What the Lady Wants (7 page)

For dessert, the footmen rolled out a grand cake standing four tiers high and lavishly decorated. Nannie led everyone in a round of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow”
while Marshall shook his hands, trying to wave off the attention. For someone who was such a showman in his place of business, Delia found him to be quiet and introverted in social situations. It was an interesting contradiction and it intrigued her.

Nannie stood at her husband's side with her fingertips on his shoulder. Her pose struck Delia as oddly possessive. After they sang, she said, “Happy birthday, dear. I can only hope that someone gives you a timepiece for a present so you won't be late next time we have company.”

Marshall smiled graciously, his hands raised in surrender as everyone laughed politely. But Delia saw something pass between Nannie and Marsh and realized it hadn't been a good-natured gibe.

“Well now,” said Bertha, “let's hear from the birthday boy.”

“Speech, speech,” said Potter, raising his champagne glass by its stem. “Come on, Marsh, let's hear it.”

But Marshall waved his hands in protest.

“Oh, please.” Bertha clapped her hands, setting her bracelets clanking. “Speech! Speech!”

“Go on, dear,” said Nannie. “Your guests are waiting for you. Again.”

Marshall shifted in his chair, stalling.

It was Delia who finally raised her glass and said, “On behalf of Mr. Field I would like to announce that all imported fabrics will be on sale tomorrow.”

The room erupted in laughter and Marshall covered his heart with his hand and bowed toward Delia in appreciation. An unexpected glow welled up inside her as she basked in his praise.

“Well done,” said Potter.

“Your wife has quite a wit,” George Pullman said to Arthur.

“That she does.” Arthur reached for Delia's hand. “Indeed she does.”

Mary Leiter turned to her husband, utterly confused and a bit miffed about it. “You didn't tell me there was a sale on fabrics tomorrow.”

Everyone looked at Mary Leiter and burst out laughing again.

A
fter they'd finished dinner, the men retreated to the library for their brandies and cigars, while the women retired to the parlor. Nannie had furnished the room extravagantly, in the style of Louis XVI. A gold birdcage stood in the corner, home to her two gray, yellow-faced cockatiels with matching orange blush spots near their eyes. Delia, who'd always been afraid of birds, sat as far away from them as possible in a black and gold chair with fluted legs and a pair of golden sphinxes for arms. She found it as unattractive as it was uncomfortable.

While sipping her sherry, Mary Leiter announced that her daughter was starting piano lessons. “She practices her scales morning, noon and night,” she laughed lightly. “I tell you, her piano playing is going to be the vein of my existence.”

No one bothered to correct her. They were all accustomed to Mary Leiter twisting up her words, coming out with a string of nonsensical statements that everyone politely ignored. After all, like Nannie, Mary was a simple woman whose husband had come into a great deal of money after establishing Field & Leiter. While the men seemed to have transitioned gracefully into their positions of power, their wives appeared to be struggling with their own elevated status. Especially Mary, who found herself ill equipped to mix with high society. She wore couture by designers whose names she could not pronounce and sat through operas
without grasping a single word. But she was kind, so everyone overlooked her naïveté and malapropisms.

Harriet Pullman continued the conversation, talking above the squawking of the birds, about her twin boys and then her two older daughters. Bertha chimed in about her sons and Sybil Perkins spoke at length about her daughters. After Nannie told stories about Ethel and Junior she asked Abby about Spencer.

“I can hardly believe he's almost three years old,” said Abby.

Delia folded her arms and pressed her ankles and knees tightly together. It was painfully obvious that she was the only one in the room with nothing to contribute to a conversation about children.

Harriet turned to her. “You know, dear, you're really still a newlywed. I'm sure that a year from now, you'll be raising a family, too.”

“Oh, of course she will,” insisted Abby while the cockatiels batted their wings.

