What the Lady Wants (9 page)

L
ater that afternoon, Arthur and his coachman drove Delia downtown in his four-horse tallyho, which drew attention from nearly everyone they passed. Arthur was known about town for his four black stallions and black carriage with gold trim. He loved to ride up on the box with his coachman just so he could see all the admirers.

After being let off at Washington and State, Delia had to wait several minutes for a break in the trail of omnibuses, wagons and hacks barreling past before she could cross the street. And even then, she had to rush before the next cavalcade raced through. The fall winds blew in from the west, whirling a pile of dead leaves in a circle above the sidewalk. Chisels and hammers pounded all around her as more buildings—theaters and restaurants and shops—went up. Delia joined the wash of pedestrians weaving in and out of the jammed crosswalks. Pushcarts lined both sides of the street, tended by men in soft caps waving to her and the other passersby, peddling their wares, everything from caramels and sweetmeats to cabbages and tomatoes.

The city's resilience struck Delia each time she visited State Street. It had been five years since the Great Fire and in that time the heart of Chicago had been rebuilt, and then some. All the buildings that Delia remembered being charred to the ground had been resurrected, and in grander style than ever before.

As promised, Potter had rebuilt the Palmer House to even greater splendor. With silver dollars tiled into the floor, marble soap dishes and fresh-cut flowers in the guest rooms, Potter Palmer had created the most luxurious hotel in the country.

Field, Leiter & Company was back stronger than ever, too. Having left the horse barn on Twentieth, they'd moved to the Singer Sewing Company Building at their old Washington and State Street location.

Delia stepped inside, leaving the chill behind her. It was a large building with two elevators and a wide staircase that led to the upper four floors. All was very sleek and elegant inside with long maple display counters that ran the length of the main floor. There was a flurry of activity as clerks feather dusted their merchandise while cashboys made their rounds to the counters, picking up bills and dropping off change. The customers were mostly women, all of them elegantly dressed. They wore fashionable riding habits, street suits with formfitting bodices, stylish hats with clusters of plumes sprouting out the tops.

Delia spotted Annie Swift's white blond ringlets. She stood with Harriet Pullman and Sybil Perkins before a satchel display. Delia was disappointed to see Sybil there, but with no women's meetings scheduled that day, where else would Sybil be on a free afternoon other than at Field, Leiter & Company?

As Delia greeted the women, she admired the needlepointed
evening bags from Vienna and beaded faille styles from France. Annie was commenting on a velvet swag design from Italy when they all heard someone shouting, “Out! Out! Get out of my store!” Delia turned and saw Levi Leiter flailing his arms at a bewildered man. “I don't care how much money you have,” Levi was saying. “Put those sleeve garters down this instant.” The women watched as Levi chased the man out of the front door.

It wasn't the first time he'd done something like that. Levi was known for chastising customers he didn't like, so Delia and the others simply pushed onward through the store as if the outburst had never happened. They stopped at a counter of tonics and salves, including magnolia balms and remedies that promised to remove warts and unsightly blemishes, while others guaranteed to restore men's hair or make a woman's wrinkles vanish. Delia breathed in the scent of lilac, rose and lily toilet waters wafting from a nearby display.

While the others stood around discussing an upcoming charity ball, Delia drifted down the center aisle, pausing over a display of delicate lace handkerchiefs from France. At the next counter, she picked up a bar of tonquin musk soap and inhaled deeply, relishing the subtle spicy fragrance. As she set the soap down, another display captured her attention, an array of beautiful silk shawls with crystal beading.

She was running her hands along the fine fabric when a deep voice from behind said, “I don't think orange is your color.”

Delia turned and nearly dropped the shawl. “Marshall!” She felt an unexpected rush course through her body. “Aren't you supposed to talk women
into
buying things?”

“I'll never lie to a lady.” He smiled with an open hand splayed over his heart. The other hand with his crooked finger was stationed in his pocket, almost as if he was hiding it. “Now this blue right here,” he said, reaching for a moiré shawl. “This is a much
better choice for you. They call it verdigris. It brings out the color of your eyes.”

