by Renée Rosen
Though her invitation had been perfectly proper, she was surprised when he said yes. They took to the floor with three other couples: Bertha and Potter Palmer, Harriet and George Pullman and Malvina and Philip Armour.
The music swelled around them and they all joined hands as their circle moved through the steps. There was a rigadoon followed by a sideways glide to the right and then a glide back to the left before their hands moved toward the center to form a star. Delia felt a spark each time her fingertips touched Marsh’s, and each time their eyes met, the other couples ceased to exist. She was terrified but elated. It was this clash of emotions that only Marsh roused in her. She didn’t know what to do or where to go with these feelings. He overwhelmed her so. After they’d turned to the right and then to the left, the four women stepped toward the center and then glided back toward their partners before the men did the same.
Delia was so lost in the dance that at first she hadn’t noticed Arthur standing at the edge of the dance floor with a wounded expression on his face. She watched his eyes move from her to Marsh and back to her. With just a glance she knew that he was sulking. She could tell by the way he made his eyes go sad and full of self-pity. It was the look he mustered whenever he wanted something that he couldn’t come right out and ask for, leaving it up to Delia, or whomever he directed the pout at, to figure out what was bothering him.
As soon as the dance was over, Delia excused herself and left Marsh’s side to rejoin Arthur. “Oh, there you are, darling,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come,” she purred. “Come dance with me.”
Apparently, her attention was enough to restore his good mood. He let her lead him onto the dance floor. Delia danced with a flourish, accenting her every move with a sway of her hip, a tilt of her head, a graceful wave of her arm. Halfway through the dance she acknowledged an ugly truth to herself: even though Delia had changed partners, she was still dancing with—or rather for—Marsh. His eyes never drifted from her performance—and that was exactly what it was: a performance. As soon as she realized what she’d been doing, she shifted her focus and went back to dancing solely with and for her husband.
The dancing went on until the party thinned out and the orchestra played its final number. Delia and Arthur laughed as he kept twirling her even after the music had stopped. As they stepped off the dance floor, Delia fanned herself with her hand, trying to catch her breath while Arthur dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
She excused herself, and as she was walking into the lavatory, she overheard a cluster of women talking. She didn’t pay attention to them until she heard her name.
“. . . and Delia calls herself a friend. Poor Nannie . . .”
Delia knew that voice. Sybil Perkins. She froze in place and leaned against the wall for balance.
“. . . Oh, and the way they carry on. Levi says it’s just a pigment of my imagination, but I know better.” That comment was clearly the unmistakable mangling of Mary Leiter.
“She calls him Marsh now and he calls her Dell,” added Sybil. “And did you see them dancing earlier tonight? Shameful.”
Delia drew in a deep breath. How dare they talk about me like that! I haven’t done anything wrong. She deliberately took a step forward and then another until the women saw her reflection in the vanity mirror. Eyes flashed wide, mouths gaped open and Mary Leiter stopped speaking midsentence. They were embarrassed and Delia was satisfied that she’d made her point; she was aware of them gossiping about her and they knew it. Before they could say or do anything to minimize their guilt, Delia turned sharply on her heels and left the powder room.
When she stepped back into the ballroom she felt certain that everyone was watching her, judging her. It was as if she were becoming larger, more obvious, more central to the room. She wanted to go home. But Marsh, who usually turned in early, was instead suggesting to Arthur that they get a nightcap.
“What do you say, Dell?” asked Arthur.
“I’m sorry, what?” She was lost in her own thoughts, distracted by all the eyes on her.
“We’re going to get a nightcap across town,” said Marsh.
“Shall we?” Arthur held out his arm to her.
Anything to get her out of that room. She accepted her husband’s arm and walked past a group of women watching as the three of them left the party.
Soon they’d arrived at the Sherman House lounge. It was a large, cavernous room, dark with a giant fireplace that crackled and sparked, casting the room in a warm glow. After she’d had a glass of brandy, Delia put the gossips out of her mind. She felt happy again, even giddy. She was sitting with Marsh on the settee, while Arthur took the armchair across from them. Delia and Marsh were doubled over, chuckling, recalling how George Pullman had told his wife while they were dancing not to complain about being dizzy because “waltzing was the way of the whirl.”
“Oh, it was just too funny,” said Delia as she dabbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Especially coming from George.”
“I’ve never heard him even attempt a joke.” Marsh pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, for his own eyes were tearing. His shoulders were shaking as he continued to laugh.
Delia glanced over at Arthur, who sat expressionless, watching them. She composed herself enough to say, “I’m sorry, darling. I guess you had to be there.”
“I guess so.” Arthur wrinkled his brow and skirted a finger about the inside of his shirt collar as if he felt constricted by it.
Delia tilted her head, trying to catch his eye, but Arthur seemed more interested in his brandy. She saw on his face that same look she had seen earlier while she was dancing with Marsh. He was feeling left out and she attempted to pull him back into the conversation.
“Arthur,” she said with too much enthusiasm, “don’t you think this was by far the best winter pageant the Swifts have ever thrown?”
Arthur rolled his eyes and signaled to their waiter for another drink.
