by Renée Rosen
“Plenty of merchandise inside, ladies,” he called out. “New shawls and silks just arrived this morning from New York and Paris.”
She watched him greet his customers as they crossed the threshold, and when their turn came, he looked at Delia and took her hand in his. “Miss Spencer,” he said. “What a lovely surprise. Welcome to Field, Leiter & Company. And who is this you have with you?” he asked.
After Delia introduced Mr. Field to her sister, he welcomed them both inside. “Please,” he said, “come have a look around. Stay as long as you like.”
When she and Abby entered the makeshift store, Delia was amazed by what she saw. It may have been a horse barn on the outside, but inside, it was a genuine dry goods store. Not as grand as the one that had burned down, but a real store nonetheless. Mirrors had been mounted on the whitewashed walls, and the floors were wide planks but sanded, so that the surface was smooth and even. The salesclerks stood eager and erect, the men in black suits, the women in dark dresses. The horse stalls had been converted into display counters, filled with bolts of fabric—brocades and tweeds, satins and merino. There were beautiful silk mantillas and velveteen bonnets, and next to that, rich lisle threads for embroidery, an assortment of cattle bone, jade and pearl buttons and other notions. There was a counter just for toilet waters, one for handkerchiefs and lace, another for hosiery and bloomers.
The sisters paused before a handsome display of inkwells, fountain pens and desk blotters. Then they moved on to another fabric stall. Delia felt the need to touch each item, run her fingertips over the different textures, the taffetas, velvets and satins. It was crowded inside with women entering through the doorway more quickly than others left out the exit. With the exception of the trains, this was the first sign of normal life she’d seen since the fire. It was uplifting and invigorating to be surrounded by people ready to get on with their lives.
Delia had been admiring an ivory-handled parasol when she looked back at Mr. Field still standing in the doorway greeting more arrivals. After nearly two weeks of despair and devastation—when even her own father admitted feeling broken and beaten up—this man was the one person she’d seen radiate hope and confidence. While everyone else doubted the city’s resilience, he was forging ahead. She found his optimism contagious. Apparently, so did the hundreds of other women who had gathered at the store. It was as if he was restoring their spirits, giving them a reason and a way to carry on.
Though she recalled that the night they met, Bertha said he was thirty-seven—twenty years her senior—Delia Spencer recognized that there was something rare, something extraordinary about Marshall Field.
CHAPTER FOUR
Delia welcomed the sound of hammers pounding, of saws slicing back and forth, their blades chewing through marble and granite. She took comfort in the workmen shouting from stepladders and rooftops as she made her way down Michigan Boulevard with Abby and her mother. It was December and the ground was a solid mass of frozen ash, covered in snow. And yet, over the past two months, even as winter set in, Delia watched with wonder as the city started to come back.
“Oh look,” her mother said now, pointing to the construction on a snowy lot, the site of their future home. “They’ve started on the chimneys.”
The three of them paused to look at the progress the builders had made. Stacks of masonry blocks and brick were scattered about, as the city had outlawed wooden construction right after the fire. The Spencers were rebuilding at Michigan and Sixteenth, near where they were staying with their relatives. It was to be a twelve-thousand-square-foot Romanesque-style home designed by an up-and-coming architect, Henry Hobson Richardson.
“I can’t wait until we’re back in a home of our own,” said Abby.
“And just think, now you’ll live even closer to Augustus,” said Delia.
As it turned out, Augustus’s family home on Wabash and Twenty-second Street had been spared in the fire. It had taken him about ten days but eventually he had located Abby. Delia could tell that the temporary separation and fear of losing each other had only intensified their budding love.
“Come along, girls,” said Mrs. Spencer. “We mustn’t be late.”
In an effort to return to some semblance of normalcy, Delia’s mother had been taking her daughters to the dressmaker for weekly consultations so that the Spencer girls could replace their lost wardrobes. The dressmaker, like so many other small businesses, had set up shop in a makeshift shack. When they arrived, she hustled Delia behind a flimsy drape that served as a changing room.
