What the Lady Wants (8 page)

“W
hat brings you down here?” her father asked, as Delia followed him about the floor of Hibbard, Spencer & Company. The store had been rebuilt at Wabash and Lake, at the same location as before the fire.

“Can't a girl visit her father at work?” she said as they moved up and down the narrow aisles. Delia could stand in the center and touch both sides with her fingertips. They were in the sporting section, going from a heap of lawn tennis rackets to a pile of fishing poles and tackle boxes, to the mountain of golf clubs and croquet sets.

“You know I welcome your visits anytime.” Mr. Spencer picked up a baseball. “Look out, Dell—” He tossed the ball. “Here it comes.”

Delia caught it in one gloved hand. “You really should have had a son,” she said with a laugh, throwing it back.

“Nonsense, I'm counting on you for another grandson. And besides, you're still the best shortstop there is.” He smiled and set the ball down.

Delia changed the subject and got to the point of her visit. “You'll never guess where we were last night,” she said, hoping to sound casual.

“And where was that?”

“I attended a birthday party for Marshall Field.”

“Oh, no! Fraternizing with the competition again. There's been quite a bit of that lately, hasn't there been?” He shook his head in mock disapproval.

“After all, we are neighbors. And Arthur and I are awfully fond of Marshall. And Nannie, too. What do you make of him? Of Marshall?”

“Marshall and I have known each other for years. You know that. I see him all the time at the Chicago Club—he sits at the Millionaires' Table with Cyrus McCormick and Potter and the rest of them. I join them there occasionally, when I have the time.”

“Yes, but what's your impression of him?”

Her father paused and thought for a moment. “Decent enough fellow. A few of my clerks used to work for him, though they didn't much care for his style of management. He's got a reputation for being overly demanding. Tough to work for.
Persnickety
is the word I've heard associated with him. And cheap—at least when it comes to salaries.”

“Oh . . .” Delia felt a wave of disappointment.
Persnickety
and
cheap.
Not flattering words at all.

“But then again,” her father said, “I suppose that's what makes him so darn successful. When it comes to business, he's brilliant. That's why they call him the Merchant Prince.” He paused to straighten his cuff. “Why the sudden interest in Marshall Field?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said, waving his question away with a sweep of her hand. “As I said, we were socializing with him last night. Arthur is simply mad for Marshall, that's all.”

•   •   •

A
few days later Nannie invited Delia to tea. She arrived wearing a purple silk Madame Gabrielle dress with two gathered flounces and a rolling collar trimmed in velvet. But Nannie greeted her in a simple skirt with a
tablier
hanging down the front. At first Delia thought she had arrived too early, but it became apparent that Nannie had no intention of changing. Delia ended up feeling terribly overdressed and awkward.

Still, Nannie had a lovely table for two set near the window in the parlor. The cockatiels were perched in their golden cage, squawking and flapping their wings in a fury as Delia passed in front of them.

The weather had called for rain according to the newspapers, but so far it was a crisp day, not a cloud in the sky. The sunlight coming through the window shades landed directly in Delia's line of vision. She could see the bands of sunlight running across her arms and hands and no doubt across her face.

“Excuse me,” Delia said, squinting to block the sunlight, “but would it be possible to adjust the shades?”

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Nannie, toying with her earrings and then her brooch.

Delia waited patiently, but Nannie never called for her butler and made no attempt to adjust the shades herself. Instead, Nannie went on talking. “You and Arthur are such a fun couple,” she said. “Everyone always says you're the life of the party.”

“Well, Arthur's the instigator, you know.”

“That's not what I've heard. Weren't you the one who started everyone playing charades at the Swifts' dinner party?”

Delia cringed inwardly, remembering that night when
Arthur had behaved so badly. She was surprised that Nannie had mentioned this and told herself that she was just making conversation. Still, Delia tried to deflect the insinuation. “Who doesn't love charades?” Delia forced a smile as she gazed at the bands of sunlight slicing across her arms. A trickle of sweat rolled down her back. She was terribly distracted by the heat and the cockatiels, who were now squawking again, beating their wings madly.

