by Renée Rosen
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.”
CHAPTER TEN
Later 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. Pushcar
ts 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.”
T
hey 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.
• • •
On 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.
