by Renée Rosen
Following the ceremony, the new Mr. and Mrs. Caton boarded Arthur’s elegant coach drawn by four black stallions and made their way through streets packed with cheering, waving admirers. Delia had never been happier. Her handsome, wealthy groom was every girl’s envy. He was taking her to Europe for their honeymoon and the two were eager to start a family right away. Everything seemed perfect.
Their reception was held at the Spencers’ home on Sixteenth and Michigan, a house filled with multiple archways and elaborate stonework. Delia and Arthur took their places in the receiving line along with the other Spencers and the Catons. Delia knew her father-in-law had prominence with local politicians and she realized that by virtue of this marriage, her own social status had been raised, but it was overwhelming. She had already greeted Congressman Wentworth and a group of city officials and was relieved when she saw Bertha and Potter making their way through the line. At last people she knew.
While she was chatting with Bertha, Delia’s new mother-in-law appeared at her side.
“Delia, darling,” she said in a discreet whisper, “you can talk with Bertha later. General Sheridan and his wife are waiting.”
Delia felt her shoulders tense up the way they always did whenever Mrs. Caton spoke to her. “Of course, Mrs. Caton. I was just—”
“Delia—” Mrs. Caton raised her voice along with an eyebrow. “The Sheridans. Please.”
From the very beginning Delia had tried to ingratiate herself to Arthur’s mother, but her efforts had proved fruitless. She remembered the first time Arthur introduced the two of them. Mrs. Caton had asked so many questions that day Delia would have thought she was the judge in the family: How many languages do you speak? What is your favorite opera? Your favorite play? With each answer, Mrs. Caton pursed her lips and nodded. But as soon as Delia and Arthur became engaged, the competition began. Delia quickly realized that Mrs. John D. Caton was the most important woman in her son’s life and she planned to remain so. If Delia suggested a show, Mrs. Caton was quick to say that it had received unfavorable reviews and would make another recommendation. Everything from Delia’s tastes in music and restaurants to the charitable organizations she supported was challenged.
It was while Delia was speaking with General Sheridan and his wife that she looked up and saw Marshall and Nannie Field working their way through the receiving line. She found she couldn’t concentrate on General Sheridan’s words because she was so eager to receive the Fields. She noticed that Nannie looked a bit disheveled, as if the wind had gotten hold of her. She wore a peach basque with a matching scarf that wasn’t draped quite right and her squared train looked as if it had been stepped upon. And yet, Delia was grateful to see her, as she was ever so fond of Nannie. After all, it was because of Nannie that Delia had become a member of the Fortnightly Club and the Chicago Women’s Club, two very prestigious organizations that hosted some of the city’s most impressive social events. Already that year they’d invited Henry James to a speaking engagement that had people lined up out the door and around the block. Mark Twain had also drawn an equally large crowd.
When the Fields finally reached her, Nannie kissed her cheek and whispered, “We wish you well, my dear.” She then moved on to Arthur while Marshall approached Delia.
“Best wishes with your marriage,” said Marshall. “Arthur is certainly a lucky man.”
Delia could think of nothing to say in response because she was so distracted by how distinguished Marshall looked. His once dark hair and mustache had turned snow-white. It seemed to have happened almost overnight. She remembered Nannie telling her about it and saying that he looked like an old man now. Delia couldn’t have disagreed more.
“Again,” he said, kissing the back of Delia’s hand, “best wishes to you.” His eyes locked on to hers and for a moment everything around her ceased to exist; the music, the guests, the fanfare, all blurred into a soft focus. As soon as she caught herself, heat began filling her cheeks and she forced herself to turn to the next person in line.
• • •
As the party got under way, Delia and her new husband danced to Handel’s “Largo” and the “Danube” waltz. It already felt different to dance as man and wife. It was as if a lifetime of hopes and dreams were embracing her.
“Look at Paxton over there, will you?” Arthur whispered in her ear. “He seems positively bored.”