“Of course this is just temporary,” the dressmaker apologized for the umpteenth time while pinning the flouncing to Delia’s dress.
Delia looked in the mirror and frowned. “I’d prefer the trim a little higher on the hip,” she said.
Delia always involved herself in the dressmaking process. Weeks ago she had presented the seamstress with sketches illustrating how she wanted her evening, afternoon and even walking dresses to look. She’d even given her a design for a new skating outfit. As much as she had carefully chosen her designs and as talented as the dressmaker was, Delia knew that none of these new dresses would compare with the work of the Paris designers. But the Spencer girls’ annual autumn trip to Europe had been postponed because of the fire. Mrs. Spencer did not want to leave her husband, who had started running Hibbard & Spencer from William Hibbard’s home.
“And remember,” said Delia, “use the silver floss embroidery, not gold.” She caught herself in the mirror and felt a stab of regret. She didn’t like what she saw and it wasn’t the dress that she was unhappy with. It was her own image. How could she be concerned about things like embroidery and flounce when so many others had nothing at all?
Immediately after their visit to the dressmaker, Delia went to the First Presbyterian Church and signed up to help distribute warm clothing and food to those who had been left homeless.
“Are you certain you’re up to this?” asked the petite woman in the vestibule, folding blankets, rising on tiptoes, straining to reach the top. “You’re one of the Spencer girls, aren’t you?”
“But I want to help. I’ll do anything.” Delia stepped in, took the blanket from her and placed it on the pile.
The woman looked at her and smiled. “Very well, then,” she said with a nod. “You can fold those over there,” she said, pointing to a heap of dull, rough blankets the color of olives. “And when you’re done, we just got a new donation of shoes. They need to be sorted and arranged according to size.”
After that, Delia reported to the church seven days a week to help the fire victims. And oh, the things she saw! Children without warm clothing, the soles of their blistered feet bleeding and peeking out of their torn, tattered shoes. Men and women so beaten down and frail, their eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. Delia would stay at the church as long as she could, reading one last story to a child or rubbing an old woman’s tired shoulders with liniment.
Despite her efforts, Delia still felt guilty when she returned to her relatives’ home, knowing her aunt’s cook prepared their supper, the footman chopped wood for the fireplaces, and the maids made sure they had warm beds. How could Delia enjoy these comforts? Instead she lay awake at night, unable to escape the forlorn faces that haunted her memory come sunset.
• • •
After volunteering for two weeks straight, Delia took a day off and accompanied Abby and Augustus to the Palmers’ country home in Hyde Park. It was a lovely estate on a large plot of land with a fine stable and sprawling gardens out back. Inside, the house was beautifully decorated with a Mathieu Criaerd commode and several gilded wood fauteuils, which Delia recognized as the work of Jean-Jacques Pothier. Delia’s eye for design wasn’t limited to just fashion. No, she was equally interested in home furnishings. From the time she was a young girl, she had pored over her father’s back issues of Godey’s Magazine and Lady’s Book and devoured every is
sue of Harper’s, studying up on the latest designers.
That Sunday afternoon in December, Bertha hosted a small gathering that included her neighbor Paxton Lowry and his friend Arthur Caton.
“Well, if it isn’t the Spencer girls,” said Arthur as soon as Delia and Abby entered the drawing room.
They had both known Arthur since childhood, but this was the first time Delia had seen him in years. He came from an extremely wealthy family; his father was one of the most powerful judges in Chicago. Like his father, Arthur had gone to law school out east and he had recently been admitted to the bar. He had moved back to Chicago just three days before the fire.
Paxton explained all this before saying, “Arthur comes back to Chicago and the whole town falls apart.”
Delia and the others watched Paxton in silence as he moved to the bar. No one could think of anything to say in response. “Oh, come now,” he said, plucking a bottle by its neck, letting it swing like a pendulum. “It was a joke.”