• • •
By the time Delia and Arthur returned home that evening, Arthur had snapped out of his sour mood and was happy again. He was drunk as usual and Delia was even tipsy herself. They waved to Williams, their butler, indicating that the servants were not needed that night.
The two of them laughed and danced their way up the staircase. Arthur twirled her round and round until she collapsed onto her bed, woozy from their twirling. Pushing herself up from her elbows, she sat until the room stopped spinning and then made her way over to her vanity. Arthur sat on the side of the bed, working his way out of his necktie while Delia unclasped her earrings and tossed them on her vanity like a pair of dice.
“Marsh does like his late-night brandies, doesn’t he?”
“As if you don’t,” said Delia playfully, shooting him a glance through the threefold mirror.
“It’s good to see him relax, have a little fun. Next to my father, I’ve never seen a man who works as much as ole Marsh. Frankly, I don’t think it’s healthy.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Delia, unpinning the braids from the crown of her head. “I think hard work is good for a man. Makes them useful and productive. A little hard work wouldn’t hurt you at—” Delia did a quarter turn on her vanity stool, letting the air escape from her mouth before she clamped her lips shut. Arthur looked deflated and she instantly scolded herself, blaming the slip on her last brandy.
“If this is about the horse farm, I’ll have you—”
“It’s not about the horse farm.”
“I’ve been waiting to see how long it would take you to bring that up.”
It had been nearly two months and Arthur had yet to follow through on any of the plans Marsh had worked out with him. Each time she asked about the farm, Arthur had responded with a million excuses, and if pressed, he turned it into an argument. She should have known he’d never do anything with it. He was lazy. She hated to admit it, bu
t it was the truth.
Arthur turned away and tugged on his waistcoat. “I suppose I could work myself into an early grave, but personally I’d rather enjoy my good fortune. If that’s a crime, then I suppose I’m guilty as charged.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. You know I think you’d make a brilliant horse breeder. And a brilliant lawyer, too.”
“I am a horse breeder and a lawyer in case you forgot. Practicing law bores me to tears. Is that what you want for me? Being chained to a desk and pushing papers about all day long? You sound like my father.”
She got up from her vanity and went to his side. “I only want you to be happy.”
“Then quit comparing me to Marsh.” Arthur got up and went down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Delia stayed in her room, refusing to run after him. She had to admit that he was right, she did want him to be more like Marsh. She couldn’t help it. Nor could she help her attraction to Marsh. But at least she had no intention of doing anything about it. Didn’t that count for something? And didn’t it matter that she was sick inside over it? That she felt like a despicable friend to Nannie and an even worse wife to Arthur? She had no right to complain about her agony, but surely Arthur knew she hadn’t chosen to feel this way about Marsh.
About an hour later, Arthur knocked on her door. “May I come in? I couldn’t sleep.”
She scooted over in bed, making room for him next to her. They lay side by side, wide awake, neither one speaking.
Finally Delia slipped her arm across the bed and stroked Arthur’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He murmured and put his arm around her, pulling her head onto his chest, “You’re infatuated with him, aren’t you?”
She could hear his heart beating against her ear. “I don’t want to be.”
“But you are.”
She went silent.
“People were talking about you and Marsh tonight. They were watching you.”
“But you were the one who told me to dance with him—”
“Don’t insult me. This isn’t about the dance, Dell. It isn’t about what people say, either. Dammit. Don’t you see? It used to be the three of us, but lately it just seems more like it’s all about you and Marsh. I saw the way he looked at you while you were dancing. And then again later, when we went for a nightcap. I might as well not have even been there. He adores you and I’m just in the way. I’m on the outside looking in. I feel like I’m losing you. And him. I’m losing you both to each other.”
“You’re never going to lose me.” She breathed in deeply, taking in a mixture of his sweat, the brandy and that familiar scent that was uniquely his. “I don’t want you to feel left out. Neither does Marsh.”
“So you’ve discussed this with him?” Arthur slapped the side of the mattress.
“No. Never.” She leaned up on one elbow. “I’d never do something like that to you. I’m just saying that I can tell how much your friendship means to Marsh. He’d never want you to feel excluded.”
He didn’t answer. She slouched back down onto his chest and fiddled with a button on his nightshirt.
“It’s hard with three,” she said. “Someone always feels left out. It’s unavoidable. Don’t you think I feel like the outsider whenever you and Marsh are so engrossed in one of your chess games? Neither one of you even notices when I leave the room. Or what about the times when you and Marsh go to the Chicago Club? I can’t step foot in there and you both know it.”
“He’s my friend, Dell. He’s my friend and he wants you. Even when he’s with me, you’re the one he wants. I can tell.”
She sat up abruptly and looked at him, a splinter to her heart. She was just then realizing that this was more about his losing Marsh than her.
“And you want him, too,” he said. “I can tell—just admit it.”
Delia squeezed her eyes shut. There was that trace of jealousy, of possessiveness; the words she needed to hear. She clung to them, relieved. “You need to know that I’m fighting this, Arthur. I’m fighting it with everything I have.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1877
Delia stood on the top deck of the Baltic with Arthur, Marsh and Nannie. A steady breeze moved clouds across the sky as a February chill swept over their shoulders. The trip had been Marsh’s idea. He had business to tend to overseas, and even though Nannie had recently returned from London with the children, he had persuaded her to leave the children in the care of their governess and arranged for the four of them to make a vacation of it in France.