“I've always been very fond of Arthur,” said Nannie. “Still, I'm sure you must find it lonely in that big house. No children. Just the two of you.”

“I manage to keep busy,” said Delia, as she lifted her teacup, telling herself it was an innocent observation, and that Nannie intended no malice by the comment.

“You know,” said Nannie, drumming her fingers along the tabletop, “Marshall is quite taken with you.”

“Oh?” Delia nearly spilled her tea.

“He adores Arthur as well,” she said. “But there's something about you he finds particularly fascinating. He's always admired high-spirited, vibrant women. His mother was like that. That's why he and Bertha get along so well.”

The light coming through the window went from blindingly bright to suddenly dark and ominous.

“Well, it looks as though it might rain after all, doesn't it?” said Delia, desperate to change the subject. The birds began acting up again and Delia shuddered.

“I gather you don't care for birds,” Nannie said, noticing Delia's reaction.

“They're very pretty,” she said. “But actually, I'm terrified of birds. Someone threw a dead bird in my lap when I was a child and I've been frightened of them ever since.”

“Well, then, there's only one way to get you over your fear.”
Nannie got up and went over to the cage, causing the birds to extend their wings and let out a string of more shrill calls.

“Really, I'm fine,” said Delia, watching in horror as Nannie laughed and threw open the cage, letting the birds loose.

They came flapping out into the room, soaring and swerving in opposite directions. Delia's heart raced as she ducked each time one of them flew overhead.

“There's nothing to be afraid of.” Nannie held out her hand and waited until one of the birds landed on her, its talons gripping onto her flesh. “Here now,” she said, walking toward Delia with the bird. “See how sweet he is?” She lowered her hand, letting the bird hop onto Delia's shoulder.

Delia let out a gasp and froze. She could hardly breathe. The bird's claws dug into her shoulder while the other bird perched on the base of the chandelier, eyeing her with a menacing gaze. Delia was too terrified to move.

“Oh, relax,” said Nannie with a laugh. “That way he won't bite.” She smiled at Delia, clearly enjoying this.

“Please.” Delia begged with her eyes. “Please get him off.”

“Oh, all right.” Nannie reached over for the cockatiel and with a gentle toss sent the bird soaring into the air. She went back around and sat down while the birds flew about the room. “Did I mention that I'm taking the children to Europe for the winter?”

“Oh?” Delia couldn't take her eyes off the birds, which were now perched along the windowsill, dangerously close to her.

“The Christmas season is so taxing on Marshall,” said Nannie. “He's down at the store from morning till night. If it were up to him, he'd just as soon sleep there. So I'm going to take the children and have a real holiday by ourselves.”

“What a shame that you can't all be together.” Delia flinched as the birds took off again, circling the chandelier.

“Junior's used to it. Ethel's too young to know the difference.”
Nannie paused, closed her eyes and began massaging her temples with her thumb and middle finger.

“Are you unwell?” Delia asked.

“Just this headache. I've had it for two days now. I was feverish all day yesterday and now I have a migraine. I can't seem to get rid of it.”

“Perhaps I should leave and let you lie down.”

“Would you mind, dear?”

Delia was only too happy to get away from the birds. There was a crack of lightning followed by the roar of thunder as Nannie rose from her chair and drifted out of the room without so much as a good-bye.

Delia raced out of the room, closing the doors behind her while the butler fetched her shawl. As he led her down the hallway, the front door opened and in walked Marshall, shaking the rain from his top hat and umbrella.

“It's pouring like the devil out there,” he said to his butler before looking up and noticing her. “Why, Delia”—his eyes grew wide—“what a wonderful surprise.”

She couldn't conceal her smile. It was ridiculous that she should be so happy to see him. Just one glimpse and she'd forgotten about the birds. “I was having tea with Nannie,” she said. “She wasn't feeling well and went to lie down. I was just leaving.”