Delia glanced over Arthur’s shoulder and saw Paxton waltzing with the girl he was currently courting, Muriel Brownville. She was talking, her mouth moving as quickly as her feet. Paxton wasn’t even looking at her.
“She won’t last another week,” said Arthur.
“That poor girl. She’s obviously very fond of him.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“I’m afraid Paxton’s running out of young girls’ hearts to break,” said Delia.
“What a pity,” said Arthur with a roll of his eyes as he whisked Delia across the room, to where Paxton and Muriel were waltzing. As the two couples danced side by side, Arthur and Paxton carried on, the two of them talking about an upcoming polo match.
At the end of that dance, Delia shared an incredibly awkward waltz with her new father-in-law. Judge Caton was an older, but crankier, version of his son, muttonchops and all. But he wasn’t half the dancer.
“We’re pleased that he’s finally settled down,” said the judge as he clumsily swept her along the dance floor. “It certainly took him long enough to get around to it, didn’t it?”
“I assure you he was well worth the wait. I’m a lucky girl.”
The judge paused for a moment in the middle of their waltz and looked at her. “Ah, yes, spoken as a new bride,” he said with a jeering laugh. “We’ll see what you have to say a year from now.”
Delia was grateful when the dance ended and she could retreat to the safety of Bertha and Abby. As the hour grew later, the crowd in her parents’ ballroom thinned out. Delia was able to watch from across the room as Arthur, Paxton and some of the other remaining young men raised their glasses in toast after toast. Muriel Brownville was sitting by herself at one of the round tables, waiting on Paxton, her chin cradled in the heel of her hand.
When it was time to say their good-byes, the new couple headed to the Palmer House, where they would spend their wedding night. Delia felt nervous but excited. Abby had prepared her, explaining things that her mother never would have addressed. Delia wondered if she would be as lucky as her friend Annie Swift, who had become pregnant on her wedding night.
The bridal suite was adorned with tufted chairs, a settee and a marble-topped commode with gold escutcheons. Enormous vases of roses and calla lilies were placed about the room and on either side of the canopy bed. Her maid, Therese, helped Delia prepare for her husband, then retired to her own staff room down the hall. Delia waited nervously for her husband, standing in the bedroom wearing her nightgown and a matching wrapper made of satin with a lace jabot.
“There you are,” said Arthur when he entered from the other dressing room. He struggled his way out of his bathrobe and dropped it over the back of a chair. “And here we are.”
Delia’s heart was pounding as he crossed the room toward her. The smell of whiskey reached her before he did. Her mind raced as he led her over to the bed and ran his fingers through her hair. Arthur had been reserved when it came to displays of affection and passion, but she knew he was merely being chivalrous and respectful. Now they were man and wife and there was nothing that couldn’t be expressed, couldn’t be shared or shown. This one night would crown their marriage, seal their love and complete them as a couple.
She was expecting something tender, something slow and filled with emotion. According to Abby, the marriage act was so beautiful it could move her to tears. But instead she found Arthur’s gestures clumsy, his kisses hurried and sloppy with whiskey. She longed to feel his skin on hers, but he kept his union suit on the whol
e time. His body was crushing her as he fumbled with his buttons and hastily hiked up her satin gown. He struggled to find his way to her beneath the bedsheets. Delia didn’t know whether she should have helped. And then she felt him. Suspended above her, he rested the weight of his hips against her and pressed his legs into hers as the tip of him pushed against her most private opening. All at once, he forced his way inside her, and she felt a sharp tearing sensation. From what Abby had told her, she knew that meant her husband had taken her virginity, as he should. But Abby had not mentioned that the pain would continue, would grow even more intense as his body moved inside of hers. She stared at the bedpost shaking back and forth, back and forth as he pushed his way into her again and again. She might as well have been an ewer, for not once did he look at her, speak to her, kiss her. She gritted her teeth to keep from telling him to stop. She was his wife now and she wanted children. This was her duty. So she stayed silent until he finally stopped, suddenly stilling over top of her.