Originally Bertha and Potter, along with Robert Todd Lincoln and his wife, Mary, were going to join them. But at the last minute, Potter had business in New York and the Lincolns were called away to Springfield for a family matter dealing with his mother, the wife of the late president. Delia expected the trip to be canceled, but Marsh insisted they still go. And so, Nannie, Marsh, Delia and Arthur and their servants had traveled by train to New York before boarding the Baltic bound for Cherbourg.
Delia held on to the railing, waving to the crowd below, as the giant steam engine let out a roar followed by the fierce rumblings from below. Its force broke through the thin sheet of ice and churned the water like champagne bubbles. The gun of departure sounded as the cheers grew louder, the good-bye waves grew longer and more strident. They were on their way.
Delia was certain that this trip was exactly what she and Arthur needed. Arthur needed to know that he wasn’t being left out, and Delia needed to get away from Chicago and give the gossip about her and Marsh a chance to die down. She hoped that traveling with Nannie would help in that regard.
As the steamer picked up speed, Delia looked out toward the stern. The winds shifted sharply and they all moved to the opposite side of the ship to avoid the steady plume of thick black smoke blowing from the engines.
Marsh, for all his frugality in business, was true to his word: he knew how to spend “like the devil” when he wanted to. He had reserved their own stateroom on board the White Star line with plush green velvet seats that had brass nailhead trim. Above the cherrywood wainscoting was a series of large paintings housed in enormous gilt frames. There were two stewards at their beck and call. They dined on roast beef and lobster, served on Royal Worcester china with Duhme sterling silver, and drank fine wine and champagne from Richards & Hartley crystal goblets. They joked the first night, saying that the Baltic was like the Palmer House on water.
The first night at sea Nannie dominated the conversation with stories about her recent stay in Europe. She spoke ad nauseam about her London friends whom no one had met and about the various dinner parties and balls she’d been invited to.
Delia caught Marsh’s eye, just shy of a roll. No one spoke of it directly, but Delia knew that Arthur and Marsh realized, too, that things were different now with Nannie back. She wasn’t part of them. She was out of step, oblivious to the rhythms of their friendship. Clearly she sensed something was amiss and was desperately trying to ingratiate herself with their circle. But despite the polite attention Delia extended to her, Nannie’s efforts were falling flat. After exhausting the topic of her travels Nannie launched into an awkward string of tales about her early courtship with Marsh.
“Do you know that he chased after a moving train and jumped on board at the last minute just to propose to me?”
“Now, Nannie.” Marsh tried to stop her. “Let’s not—”
“Oh, but it’s true. He did that. He thought he’d never see me again if he didn’t. Can you imagine Marshall here making such a gallant effort?”
Marsh’s cheeks went from pink to red.
He looked at Delia but she turned away. Picturing young Marsh in love tied a knot in the pit of her stomach. She hated being jealous of Nannie. She had no right to that emotion. It was ludicrous and yet she couldn’t help herself. She reminded herself that he was Nanni
e’s husband, not hers, but still the jealousy persisted. She tried to tell herself that Nannie wasn’t happy in her marriage anyway, but there was no way to justify her desire for Marsh.
Trying to quash her guilt, Delia began overcompensating, laughing too hard at Nannie’s jokes, listening too intently and agreeing too emphatically with everything she said. It was absurd to think those gestures could make up for the fact that she was falling in love with the woman’s husband.
• • •
After the eight-day crossing they docked in Cherbourg. One long train ride later they arrived in Paris. As she stepped off the platform, she drew a deep breath and was instantly reminded of how old Europe was. The air smelled of centuries gone past. It was late morning and the cobbled streets were damp from a light snowfall the night before. At the far end of the Champs-Élysées Delia saw women holding wicker baskets and men with fancy walking sticks going about their business. Delia had been to Paris several times but never before in the wintertime. She was taken with how quiet and quaint it seemed, how charming it was this time of year. Not to mention how very different it was from Chicago. The pacing was different, more languid, less chaotic. The lack of noise and bustle was calming, and yet somehow the city was invigorating. She breathed in deeply again, appreciating the air free of soot and dust.
The Hôtel Le Meurice, where they were staying, was magnificent with a granite entablature and sculpted stone detailing. They had a floor of suites to themselves and in addition to their personal maids and valets the two couples had a staff of eight hotel servants to tend to their every need. Delia’s four steamer trunks had set sail days before they did and were already waiting for Therese to unpack when they arrived.
Tired from travel, they had dinner their first night at the hotel. Not that doing so meant they were deprived. They feasted on Caviar Russe, Potage Tortue Claire, Turbot à la Hollandaise and Salade Lapérouse. During dinner they discussed their plans for their trip. Marsh had suggested the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres, or the Palace of Fontainebleau, perhaps the Notre-Dame Church in Melun. “Or we could visit the stained-glass windows at the Saint-Aspais Church and stay over—”