“My eyes are brown,” she said with a laugh.

“Then would you believe that the color complements your fair complexion?”

“Now that, Mr. Field, I will accept.” She laughed again.

“Do you have a moment? There's some items that I'd like to get your opinion on.”

This time it was Delia who placed an open hand over her heart. “You, the Merchant Prince, are seeking
my
opinion?”

“Mrs. Caton, with all due respect, when it comes to ladies' fashions, there is no one whose opinion I value more.”

Delia took in his compliment, feeling it spread throughout her chest and limbs, making her cheeks flush. “Well, in that case, Mr. Field, I'm all yours.”

She was laughing when she glanced over and noticed Harriet, Annie and Sybil watching her. Sybil gave her a long, puzzled look that made Delia uncomfortable, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. Harriet turned away and soon after, Annie did the same. Delia knew she should rejoin them, but Marshall wanted to show her some things, and besides, he'd said that he needed her opinion. That was too great a request to turn away from.

He guided her with his hand behind the small of her back, walking her down the aisle. Stopping before a millinery display, he rotated one of the hats. “Remember,” he said to the shopgirl, “feathers and enhancements face out.”

The young clerk apologized, looking as though she'd committed a grave mistake. Marshall moved on with Delia at his side. She couldn't help but notice the way the salesclerks stood at attention when he passed by, nearly holding their breath. Delia
remembered her father calling him “persnickety” and “tough to work for.”

Marshall walked her into the back storage room where wooden crates, just off the freighters and trains, were stacked floor to ceiling, stenciled with thick black lettering on the sides:
PARIS, MADRID, VENICE
. Half a dozen men checked inventory lists as they unpacked the items.

Grabbing a long flat rod, Marshall began prying open a wooden crate. She observed the way his thick hands wedged the lid open. Sensing that he was a perfectionist, she imagined that one crooked finger must have seemed like an immense flaw to him, which probably explained why he kept it in his pocket whenever possible.

As he opened the first crate, Delia's pulse took off. She was getting a private preview of the latest styles. There were sable-trimmed cloaks imported from Spain, Persian paisley shawls with fringe, satin underskirts and silk hosiery from Italy. Delia was fascinated. Of everything he showed her, there was only one item—a Dolly Varden bonnet—that didn't impress her.

“I think the lace
and
the crystals are too much,” she said.

“Hmmm.” He held the bonnet, tilting it to the side. “I was wondering that myself. I asked a couple of the shopgirls for their opinions, but none of them gave me a straight answer. They were just waiting to see what I thought. Why can't more women just speak their minds?”

“Is that really what you want women to do?”

“As long as they agree with me.” He laughed and called over to his office boy. “Send the Dolly Vardens back.”

Delia stood back in amazement. She'd never felt so important. This was a man who was respected by all for his tastes and here he had followed her advice. She realized she'd never really
been taken seriously—listened to—and by a man she respected to this extent. A burst of confidence awakened inside her. She held her shoulders back, standing proud. It was as if Marshall had shone a light on her, allowing her to see her true self.

Marshall turned again to the boy. “And use Burlington & Quincy this time. They're less expensive than Chicago & North Western.”

“Yes, sir.” His office boy jumped to attention and began at once to seal up the crate.

“You're very frugal,” commented Delia.

Marshall looked at her, amused. “And is that a
bad
thing?”

“Not at all. I'm just making an observation.” She noticed his office boy trying to suppress a smile as she spoke.

“I'm frugal whenever it makes sense to be frugal. That doesn't mean I won't spend like the devil when something strikes me.”

They went on talking and looking at merchandise. Delia traced her fingers along the different silks and lace as she asked about Nannie and the children.

“They're in Europe.”

“Already? I thought they weren't leaving until the holidays.”

“So did I, but apparently Nannie changed her mind. They just left yesterday, in fact.”

“What a shame.”

“It's better for her. She suffers from migraines, upper respiratory infections and just about any other ailment you can think of.”

“Isn't there anything that can help her?”