Arthur sighed.
She didn’t move, wondering whether that was it.
He sighed again, deeper this time. “I knew I shouldn’t have had that last brandy with Paxton.” He rolled off her and pulled her head onto his chest.
Delia paused, wondering what to say, how to respond. She certainly didn’t feel the elation her sister had promised. Instead she felt strangely lonely. Confused and left cold.
Before long, she heard Arthur begin to snore.
CHAPTER SIX
Delia and Arthur honeymooned in Europe for six months. They visited Paris and London, Italy and Spain. He took her to Germany and Switzerland, too. The judge had arranged for them to dine with princes and dukes, duchesses and earls. Delia had the time of her life, attending elaborate parties and balls, drinking and laughing into the early hours of the morning. She felt as if she had waltzed her way across the continent.
It was the second week of their honeymoon, after their evening with the infante of Spain, that Arthur returned to Delia’s bed. Hurried and intrusive, it was no better for her than their wedding night. Apparently Arthur felt the same, for he did not visit their marriage bed again the entire time they were abroad. Honestly, if it weren’t for wanting children, she would have been content to forgo the act altogether. Yet she loved Arthur so completely and adored their time together.
Once they returned to Chicago, Delia and Arthur moved into a twenty-two-thousand-square-foot mansion at 1910 Calumet Avenue designed by the architects Burnham and Root. It was a grand home with a terra-cotta brick exterior and striped awnings along all the top-story windows. They had three master bedrooms, seven guest rooms, thirteen fireplaces and eleven servants, who had their own quarters off the kitchen.
Their house was just a few doors down the street from where the judge and Mrs. Caton lived. Arthur’s middle sister, Laura, and her husband lived next door to the judge, and the mansion directly across the street belonged to the eldest daughter, Matilda, and her husband, completing what they affectionately referred to as “the Caton Colony.” Delia had wanted to live elsewhere, away from the Colony, but at the judge’s insistence, the newlyweds moved to the Calumet Avenue address.
She didn’t like being under her mother-in-law’s eye, but nonetheless she threw herself into making her new house one of the city’s most elegant homes. She spent her first three months outfitting each room in the highest fashion. Her dining room table seated twenty and was designed especially for her by Charles Coolidge. The Herter Brothers did all her millwork and cabinets. The luster tile treatment in the drawing room was created by De Morgan and the wallpaper throughout the main floor was William Morris. She was eagerly awaiting the arrival of two settees, her sideboard, an armoire and several other pieces from Georges Jacob and Charles Cressant of France. Once everything was in place she could begin entertaining. Although the truth of it was that she and Arthur had enough social engagements on their calendar to carry them through the next two years. Just that evening, in fact, Delia and Arthur were attending a celebration at the Field mansion in honor of Marshall’s forty-second birthday.
The Fields lived just one block over on Prairie Avenue, directly behind Delia and Arthur. Delia could look out her windows and see their mansion. Their backyards faced each other and were separated only by their coach houses, the stables and a narrow alleyway. Perhaps it was due to their close proximity, but since they’d been home from their honeymoon, Delia and Arthur had become especially friendly with the Fields.
Her maid, Therese, was helping Delia dress for the party in a grenat satin gown trimmed in velvet. Delia stood still, arms held out to her sides, while Therese fastened the fifteen buttons on the kid gloves that stopped above her elbows.
Arthur appeared in the doorway of her dressing room in a white silk waistcoat and a red cravat. “My, aren’t we going to be the most natty couple there tonight.” He caught a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror and smiled approvingly.
“Would you expect anything less?” She smiled, too, and stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the slope of his shoulders.
