by Renée Rosen
“I won’t say a word as long as you go back up to bed right now.”
With that, Junior sprang to his feet and Delia watched him scurry up the stairs. Just as she stood and turned around, Marshall came through the front door.
“And there he is,” said Delia. “The guest of honor. Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Oh please.” He winced mockingly, handing his plug hat to the butler. “I’ve been doing my level best to forget what today is.”
“Not much chance of that happening here tonight,” she said.
He removed his gloves, handing them to his butler as well. “I suppose everyone’s arrived already, then?”
“Afraid so.”
Marshall leaned toward Delia and whispered, “My wife’s going to have my hide for being late, you know.” He offered a smile just as Nannie came around the corner.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with his company.” Nannie folded her arms across her chest. “Maybe you’d like to greet your guests. They’ve been waiting over an hour for you.” She gestured with her chin toward the grand hall.
“Hello, dear.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but Nannie pulled back and turned her face away.
“Well, then,” he said, unfazed by Nannie’s snub, “if you’ll both excuse me.”
It wasn’t until Marshall left her side that Delia realized she was flushed and stirred to her core. It seemed like the mere sight of him always did that to her. She reentered the party, watching as everyone rallied around Marshall. In his quiet, unassuming way, he made a statement wherever he went. Even if it hadn’t been his birthday, he would have been the center of attention. He just had one of those magnetic personalities.
The party continued and Delia tried to keep an eye on Arthur, who always seemed to have a fresh drink in his hand. Of course, their life had seemed like one long party, so drinking wasn’t unusual, but lately Arthur didn’t just keep up with the crowd; he often seemed ahead of it. Depending on the circumstances, he could be either the source of great amusement or the cause of embarrassment. Just the week before, during a party at the home of the meatpacking giant Gustavus Swift, Arthur, after a few too many whiskeys, had taken command of a loud and boisterous game of charades. Delia found herself apologizing to their hostess, Annie Swift, and she and Arthur had a terrible argument about it when they got home. The next morning he didn’t remember a thing. Delia glanced over at him now. He sat in the corner talking with Potter, Augustus and Marshall, and he seemed perfectly fine as far as she could tell. But she still worried.
She went back to chatting with Harriet Pullman, George’s wife. “Has the rest of your furniture arrived yet from France?” she asked.
“I’m still waiting on a few pieces,” said Delia, finally taking her eyes off Arthur.
“Well, I simply can’t wait to see what you’ve done. I’m certain your home is going to be spectacular.” She smiled warmly, her full round cheeks shining like small, polished globes. From the neck up you’d think she was a heavyset woman, but in fact, Harriet was quite slim.
“We’ll be entertaining soon enough, but I’ll have you over beforehand for tea and a private viewing.”
“Oh, that would be marvelous.” Her cheeks rose even higher on her face.
“Did I hear something about a private viewing?” Sybil Perkins interrupted, her fingertips fluttering as she pressed her palms together.
Delia gazed at her as if she didn’t understand, hoping to dodge the question. Sybil was the neighborhood busybody. She reminded Delia of a little birdlike creature with her pointy nose and chin, her arms always flapping about excitedly, her hands gesticulating energetically each time she spoke.
“Delia here has agreed to give me an advanced showing of her home.”
“Marvelous,” said Sybil. “I’d love to join you.”
“But of course,” said Harriet before Delia could think of a reasonable objection. It was to be expected. Why Harriet and the others tolerated Sybil’s nosiness was a mystery to Delia.
“I’m available Thursday afternoon. Or next Tuesday as long as it’s before three o’clock . . .” Sybil was saying.
Delia glanced over to check on Arthur and noticed Marshall looking her way. It was just a passing glance, but it grabbed hold of her for a moment. She couldn’t look away from him even though she knew she should.
“Well?” Sybil was waiting.
“What? I’m sorry. What?” She hadn’t heard a word Sybil said. “You’ll have to excuse me now, Sybil. I just remembered there’s something I need to tell Arthur.”
Delia had been desperate to get away from the woman. When she reached Arthur’s side, she noticed the waiters serving hors d’oeuvres and whispered, “Don’t you think you should eat something?”
Arthur didn’t seem to hear what she said. He turned to Delia and smiled. “I was just talking with Marshall about a polo match in New York City.” She noticed his eyes were unfocused, as if he were speaking to the air. “Fascinating. I find him just fascinating. Don’t you? Really fascinating.”
“Yes, yes, he is fascinating,” Delia agreed, reaching for Arthur’s empty glass, grateful that he didn’t resist. When a tray of petite cheese soufflés and quail eggs nestled in puff pastry passed by, Delia insisted that he have some.
She stayed close to Arthur after that, until dinner was called. Her seat at the table was stationed in between Lionel Perkins and Philip Armour. From across the table, she watched as the footman refilled Arthur’s wineglass. The dinner was a five-course extravaganza, and thankfully, by the time it was over, Arthur had sobered up.
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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After 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.”