Another crack of lightning lit up the foyer, followed a beat later by the thunder.

“Oh dear,” she said, “I was sure the weather report was wrong. I didn't even bring my parasol.”

“Don't you worry,” he said, opening his umbrella. “I'll walk you home.”

“Didn't anyone ever tell you it's bad luck to open an umbrella indoors?”

“Pfft.” He held the umbrella over her head as droplets of
rainwater ran off the edges and onto the floor. “I don't believe in silly superstitions. Don't tell me you do.”

“Guilty, I'm afraid. No shoes on the counter, no walking beneath ladders—I've always been that way.”

He smiled as if he found it refreshing, or perhaps just immature and foolish. She couldn't tell.

He looked out the window. “It seems to be letting up. Shall we make a run for it?”

“You don't need to walk me home. Really. It's just rain. I won't melt.”

“Nonsense. I insist.” He stepped out onto the porch and waited for her to join him beneath the umbrella.

Halfway around the block the rain started up again. They were walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder. She could feel the heat coming off his body, could smell the scent of his shaving soap along with the damp leaves and soaked grass. Maybe it was because of what Nannie had said to her—the sheer power of suggestion—but Delia felt as though she and Marshall were engaged in some illicit act. The rain was pelting the umbrella just as intensely as Delia's heart was beating. Neither one of them spoke; she found herself at a loss for words.

Marshall let the umbrella veer too far to the left, sending a trickle of rain down Delia's side. She reached up to center the umbrella and as her gloved fingers brushed against his hand, an unexpected jolt surged through her. They stopped walking for a moment, turned and looked into each other's eyes. Delia swallowed hard. Her fingers were still touching his. A crack of lightning lit up the sky and before the thunder struck, they'd started walking again. Faster this time.

When they reached her home, they stood beneath the front awning, looking at each other while rain trickled down the gabled rooftop.

“Thank you for walking me home,” she managed to say.

“My great pleasure.”

He was so close she could breathe him in, feeling her chest swell. His brilliant blue gray eyes never left hers. Something inside her, at her very center, responded to him against her will. His eyes dropped to her mouth and as he studied her lips she felt herself drifting closer and closer to him, as if pulled by an invisible string. Just when she was sure he was going to kiss her, the front door opened.

“Why, Marshall.” Arthur smiled and reached out his hand. “Good of you to see Dell home. I was getting worried and thought I might go fetch her myself. Come in, come in. Dry off and have a brandy with me.”

Marshall tried to beg off, but Arthur insisted. “You can't deny me the chance to beat you again at a game of chess, can you?”

While Marshall and Arthur went into the library to play chess, Delia slipped away and went up to her bedroom. She was flushed as she stood before her vanity, refusing to look herself in the eye. Nannie was her friend. Arthur was her husband. She pressed one hand to her damp forehead and the other to her heart, thinking,
What just happened out there?
She wasn't sure if she was frightened or excited, but she knew something had just started and that nothing would ever be the same.

“N
o, no! Stop it!” Delia screeched as Arthur clamped his hand over her mouth. She squirmed in every direction, trying to get away.

“Ssshh. You want the servants to hear you?”

Her sides were aching from laughing so hard.

He reached across the bed and tickled her again.

“No! Stop it!” Delia squealed, pulling away from him.

“Okay, all right.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Truce.”

The tears were oozing from her eyes as she giggled and rolled on top of him, their legs entangled. She sighed and smiled at him, letting down her guard just as Arthur reached up and tickled her ribs.

Delia shrieked and laughed again. “I beg of you, stop. Stop!”

“Okay. All right. I promise—no more.”

She watched him guardedly, and once she was certain that he meant it this time, she drew a deep breath and dropped her head to his shoulder. Her nightdress was hiked up to her waist, her hips were pressed hard into his and she felt the heat building inside her.