“We do hope to start a family soon,” Delia said as she leaned her shoulder blades against the chair. She and Arthur had been married eight months and so far nothing. Arthur was the only Caton son, and the judge and Mrs. Caton were eager for an heir to carry on the family name. Delia's own mother had mentioned countless times that she wanted more grandchildren. But no one wanted Delia to have a child more than Delia. If only Arthur
would come to the marriage bed more often, she knew they would stand a better chance of becoming pregnant. Not a month had passed that she hadn't cried at the first sign of her own blood.

While the women carried on, Delia excused herself and slipped out of the parlor. She was light-headed and rested her forehead against the wainscoting in the hallway, drawing deep breaths. Maybe something she'd eaten hadn't agreed with her or maybe she was just overwhelmed by the talk of children. With each new breath she felt the stabbing jab of her corset digging into her rib cage.

While standing there she overheard the men down the hall in the library. It sounded like they were having some sort of a gentlemanly disagreement, with Levi Leiter and Marshall at its center. Though Levi and Marshall were successful business partners, Delia had heard that the two rarely saw eye to eye on most matters. Apparently that night was no exception. What surprised her, though, was that they were willing to debate their business disputes openly in front of their friends.

“This is where you and I differ,” she heard Levi saying. “Wholesale is more lucrative and yet, you insist on focusing on retail. Retail is nothing but a bunch of women with too much time on their hands.”

“Time. And money,” she heard Potter remind him.

“Especially when it comes to our wives,” George Pullman added with a laugh.

Marshall spoke over the others. “That's precisely why I want to continue importing merchandise from Europe. I've always said, ‘Give the lady what she wants.'”

“And I'm sick of hearing it. That's nonsense,” said Levi. “Women aren't all that particular. They'll purchase whatever we offer them.”

The conversation drifted on, but Delia lost track of it as
another wave of vertigo came on. She flattened her hands against the wall and studied the swirling grains in the wainscoting, trying not to faint. She felt like she'd been there for hours when she heard a voice calling from behind.

“Are you unwell?”

Delia turned with a start and there was Marshall.

“My goodness, you're white as a sheet,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back and steering her into the library. “Get me a glass of water,” he called to his footman.

Arthur rushed to her side. “Dell, what's wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said. “I'm just a little light-headed is all. I'll be fine.”

The men turned and stared at her, unaccustomed to having a lady in their company while enjoying their cigars and after-dinner drinks. Levi Leiter and George Pullman nearly dropped their glasses and Potter just about choked on his brandy. Augustus adjusted his monocle, while Lionel Perkins flicked his cigar and missed the ashtray by an inch.

“Please, gentlemen,” she said, breathing in their smoke. “Forgive me for intruding. I'll just be a moment.”

Arthur helped her over to the settee. “Just rest here until it passes, Dell.”

She took the glass of water from the servant. It felt ridiculously heavy in her hand. After a few sips she felt better, and the light-headedness subsided, but still she couldn't bring herself to return to the parlor. She couldn't bear listening to the other women going on about their children. And besides, what the men were saying intrigued her, so she stayed in the library, feigning illness. Before long, the men turned away from her and resumed their conversation.

“. . . You give these female customers far too much credit,”
Levi insisted. “Most of them wouldn't know a piece of Pekin wool from a bolt of tweed.”

Delia couldn't help but laugh.

“Excuse me?” Levi gave her a sharp look.

“Oh, surely you don't believe that, Mr. Leiter.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than she regretted saying them.

Arthur reached for her hand and gave her a warning squeeze. “You'll have to forgive Delia,” he said with a chuckle. “I'm afraid my wife gets a bit passionate when it comes to ladies' fashions.” He laughed again.

“No. No,” said Marshall, leaning forward. “I'd very much like to hear what she has to say. Delia,” he said, addressing her directly, “you certainly represent the modern woman. And, Levi, I'm sorry, but the modern woman is precisely our customer. Please”—he gestured to her—“go on.”

“Well . . .” Delia cleared her throat and began. “For one thing, I believe that fashion is essential to a lady. Particularly a lady of means. It's an expression, a form of art if it's done properly. Mr. Leiter, I think you'd be surprised by how astute most women are when it comes to fashion.”

“That is precisely my point,” said Marshall.

Delia eased back in her seat and smiled.

