What the Lady Wants

by Renée Rosen

  Delia saw the pain in his eyes. She realized then how sad he was, how his marriage both disappointed and frustrated him. She got the sense that there was nothing he could do to change Nannie’s feelings, or lack thereof.

  “She dutifully gave me two children,” he said. “I wanted more. She didn’t.”

  Delia pressed her hand to her heart. “I can’t imagine not wanting children. That’s all I’ve ever wanted and I can’t have them. Arthur doesn’t seem to want to try.” She was surprised that she’d blurted out something so personal, so intimate. But then again, she trusted him and felt as though he understood her, already knowing such things without her having to say a word.

  “I’m afraid that Arthur, like Nannie, has his own demons,” said Marsh. “We’re married to two very complicated people, aren’t we? I don’t know about you, but for me it’s a very lonely existence.”

  “I love Arthur, but at times I think we would have been better off as friends, rather than husband and wife.”

  “At least you have a friendship. I’m afraid Nannie doesn’t like me very much. She certainly doesn’t love me—if in fact she ever did.”

  Despite having witnessed the animosity firsthand, she still found it hard to believe that Nannie didn’t love this extraordinary man. Didn’t everyone want him? Didn’t they all see what she saw in him?

  Marsh shook his head. “She tolerates me—if I’m lucky. But she’s still the mother of my children and for that, I have no choice but to forgive her a million sins.”

  He looked at her and they both went silent. She wanted to tell him that she respected his loyalty to Nannie, but the words wouldn’t come. He was stirring her with his eyes, and if she didn’t know it was wrong, it would have been so easy to fall into his arms. He must have known what she was thinking because he cleared his throat, which she noticed he did when he was nervous and at a loss for words.

  The tension was unmistakable. Delia studied her hands, paying attention to the bump beneath her glove. Her wedding ring. She glanced at Marsh, watching him drum his fingers along his thigh. Thankfully the steward came by and broke the silence.

  After their drinks arrived, Marsh turned to Delia and clinked his glass to hers. “I hope Arthur knows what a lucky man he is.”

  Delia swallowed hard and went quiet, unable to think of anything to say. She could feel herself slipping, about to lose control. They couldn’t keep coming back to this point. This dangerous place where one wrong move could destroy everything that they’d vowed to honor and keep sacred.

  “I should probably turn in for the night,” she said.

  “Don’t go.” His voice was hushed, the fine features of his face partly eclipsed by a shadow.

  “I really should.” Though she didn’t want to leave him—God, no—she forced herself to get up, walk away and not look back.

  As she turned the corner, she knew she couldn’t bear the solitude of her room, and despite the cold night air, she went out on the deck. Gripping onto the railing she looked out at the inky sea, the cloudless night sky. A cool sweat broke out along the back of her neck. She felt as though she’d just traveled some perilous passage. She heard footsteps approaching from behind and cursed her heart for rejoicing when she turned and saw Marsh.

  “Isn’t it ironic?” he said, coming up behind her. “They’re talking about us back home. Can you imagine what they’d say if they saw us now, in the wee hours of the morning, up on this deck?”

  “We haven’t done a thing wrong,” she said, only half believing it. But as she looked into his eyes, she’d never felt more alive.

  “Of course not, but we might as well have, seeing as they’ve already accused and tried us.” He looked at her and smiled.

  She met his gaze, and felt a connection to him that was palpable. Without warning he reached for her waist and drew her closer to him. Less than an inch separated his body from hers and it nearly took her breath away. “Yes”—she raised her fingertips, unable to resist the urge to touch his cheek—“and tomorrow we go back to face our jury.”

  “To hell with them.”

  She shook her head and eased out of his embrace.

  “Delia, wait—”

  But instead she turned and walked away. She walked away even though she’d never known she could want anything so badly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The day after they arrived back in Chicago, Delia went to a Fortnightly Club meeting at Sybil Perkins’s home down on Prairie Avenue. When she arrived, she heard the chattering of twenty-some women as she left her coat with the butler in the foyer. Yet when she entered the parlor, the room turned very still, and deathly quiet. Heads turned and all eyes were upon her. She realized with a start that they had been talking about her. All of them.

  “Oh, Delia,” said Sybil, rising from her chair, fluttering her arms about. “We were just wondering about your trip to Paris. How was everything?”

  “It was fine,” Delia managed to say. Her throat felt dry. She took a seat in the back of the room with her sister, Abby, on one side, Bertha on the other. Abby squeezed her hand, and slowly the focus left her as the other women began making proper conversation.

  “I told them it’s not true,” Abby whispered when no one was paying attention to them.

  “What’s not true?” Delia whispered back.

  “You and Marsh carrying on while you were in Paris,” said Bertha.

  Delia closed her eyes and shook her head. She wasn’t wrong about the jury waiting for them back home. But I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “They’re just jealous,” Bertha added.

  Flanked by her sister and Bertha, Delia suffered through the long meeting. She was hot and restless and willed herself to stay seated and as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting to give the others anything else to find fault with. But all the while, she felt herself crumbling in anger and humiliation. She couldn’t wait to escape.