He'd come to her room earlier that night and climbed into her bed. After turning down the lamp, he pulled the bed linens up over their bodies and reached for her. She always felt the initial sting of him entering her, but then her body would relax and
make room for him. But just as she'd begun to relish the feel of him, the sense of fullness and completion, he was done. Usually, as soon as he finished, he'd put on his robe and be halfway down the hall before she'd even sat up. But that night he stayed in her bed afterward. They talked, they laughed, he found her ticklish spots—under her arm, the side of her ribs, the arch of her foot. Now that they were quieting down, she found herself wanting him again. Lifting her head, she looked into his brown eyes, leaned in and kissed him.

He returned the kiss, and her excitement spiked immediately. She was panting, her core filling with expectation when he reached up and cupped her face in his hands.

“It's getting late, my pet.” He scooted out from under her, peeled back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed.

“You don't have to go yet,” she said, rising to her knees, pressing herself against him with her arms wrapped about him from behind. “You could sleep in here tonight.”

“And keep you up with my snoring?” He undid her hands, stood up and reached for his robe hanging off the bedpost. “Get some sleep, Dell. It's late.” He turned back and kissed her on the lips. Then he left.

Afterward, Delia lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She placed her hands on her belly, wondering if maybe this was the night she would conceive. Her body was still longing for Arthur as she let
her hand drift down the slope of her stomach to the top of her coarse dark hairs. That night she let her fingers explore the parts of her that Arthur had never searched out.

•   •   •

D
elia woke early the next morning. And like all mornings after, she placed her hand on her stomach feeling for a difference, some indication. Her skin was warm, warmer than usual, and though she knew it was foolish, she told herself that it was a sign.

It wasn't quite seven o'clock when she eased out from under the covers and rang for Therese to help her dress before she headed downstairs. From the dining room she could tell the kitchen maid was hard at work. The room filled with the aroma of coffee brewing and the scent of pastries with cinnamon and sweet cocoa baking in the oven. The
Chicago Tribune
and the
Chicago Daily News
were folded neatly in front of Arthur's place setting. Williams, their butler, must have just pressed them, because she could feel the heat still on the pages when she reached for the
Tribune
.

She skimmed through the columns, reading about Rutherford B. Hayes's quest for the presidential nomination, a labor union rally and a man in Grand Rapids named Bissell who'd invented something called a carpet sweeper. Delia, who'd never beaten a rug in her life, couldn't imagine such a thing ever catching on. She turned the page and saw a large advertisement for Field, Leiter & Company.

Delia hadn't been down to Field, Leiter & Company in nearly two weeks, not since the day Marshall walked her home in the rain. Harriet Pullman and Annie Swift had invited her to join them that afternoon for shopping and Delia was debating whether to go. She was beginning to think that avoiding Marshall and his store was in and of itself an admission of guilt. After all, she
hadn't done anything wrong. She'd probably only imagined that he'd wanted to kiss her that day in the rain. For the umpteenth time she reminded herself that he was a married man. They were neighbors. They were friends. Just friends.

It was all so ridiculous. Delia made up her mind that she would indeed meet the others at Field, Leiter & Company that day. She would purchase the last of the decorating touches for her home so that she would be set to entertain in time for the winter season.

The footman brought out a plate of hot tarts served on Delia's Spode breakfast dishes. She liberally spread the sweet cream butter over the top of the steaming pastries and let the delicate layers melt in her mouth. The coffee was good and strong. While she continued reading the newspaper, Delia absentmindedly nibbled at the tarts until the plate was empty.

By the time she'd finished her coffee, it was going on nine o'clock and Arthur was still in bed and showing no signs of stirring. She took a fresh cup of coffee and went into the library to see if she needed anything at the store to finish the room.