“I've already taken her to half a dozen doctors. They haven't got any answers other than to give her laudanum. She claims the air in Europe is better for her condition. So off she goes.” Marshall looked at her and his smile vanished.

She couldn't read the expression on his face and assumed he
was brokenhearted over Nannie's chronic illnesses. She found his loyalty to his ailing wife just one more of his admirable traits.

Realizing she'd been staring at him, she nervously dusted off her hands. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's getting late. I need to be heading home now.” It was going on three o'clock and no doubt her mother-in-law would be waiting for her.

“It gets lonely in that big house with just the servants,” he said. “Perhaps you and Arthur would care to join me for dinner sometime?”

“That would be lovely.” She was still dusting off her hands as she looked at him. “I know Arthur would enjoy that very much.”

He gave her a penetrating look with those blue gray eyes, and she felt that same pull toward him that she'd felt that day on her porch in the rain. She backed away from him. She had to.

•   •   •

O
n her way home Delia tried to conjure up excuses for keeping her mother-in-law waiting.
She'd run into the girls from the Fortnightly Club . . . She'd been tied up in traffic . . . She'd been too busy shopping . . .
In truth, she had been so swept up with Marshall that she'd forgotten to even look for the items she'd gone there to purchase.

Though she knew she'd catch her mother-in-law's wrath for being late, Delia had no regrets. Marshall made her feel valued and useful. He took her opinions seriously and this feeling of being respected by a man like Marshall Field was worth any reprimand awaiting her.

For the first time since she'd met Mrs. John D. Caton, she didn't care what her mother-in-law thought of her. Delia realized it didn't matter how she decorated her house, which social engagements she attended or committees she chaired, because as long as she didn't produce an heir, and preferably a son, Delia knew there was no pleasing Arthur's mother. And yet even if she
did bring a male heir to their family, Delia supposed she'd be regarded only as the custodian.

When she arrived home, her mother-in-law wasn't waiting for her.

“You've been spared,” said Arthur. “Mother isn't coming today.”

“Oh.” Delia walked into the library and set her satchel down on the chair in the corner. “I'm sorry to hear that.” She actually was a bit disappointed that she wouldn't be able to test her newfound indifference on her mother-in-law.

“I sent her home.” His voice was flat. He was sitting on the sofa, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair in a rumpled mess. She saw the opened bottle of bourbon in front of him on the table.

“You're drunk? Already?”

“Possibly. And please don't start scolding me again about my drinking. I've had one hell of a day.”

She inched closer to his side. “What's the matter? What's wrong?” She reached for his forehead, feeling for fever as he pulled away from her.

He looked miserable as he refilled his glass.

She paused for a moment, listening to the ice crackling, breaking down as the bourbon hit it. “Please, tell me what's wrong?”

“It's Paxton,” he said, taking a long sip. “He's decided to move back to New York. Apparently he's got some girl there.”

“Oh.” Delia nearly laughed. “You know how fickle Paxton is. He'll be back.”

“You don't understand.” Arthur set down his glass hard. “He's my best friend and he's leaving.”

“You still have me. Aren't I your best friend?” She smiled, but Arthur just gave her a long, blank stare that she couldn't
decipher. She felt the sting of rejection as he drained his glass, got up and walked out of the room.

C
andlelight glinted off the blue topaz diamond on Delia's finger as well as the crystal goblets and sterling silverware. She was dining at the elegant Kinsley's on Washington between State and Dearborn. Arthur was on her left and Marsh—as they'd taken to calling him—sat to her right. Their waiter had just opened their third bottle of wine.

In the past few weeks Delia, Arthur and Marsh had spent a good deal of time together. Delia adored Marsh and told herself it was perfectly fine as long as Arthur was with them. Besides, it was Arthur who sought out Marsh's company even more than she did, especially now that Paxton had moved back to New York.