  After the three of them left the meeting, Delia gave in to her anger. “Who are they to sit back and judge me?”

  “They’re frightened,” said Bertha as her driver helped her into her white carriage.

  “Of what?” But Delia knew exactly what they were afraid of. They assumed she was having an affair with Nannie’s husband, and if Marsh could stray, so could their husbands. And then what? If they lost their husbands, they’d lose their livelihoods, their social status, their everything.

  It was after that meeting that Delia decided it would be best if she stopped socializing with Marsh. Though the thought pained her and she would miss him—God, how she’d miss the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled at her, the way she felt just being in his presence—she knew it was best for everyone if she let Arthur continue the friendship without her.

  • • •

  “Aren’t you going to join us?” Arthur asked Delia as he took his hat from Williams, the butler.

  “Not tonight,” said Delia. She was staring at the porcelain figures in her curio cabinet, her slippered feet resting atop a needlepoint footstool. “You go on without me,” she said. “And do send my regrets to Marsh.”

  “You’re sure I can’t convince you to change your mind?”

  “Go. You’ll miss the opening curtain. Go on. Enjoy.” She forced a smile, still looking at the figurines.

  The three of them had planned to see a play that night. Nannie was in Kentucky with the children, but Delia couldn’t allow herself to be seen out in public with Marsh—even if her husband was with them. It would only fuel the scandal. After Arthur left to meet Marsh, Delia reached into her curio cabinet for one of her Bloor Derby figurines of a young woman sitting on a bench alone, sipping tea. She seemed so lonely. Delia felt a kinship to that woman cast in porcelain, breakable yet unable to break free.

  She remained in the drawing room, paging through a book but not retaining a word of what sh
e’d read. All she could think about were those women, her so-called friends, gossiping about her, spreading lies. She’d done nothing wrong. Was it wrong to think about another’s husband? A friend’s husband? Of course it was, but the more she tried to suppress her feelings, the stronger they grew. Still she had resisted. And it hadn’t been easy when her own husband didn’t desire her. When she knew that Nannie was horrid to Marsh, that she didn’t love him. Still, she had resisted. Wasn’t there something to be said for that?

  She was about to turn in for the night when she heard Arthur and Marsh coming through the front door. She wanted to run and see Marsh, but instead she stood very still in a shadow of the stairwell, hiding like a child. Arthur had his arm slung over Marsh’s shoulder, his overcoat was buttoned wrong and his hair was tousled. Even before she heard him speak, Delia knew he was drunk.

  “Is Mrs. Caton still up?” Marsh called to Williams.

  Delia receded a step deeper into the shadows, away from the railing.

  Williams took Arthur’s hat and tried to help him off with his coat, but Arthur shooed him away, keeping his arm clasped about Marsh’s shoulder. “Oh, we did have fun tonight, didn’t we?” said Arthur. “Wasn’t it fun? Thank you for going with me.” Delia watched as Arthur brought his other arm around Marsh’s shoulder, embracing him as he said repeatedly, “Thank you for going with me. Did I thank you for tonight?”

  “Several times in the carriage.” Marsh laughed and gave Arthur’s shoulder a pat.

  “Oh, Marsh,” Arthur sighed. “We did have fun tonight, didn’t we?” He pressed his forehead to Marsh’s and closed his eyes.

  Delia was about to turn away when she saw Arthur run his fingers across the nape of Marsh’s neck, caressing his snow-white hair—just as she’d longed to do. She moved closer to the railing, disbelieving what she was seeing. She could barely breathe. She broke out into a cold sweat as she ran her clammy palms down the front of her wrapper. There was something so intimate in the gesture, something so offensive to her. Perhaps she had suspected it before, but she had never allowed herself to admit it.

  Marsh reached behind him and removed Arthur’s hands while stepping out of his embrace. “You’ve had too much to drink, my friend. Williams—,” he called for the butler. “Please help Mr. Caton to his room.”

  Delia slipped away and raced into her bedroom, swallowing back tears as she leaned against the door. She still couldn’t believe what she’d seen. She wanted to deny it, but the truth had just stared her in the face. Her marriage was a farce. She thought back to their wedding night and to all the nights Arthur had shared her bed. He’d made her a beggar. A groveler. A fool. All that time she’d been wanting him and he’d been wanting something—someone—else. What was she to do now? How was she ever supposed to have his child when clearly he didn’t want her? The rejection pierced her heart. She felt betrayed, used. Wasted on a man who could never love her the way she wanted and needed to be loved.

  And to think she’d felt guilty about her feelings for Marsh when all the while, Arthur had been pursuing him himself. She thought about how Arthur would pout when he felt Marsh was ignoring him, or favoring Delia over him. And now she realized it had nothing to do with jealousy over her. It was all about Marsh! Everything made sense now and it sickened her and broke her heart.