It was a handsome room with an antique Robert Adam mahogany hutch in the corner and a wall of shelving devoted to Arthur's law books, their uniform gold-embossed lettering running down the spines. A spectacular tiger skin was splayed out in the center of the floor as a rug, its head and tail still attached. Arthur had shot the tiger while on safari with Paxton in Africa before they were married. At first the rug had frightened her. The eyes were so intense, the teeth so sharp and menacing, she'd nearly expected the beast to leap up from the floor. But over time she'd grown to admire its sheer ferocity. In fact, she liked it so much that she'd agreed to the bear rug that now lay in her parlor as well as the buffalo head mounted over the mantel in the drawing room.

Delia was making a mental note to pick up some lace doilies for the sideboard when Arthur appeared in the doorway, still in his bathrobe and slippers, his heels riding over the back edges.

“Good morning, my pet.” He came over and kissed her forehead. “You're up early.”

“Or perhaps
you're
getting up
late
?” She raised her cup as if making a toast.

“Well”—he lowered his voice—“someone kept me awake very late last night.”

She laughed, thinking of how much she'd enjoyed having him in her bed. “What are you going to do today?” she asked.

“I thought I'd go riding with Paxton.”

Arthur was an accomplished equestrian, having learned to ride almost as soon as he was able to walk. He kept a stable behind the house on Calumet for his six geldings and four mares. Downstate in Ottawa, he had a horse-breeding farm with two stallions and twenty mares that produced fifteen to twenty foals a year. The horse farm was adjacent to the Caton family's country estate, a Queen Anne–style mansion that was unquestionably the focal point of the countryside. Its many chimneys could be seen from every direction.

“Or on second thought,” said Arthur, “maybe I'll go to the Chicago Club instead. Pick up a hand of cards and visit with the fellows down there.”

The Chicago Club was exclusive: men only, and only very wealthy men at that. Marshall belonged there, as did Potter, Cyrus McCormick, George Pullman and even her father. Delia didn't say a word, but she desperately wanted to point out that he'd been to the club nearly every day that week. Instead he could have gone through the household expenses and seen to it that the servants were paid on time that week rather than having them come to her with their hands out. Arthur could have met with
Augustus, who had been asking for legal advice on a business matter. He could have been doing much more than spending his days drinking and playing cards at the Chicago Club.

Sometimes she wished he'd go back to work at the law firm, but she knew he never would. Between his windfall from Western Union coupled with his trust fund, Arthur Caton didn't have to work. He didn't want to work, either. And this bothered Delia. She was accustomed to men like her father who worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days and not just for the money. Hardly. Her father was wealthy enough to have retired when he was young. But he loved his work, and as far as she was concerned, hard work was what made a man a man. After all, Marshall Field didn't need to work, either.

Delia stopped herself. It wasn't fair to compare Arthur with men like her father and Marshall. Arthur had grown up in a family of privilege, whereas her father and Marshall had started with nothing. They had no choice but to work and work hard unless they wanted to starve in the streets. It was a way of life for them.

She remembered the stories her father told her about arriving in Chicago with just fifteen dollars in his pocket. And then there was Potter, who had opened his first Chicago business with a small loan he'd obtained from his father. Nannie had told Delia about Marshall growing up as a poor farm boy in Massachusetts and coming to town to make a name for himself. Delia found it all so inspiring. To think that these men had achieved so much, and out of nothing but their own determination to succeed. What she wouldn't give for the opportunities that men had, and yet her own husband wasn't even interested in trying to achieve something of his own. It bewildered her.

“Well,” she said, “I for one have a very busy day ahead of me. I'm heading down to State Street for a bit of shopping and then
I'm meeting your mother here later to walk her through the house.”

“Just as well then that I disappear for the day, isn't it?” He chuckled.

Delia patted the cushion next to her on the davenport. “Come. Sit next to me.”

After he sat down she rested her head on his shoulder and said, “I think last night may have been the night.”

His eyes opened wide. “Can you tell so soon?”

“Oh, I know I'm being silly, but I'm just so hopeful.” She looped her arm through his and repeated, “I'm just so very, very hopeful.”