It was at Arthur's insistence that Marsh join them for a play the week before, followed by a visit to Wallach's down on LaSalle and Erie for hot toddies. The previous Sunday, Marsh had come over to the Catons', and he and Arthur played chess while Delia
curled up on the settee with her sketch pad. At first she'd drawn the two of them, deep in concentration, hovering over their respective sides of the chessboard. But then it was Marsh that she sketched, focusing on his classic features, his straight nose and narrow chin, the strong line of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes, the fullness of his mustache. With the tip of her finger, she blended the harsh charcoaled edge of his mouth, blurring the line between fact and fantasy as she caressed his lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Catching herself in this reverie, she set her pencil down and tore up the sketch.

After that, she'd sheepishly excused herself and went into her room, feigning sleep until she'd heard Marsh leave. Later that night, she was so racked by guilt she hardly slept at all. All she could think was that her thoughts had betrayed Arthur and Nannie, too.

In the morning, though, her guilt dissipated. By noon she forgave herself, taking comfort in the fact that she hadn't actually done anything wrong. She hadn't done anything at all; she had just been fantasizing. She was still reminding herself of this the night at Kinsley's.

“So I've been thinking about this horse-breeding business of yours,” Marsh said to Arthur.

“Actually, it's not a business. Really just a hobby,” said Arthur, as he refilled everyone's wineglass.

“But why not expand your operations? Make something of it,” said Marsh.

“Why would I do that? I don't need the money.”

“It's not about the money. You do it because you can. It's about making your mark. Leaving something behind that your children and grandchildren will carry on. That's why we get up every morning and do what we do. We're the backbone of this country. Just think about all the people you could put to work.”

Arthur looked at him, confused, but Delia knew exactly what Marsh was saying and it made her blood pulse a bit faster.

“Think about it for a minute,” said Marsh. “Whether it's a city horse or a country horse, even a trotting horse, those animals keep a lot of people employed. You have harness makers, carriage makers, blacksmiths, stable hands, coachmen.”

“And don't forget there's uniforms for the coachmen, their driving gloves and such,” said Delia.

“Exactly,” Marsh agreed, thumping the table. “Expand your operations and you'll join the ranks of the men who helped build this city and this country.”

Delia marveled at how Marsh's mind worked. He was a visionary and it was his brilliant ideas that separated him from other merchants, from other men. She only hoped that Arthur was taking it all in.

“You certainly have the land to expand,” Delia said to Arthur.

“I've never thought about turning it into a
business
,” said Arthur. The word came out as if coated in something bitter. He lifted his wineglass and shrugged. “I just like breeding horses.”

“I think it could be a wonderful opportunity,” said Delia, reaching for Arthur's hand, squeezing it tightly.

When they got home that night, Arthur poured himself a brandy and followed Delia upstairs to her bedroom. “It's certainly an interesting prospect,” he admitted. “But I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Why not ask Marsh?” Delia was already in bed, hugging her arms about her knees. “I'm certain he would be willing to advise you.”

“He's really quite remarkable,” said Arthur, reaching for his brandy. “The more time we spend with him, the more I realize that.” He took a sip and continued. “Maybe with his help I could make a go of this. And then what would my father say?”

“You'll show him.” Delia laughed. There's nothing she would have liked better. Judge Caton was a demanding man and severely critical of his son, calling him lazy and spoiled, neither of which Delia could deny. But she believed in Arthur. All he needed was some encouragement, some guidance, and Marsh was the perfect person to do just that.

Arthur set his glass down and lay beside Delia on her bed. “I think I could learn a great deal from Marsh. Certainly more from him than I ever learned from my father.”

“I was just thinking that very thing.” Delia scooted closer to Arthur and rested her head on his shoulder. “There's a chill in here,” she said. “Why don't you get under the covers.”

“Marsh is very wise. Don't you get that impression?” He stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “You know, the more time we spend with him, the more I like him. He's really quite remarkable,” he said again.

She smiled, realizing that Arthur was repeating himself, which was what he did whenever he drank too much. But just the same she was thrilled that Arthur saw what she saw in Marshall Field. The fact that Arthur admired him as much as she did made her feel less guilty about her attraction to him. It was as if this lure toward Marsh was something that she and Arthur shared together. In their own ways, she realized they were both falling a little bit in love with him.

Arthur reached for his glass and balanced it on his chest. “I think I'll make some notes and see if I can discuss them with Marsh.”