Levi drew hard on his cigar. He was a big barrel-chested man with a reddish beard and dark hair combed straight down onto his wide forehead. When he spoke, he always sounded as if he had a head cold. “I tell you,” he said to Marshall, “you're wasting your time and our money by catering to these women.” He gazed over at Delia, hands raised in apology. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken.” She smiled. “But I do think Marshall here raises an interesting point.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, let's face it,” she said, “for any woman of means, the
dry goods store is our gathering place. If we're not attending luncheons or women's meetings, we're at the dry goods stores. We go in the morning and we're there until we either need to powder our noses or we're about to drop from hunger.”

The men laughed.

“I'm quite serious. Where else are we women going to go? Of course we can visit a tearoom or attend our meetings at one another's houses, but we're not allowed in your clubs and we can't very well congregate in saloons, now, can we? More to the point, we don't have a place of business to go to. Keeping up with the latest fashions, and making sure you men live in the finest homes—those are the very things that have become our jobs. And we tend to our business at the dry goods stores.”

“Exactly,” said Marshall. “Levi, are you hearing what this young lady is saying?”

Delia smiled, practically beaming. She'd never felt so validated. She was filled with a sense of acceptance and pride. She had a mind to fire up a cigar right along with them.

Still, Levi wouldn't let the subject go, so the discussion escalated with both men nearly shouting. Levi started pounding his fist against the arm of his chair and he went red in the face as a vein in the center of his forehead stood out, pulsing. “Marshall Field, you are no businessman.” Levi slapped his glass down on the table.

The conversation continued and after finishing their cigars, they decided to rejoin the women in the parlor. When Delia walked in with the men, the wives rose from their chairs. Abby and Bertha stayed back while the others stood side by side with their arms crossed over their chests, forming a wall of disapproval. The cockatiels were flapping their wings like mad, chattering away in the corner.

“There you are,” Nannie said to Delia in a cool even tone. “We were wondering where you'd wandered off to.”

“I'm afraid I was a bit light-headed. The men brought me some water and I waited with them in the library until it passed.”

“Thank goodness you're feeling better,” said Nannie. Her lips were curved upward in a forced smile.

When the women and men began chatting again, Bertha pulled Delia aside and lowered her voice. “As your friend, I'm telling you to watch your step. It's no secret that the Fields are unhappy, and you don't want to cross Nannie.”

Delia glanced at her hostess and then back at Bertha. “What are you talking about?”

“After you left the parlor, some of the women were saying that you were coming across as being awfully
familiar
with Marshall.”

“That's ridiculous—”

“I'm telling you as your friend,” said Bertha. “You don't want to cross Nannie.”

•   •   •

L
ater that night after Delia undressed and dismissed Therese for the evening, she ran her fingers over the tender indents along her rib cage and waist caused by the boning of her corset. Her unpinned hair hung down in glossy brown ringlets caressing the bare skin at the center of her back.

She eased into her wrapper and went to the door, pressing her ear up close, listening, hoping to hear the sound of Arthur's footsteps making their way down the hall. All was quiet. She thought about going to his room, but it was never good when she did the approaching. She knew it had to be his idea.

She went to her dressing table and brushed out her hair. As she worked through a snarl, she tried to remember the last time
she and Arthur had had relations. It had been at least a month and she was at a loss as to why. She couldn't force her husband to try more often. Perhaps this was normal for a man and wife. Maybe the problem was her and she should have been able to conceive with the least amount of effort. But still she so desperately wanted a child, especially after listening to the women talking about their children that night.

She set down her paddle brush and went over to the windows. Looking out across the backyard, she could see the lamps still on inside the Field mansion. Bertha's warning came back to her as she gripped onto the velvet drapery and wondered if maybe she
had
been too familiar with Marshall. She admitted she was fond of him and yes, they did seem to share many of the same interests. Oh, but it was absurd. After all, he was married to her friend and far too old for her. Besides, she was a married woman herself.

She drew the drapes closed and turned down the lamp on her side table, watching the pink globe darken as the wick went dead.