“Not a very funny one,” said Bertha.
“Forgive me.” Paxton hung his head in mock shame.
Delia found Paxton to be an unusually pretty man with long lashes, smooth, almost whiskerless skin and a tender smile. She watched as he refilled Potter’s glass and then Arthur’s. Augustus adjusted his monocle and waved his hand, saying he’d had enough. Delia and Abby were drinking tea along with Bertha.
While the men talked about the vigorous rebuilding of the city, Bertha and Abby summoned Delia into the hallway. “Well, what do you think of Arthur?” Bertha asked.
Delia peered back into the drawing room. Arthur was sitting casually in a cane-backed chair with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He was very stylish with sandy blond hair combed back off his forehead and rugged-looking muttonchops.
“I don’t remember him being so handsome,” Delia admitted.
“And don’t forget, he is a Caton, after all.” Abby said this as if no further explanation was needed. Of the two girls, Delia knew her sister was the one more concerned with appearances.
As they started back toward the drawing room, the butler appeared in the hallway announcing the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Field.
Mr. and Mrs.? Delia turned abruptly. She felt an unexpected burst of disappointment, as if an unspoken promise had been broken. She’d had no idea he was married. Even after all she’d read about him in the newspapers, she’d never seen even a single mention of his wife.
Mr. Field smiled generously when he saw her. “And so we meet again, Miss Spencer.”
“Very nice to see you, Mr. Field.”
“Please, call me Marshall. Or better yet, Marsh.”
“But only if you’ll call me Delia. Or better yet, Dell.”
They laughed in agreement. She couldn’t help but notice how easy and comfortable she felt talking to him. It was that way every time she saw him, like they were old friends rather than recent acquaintances.
Delia felt his wife’s eyes on her even before Bertha introduced them.
“This is Marshall’s wife, Nannie. She’s from Kentucky,” said Bertha. “Like my people.”
Nannie patted her hair in place as she said hello, her voice carrying a hint of Kentucky drawl. “Well, isn’t it nice to meet you.”
Delia found that she was every bit as intrigued by Nannie as she was with Marshall. Or maybe it was because she’d been so intrigued with Marshall that she took an interest in Nannie. She couldn’t help it. Delia was fascinated by the woman who had captured Marshall Field’s heart. She noticed every detail from Nannie’s brown hair, fastened in a Gordian knot, to her slender figure and the Japanese silk day dress with gathered flounces. She was very stylish, befitting the wife of the city’s most successful merchant. She was older, closer to Marshall’s age, probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Whereas Marshall moved about with ease, shaking hands with the men, Nannie held back. She appeared self-conscious one minute and then, as if to overcompensate for her insecurity, she would make bold gestures. She would interrupt conversations with non sequiturs or suddenly sit down at the piano to play a song that she clearly hadn’t mastered. Delia suspected that Nannie was who she was by virtue of marrying Marshall Field. It appeared that she’d been thrust into a world she’d hadn’t been groomed for.
“Nannie’s starting a new club for women,” said Bertha.
“Yes, you must come join us,” said Nannie. “We’re going to be discussing books and plays, and the opera. We’re going to recapture the culture that was lost in the fire. We’ve already received a shipment of books from England for the city’s library.”
“But we don’t have a city library,” said Delia.
“Well, we certainly have the start of one now,” said Nannie with a cunning smile.
The more they talked, the more Delia liked her. Nannie, for all her quirks, had spirit. She realized that must be what had attracted Marshall Field to her; she seemed to be a woman whose energy could match his.
Delia sipped tea from Bertha’s delicate jeweled cups while Potter told everybody of his plans for the new Palmer House Hotel.
“Construction is already well under way,” he said. “And this time, by golly, that hotel will be fireproof.”
“I no longer believe there is such a thing as a fireproof building,” said Augustus.
“Mark my words,” said Potter. “The Palmer House will be one hundred percent fireproof. In fact, I challenge any man who thinks he can set fire to one of my new guest rooms.”