“That's a wonderful idea.”

Arthur nodded and set his empty brandy glass on the night table and sat up.

“Where are you going?” Delia felt a jolt, a tug at her heart.

“To write down my notes.”

“Now?”

“Marsh has me inspired. I don't want to lose any of these ideas.”

Delia pulled the covers up over her shoulders and slouched back down. She could hardly protest. She was pleased that Arthur was finally motivated to do something. When he kissed her on the forehead, she willed herself not to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him back into her bed. She turned and looked at the indentation his head had left on the pillow.

•   •   •

D
elia sat in the library, studying her social calendar and watching the snow fall. It was early December and icicles hung down from the mullions along the window frames. Several weeks had passed since Marsh suggested Arthur start his horse-breeding business. As far as she knew, Arthur hadn't done a thing about it. He wouldn't even show her his ideas when she asked, making her think that he'd never bothered to write them down in the first place.

Delia glanced again at her calendar. She had a full schedule. There was a Fortnightly Club meeting and Frances Glessner, a leading socialite, had invited her over for a reading group she was starting. A lover of books, Delia was especially looking forward to that gathering. She was also having tea with Bertha one day and lunch with Annie Swift the next. There was a charity ball that weekend, along with a hospital dedication ceremony Sunday afternoon. Because the judge had donated fifteen thousand dollars to the project, the whole family was required to attend. Just thinking about it and all her other social obligations left her exhausted. She closed her calendar and rubbed her temples. As she stood up from her desk, a dull ache spread across her lower back. Her head throbbed and her stomach knotted up with the first sign of her monthly cramps.

She called to Therese for a hot water bottle. She didn't need to bother checking the date or counting the days. She already knew that another month had come and gone. Once more she had failed to conceive. Delia went upstairs, stepped out of her dress and loosened her corset. She no longer cried at the sign of her monthlies. She was used to it and had come to expect the disappointment.

In just her chemise and drawers she stood near her bedroom windows looking out across the way at the Field mansion. It was daylight, so the lamps weren't on yet, but she could see people milling about inside, probably the servants. Delia felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she pulled the drapes shut.

She went over to the bed and rolled onto her side, curling her body around the warmth of the hot water bottle. If she wasn't meant to have children, then why was she here? What purpose did God have for her?

Oh, if only she and Arthur could have children—even one child—all this nonsense with Marsh, this infatuation with him would go away.

She dozed off and when she got up she found Arthur hovering in the doorway.

“I just got back from lunching with Marsh. Therese said you weren't feeling well. I came up to check on you.” He went over and sat next to her on the side of the bed, his hand gently rubbing circles along her back. “What's wrong? Is it your head? Do you feel feverish? Tell me what it is, my pet.”

With her back toward him, she said, “Another month. I've failed you, again.”

He leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. “You haven't failed me, Dell.”

She rolled onto her back and reached up to stroke his face. “I was thinking maybe we need to try harder. Try more often,” she
said. It was a subject she rarely broached, but she was desperate. It had been nearly three weeks since he'd touched her.

“Who's to say? Some things can't be forced.”

“But I do think we need to make more of an effort.”

“Relax,” he said with a soft smile. “You need to relax and it will happen.” He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off before he stretched out on the bed beside her. “There, there.” He yawned as he placed her head on his shoulder.

It took all her will to lie there and let him hold her. Delia needed him to say he'd try harder, too. How was she ever to become pregnant if they didn't try more often? She watched the shadows growing longer on the wall as they lay there in silence.

After a while, Arthur yawned and said, “I do have something that I think will lift your spirits.”

“Oh?” She glanced up at him, thinking he was finally doing something about the horse farm.

“I was thinking it might be nice to build a solarium out back. I spoke with Marsh about it and he's recommended an excellent architect. Solon Beman—he's the one who did Pullman's conservatory.” Arthur yawned again. “I have a meeting set with him and I think we can break ground on it this summer.”

“Won't you be busy with the horse farm business all summer?” She waited, and when he didn't answer, she gazed up at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. It was three in the afternoon and he had fallen asleep.