the bathroom and watched from the doorway as they stepped over Arthur's body. The one man leaned over to take Arthur's pulse. Delia turned away, unable to watch. She already knew.

It wasn't until after they'd removed his body and the hotel manager had been up to see her, to see if he could do anything for her, that she noticed the letter sitting on Arthur's bedside, addressed to her:

My Dearest Delia, my Dell, my pet,

Don't hate me for this. And don't be sad. For me this is relief. I just can't go on this way any longer. You know I've never found a true, honest place for myself in this world and the pain of continuing on has been too great. I'm just not strong enough. Forgive me for that. You and Marsh can be together now as you should have been all along, and this gives me peace as I say good-bye. Don't blame yourself. This one is on me, my dear sweet Dell.

Yours for all eternity,
Arthur

Delia sank down on the edge of the bed. The room turned hazy before her eyes. She was suddenly aware of the motorcars twelve stories below, blasting their horns. She heard a guest keying into the suite across the way and the ding of the elevator car down the hall. She heard water running through the pipes and the creaking, settling of the building. There was so much noise inside her head she couldn't shut it out.

She clutched Arthur's letter to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. She should have known. He had probably been planning this ever since Paxton died, ever since he said he'd give her a divorce. She thought they'd gotten rid of all his guns after he went into the asylum. She was sure that they had. She tried to read his note again but couldn't make out the words through the blurring of her tears.

She started to telephone Marsh but remembered that he was in Europe. She slammed the base of the phone down hard and started to sob. After a while she composed herself enough to telephone Junior.

“I'll call Spencer,” he said. “We'll be on the next train. We'll make all the arrangements. You just sit tight.”

Delia was still numb on Monday morning when the boys arrived in New York. They found her in the suite, unable to bring herself to change hotels or even switch rooms. She was paralyzed and felt that leaving that room was in some way leaving Arthur behind and she wasn't ready to do that.

The first thing Spencer and Junior did was get Delia away from the Waldorf.

“We'll go over to the Carlton,” suggested Junior. “The change of scenery will do you good.”

Delia docilely did as they instructed. Having Junior and Spencer there afforded her the chance to give in to her sorrow and she sobbed in their arms, barely able to stand. After that, she let them take charge of matters. While she sat in the lounge with Junior, Spencer was at the front desk, on the telephone, making the arrangements to have Arthur's body sent back to Chicago.

“You can't blame yourself for this, Aunt Dell,” Junior said.

Delia just shook her head. How could she not blame herself? “I didn't know he was in such a state. I wish he would have talked
to me about it. Maybe I only saw what I wanted to. I was just so sure that he was ready to start a new life. But then he lost Paxton and . . .” She couldn't finish her thought and dropped her head to her hands.

Even after his death she wouldn't betray Arthur's confidence.