“Let’s not encourage the guests to set fire to the rooms, dear,” said Bertha.
“You just better hope Mrs. O’Leary doesn’t check in,” said Nannie with a cackle.
“Oh, that poor woman,” said Abby. “Did you see the horrible things they wrote about her in the newspapers?”
“Poor woman?” Marshall sat up straighter. “Her cow nearly destroyed the entire city.”
“They don’t know for certain that her cow started it,” said Delia.
“If Marshall said her cow started it,” said Nannie, “then the cow started it. He’s never wrong. About anything.” She smiled, but Delia noticed that Marshall did not.
“Oh please,” said Arthur. “Is anyone besides me tired of talking about this fire? What on earth did we talk about before the fire? Can anyone remember?”
As the day wore on, the ladies exchanged their teacups for glasses of sherry and Delia found that while Marshall and Augustus were engrossed in conversation with Potter, Arthur and Paxton were quite attentive to her. Arthur was explaining that he’d just sold his telegraph company to an outfit called Western Union.
“It all sounds very exciting,” said Delia.
“Actually it’s rather boring,” said Arthur. “A lot of paper signing and handshaking.”
“Will you stay on with this Western Company?”
“Western Union,” Paxton corrected her.
“Western Union, then.” She smiled at Paxton and turned back to Arthur. “Will you be tending to their legal matters now as well?”
“Hopefully not. Really, Delia,” Arthur added with an inebriated grin, “I only did it for the money. I never have to work another day in my life because, you see, now I’m very rich.”
“You’ve always been very rich,” Paxton pointed out.
“Well, then, now I’m very, very rich.” Arthur looked at Delia and raised his glass.
Arthur and Paxton were laughing, but Delia felt a bit dismissed, as if he thought she wasn’t intelligent enough to follow the workings of a business deal when truly she wanted to hear more about it. That was the sort of thing she found interesting, but she wouldn’t ask again. She wouldn’t beg to be taken seriously.
Before the afternoon was over, Arthur had asked if he might call on Delia. She hesitated, still miffed over the way he’d disregarded her interest in his busi
ness affairs earlier. Yet she couldn’t ignore the fluttering in her body each time she looked at him. He was a very handsome man and he was certainly charming and educated.
“Oh please,” Paxton said finally. “Say yes or he’ll only keep asking.”
“Well, in that case,” said Delia, “I’d be delighted.”
CHAPTER FIVE
1876
Delia Spencer married Arthur Caton five years later. Arthur had courted her for nearly four of those five years before proposing. Delia hadn’t hesitated to say yes. No one made her laugh like Arthur and no one tried harder to make her happy. Whether they were sailing or horseback riding with Paxton or picnicking with Abby and Augustus, Arthur made her feel like the luckiest girl alive. He had become her favorite person to do anything with—it didn’t matter what as long as they were together. She couldn’t imagine finding a better man to spend her life with, to raise a family with and fulfill her role as a wife and mother.
Delia knew her wedding was the most anticipated social event of the season. And while Abby’s wedding to Augustus Eddy two years earlier had certainly been elaborate, it paled in comparison with Delia and Arthur’s.
When Delia arrived at the First Presbyterian Church, the paved sidewalks were lined with newspapermen and onlookers hoping for a glimpse of the fashionable bride. She wore a tulle and white satin gown by Worth and velvet ball slippers with jeweled embroidery. Her white Marseilles kid gloves were embellished with jewels as well. The press would later write that “she sparkled,” which pleased Delia and many others. She knew that her wedding was as much for the city as it was for her. Even before the fire, people in the East had looked down on Chicago as a filthy, backward prairie town; and the fire hadn’t made the situation any better. The people who lived in Chicago longed to be seen as residents of a refined and sophisticated city, and because of her position in society, Delia knew she had the ability to help enhance their reputation. And she did it with grace and pride.