On the night of Marshall Field’s birthday, August 18, 1876, Delia strolled around the corner arm in arm with her husband. While Calumet Avenue was home to the Caton Colony, one block east, Prairie Avenue was home to the rest of Chicago’s elite. They had already gone past the Second Empire–style mansion belonging to Philip Armour, the meatpacking tycoon, and were coming up alongside George Pullman’s stone-carved house with its glassed-in court and ornate terraces. George was best known for his invention of the Pullman luxury sleeper train cars and was a firm believer in the importance of opulence. A few doors down was the home of Levi Leiter, Marshall’s business partner and part owner of Field, Leiter & Company. Everywhere Delia looked she saw houses with glorious terraces and Athenian marble facings, covered carriageways and decorative stonework. And while Delia’s home was certainly on a par with the houses that lined the neighboring streets, Prairie Avenue had its own cachet and had earned the sobriquet “Millionaires’ Row.”
Soon they arrived at 1905 South Prairie Avenue. The Field mansion was a simple but massive redbrick home, flanked by two giant elms. Delia saw the white sheer curtains billowing in the windows as the silhouettes of partygoers moved about inside. There was only one carriage out front and she recognized it as the white brougham belonging to Bertha and Potter Palmer. The Palmers lived over on Michigan Boulevard. Apparently they, along with Abby and Augustus, who were still living with Delia’s parents, were the only guests that evening from outside the immediate neighborhood.
“So sorry we’re late,” said Delia, clasping Nannie’s hands while kissing her on both cheeks.
“No apologies needed,” Nannie replied, going from Delia to Arthur. “The birthday boy isn’t even home yet. He’s working late as usual. Go on inside,” she said. “Enjoy yourselves.”
“Well, there you are,” said Abby as soon as Delia entered the main room. It was a small, intimate gathering, just a handful of couples: George and Harriet Pullman, Philip and Malvina Armour, and Levi and Mary Leiter along with a few others.
Bertha was dressed in the height of style, a yellow silk gown stitched with golden embroidery and a delicately draped overskirt. She wore her dark hair in a high knot that supported her signature diamond tiara. Her many bracelets clinked as softly as wind chimes each time she moved.
As usual, Bertha held court surrounded by the other ladies at the party. But Delia noticed that Nannie appeared more interested in straightening a portrait on the wall than she was in what Bertha had to say. Though they were friends, Delia always sensed that Nannie felt threatened by Bertha and it was easy to understand why. After all, at twenty-six, Bertha was six years younger than Nannie. Bertha was beautiful and bubbly and everyone adored her. Mrs. Potter Palmer was always the first name on everyone’s guest list and Delia suspected Nannie felt that as Mrs. Marshall Field, that was an honor she deserved.
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br /> Bertha was talking about Charles Frederick Worth, her favorite fashion designer. Delia’s and Abby’s, too.
“I’m going back to Paris next month to see him for my spring wardrobe,” Bertha said.
“The man is a true artist. A genius,” said Delia.
“I can’t wait to see his latest collection,” Abby added.
“Oh, when it comes to fashion, you Spencer girls have such an incriminating eye,” said Mary Leiter.
Delia was certain she’d meant to say discriminating eye. She had only recently gotten to know Mary, but she’d already noticed the woman had a baffling habit of confusing her words.
Mary followed up her gaffe by saying, “You all have such a sense of style. The rest of us can’t keep up.”
“That’s the whole idea,” Delia teased.
They were having a good laugh over that when Delia noticed eight-year-old Marshall Junior standing in the corner, his eyes wide, watching all the glittering guests. He was a sweet young boy, exceedingly polite, always thanking Delia for the lollipop or chocolate she produced from her pocket whenever she saw him in the neighborhood with his governess. When he noticed Delia looking at him, he scampered out into the hallway and perched himself on the bottom step of the staircase, his nightshirt pulled down over his knees and skimming the tops of his slippers.
Delia went over and crouched down beside him. “Hello, Junior. How are you tonight?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Caton.” He offered his hand and gave hers a firm shake.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Oh, she’s already in bed. She’s just a baby.”
Delia laughed. Ethel was three years old. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, too?”
“Please don’t tell Mother I’m down here. I’ll get a whipping if she sees me.”