  She cried all through the night as she lay awake, contemplating a future that looked nothing but bleak to her now. She hoped for answers to come along with the daylight creeping in from the parting of her drapes, but only despair remained. All she could think was that she no longer had a husband. She’d never had a husband. Not in the true sense of the word. And what was she to do now? The obvious answer would be to leave him. But the courts would never grant her a divorce without her exposing him, and that she couldn’t do. Even if she could have been so heartless as to shame him, what would she do if she left him? Where would she go? Was she supposed to buy a home for herself? She’d never heard of a woman owning property. She wouldn’t know where to begin. And even more than that, Delia couldn’t imagine her life without Arthur. He was her best friend.

  It was then that something else took hold of her. A new layer unfolded. She stepped out of the cloak of the rejected wife, and thought about Arthur, her friend. Her best friend. How could she not feel sorry for him? It was all so complicated. It was obvious to Delia, but she wondered if Arthur understood his attraction to Marsh. Each time Arthur turned to Marsh for advice, sought out his approval, craved his attention, she knew he was gaining the very things he’d never gotten from the judge. And when the two sat down at the chessboard, or played cards at the Chicago Club, he found the friend he’d lost in Paxton. Delia had always understood that, but now—now she realized there was something else he was seeking, something more—something she couldn’t comprehend. And she had to wonder if Arthur even understood it himself.

  She rolled over in bed and thought about what Arthur would remember in the morning. Would he remember that he’d been rejected—just as he’d rejected her? Would he recall that he’d made a fool out of himself? She clutched the spare pillow to her side, letting its feathers fill the hollow in her body as she realized that she was more saddened than angry. It was just such a sorry situation. For both of them. For all three of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was only one person Delia could talk to about Arthur, so the next day she went to see Marsh at Field, Leiter & Company.

  When she arrived at State and Washington, the chaos of the city swept her up. A string of bustling carriages and wagons jammed the intersections, while the peddlers crowded the sidewalks and shoppers wove in and out of stores.

  Upstairs in the executive offices she found Marsh standing behind his desk, staring out the window, his palm pressed against the glass, his fingertips tapping the pane. He must have seen her reflection in the glass because even before he turned around and saw her face, he asked her what was wrong.

  She dropped into the wooden chair opposite his desk and took a moment to muster her courage, find her words. His desk was neat and polished, not even a smudge visible on the mahogany surface. Pencils stood erect in a cup at the edge of the blotter, next to a crystal inkwell. The day’s mail had been opened and filed.

  “Dell,” he broke into her thoughts. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Arthur.” She fidgeted with the buttons on her gloves. “I’m worried about him.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just that he doesn’t seem quite right when it comes to . . .” She struggled for the words. She’d never spoken of this aloud before to anyone.

  Marsh came around to her side of the desk. “What is it? Is he ill?”

  She studied her hands, her fingers intertwined.

  “Dell, tell me, please.”

  She lifted her head and stared into his eyes, letting the words tumble out. “He’s in love with you, Marsh.”

  He drew a deep breath and looked away. “Dammit.” Taking the seat opposite her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Dell. I’ve sensed it for some time. Dammit.” He sighed again and shook his head. “Arthur wants something from our friendship that simply can’t be.”

  Delia sat up straighter, feeling the tension across her shoulder blades. The room spun around her. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You must know that I’d never do anything to hurt him,” said Marsh. “I’m very fond of Arthur, but . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment and then he began again. “He loves you, Dell. Of that I’m certain. But Arthur is longing for something—something you can’t give him. Something I can’t give him, either.” Marsh leaned over and took her hand.

  She told herself to pull away, but the warmth of his touch seemed so right. The feel of her hand in his was the very thing she needed, especially after her long night. She’d been sick to her stomach, crying so
hard that she had to turn her pillow dry side up. As he ran his thumb over the back of her hand, she felt her eyes watering up. “Marsh . . .” She couldn’t finish her thought.

  “We’ve always known where this was heading, haven’t we?” He reached over with his free hand and tilted her chin, making her look into his eyes. He sighed from deep within his chest. “I’d never want to hurt Arthur, you know that. But I can’t deny how I feel about you. Perhaps I’m just an old fool. But I’m an old fool who’s fallen in love with you.”

  “Marsh, no.”

  “Meet me tomorrow.”

  “I can’t.” Her hand was still in his. “Nannie—”

  “Nannie doesn’t love me.”

  “But she’s my friend.”

  “Is she really? Trust me, you don’t need a friend like Nannie. Please, Delia. Nannie’s in Kentucky with the children. Come meet me tomorrow. I can get a room at the Sherman House. Please.”

  “I can’t.” Freeing her hand from his, she stood up and walked to the door. She paused in the doorway, her hand resting on its frame, unable to pull herself any farther from him.

  “If you change your mind, I’ll be there. Waiting.”

  She shook her head and left his office, rushing out of the store and onto the street. It was just as loud and raucous as ever, with carriages, omnibuses and people scurrying about, but she paid it no mind. It was just background noise as she replayed her conversation with Marsh over and over again in her head.

  She was already at State and Jackson when she stopped and leaned up against a building, catching her breath. For the first time, she asked herself, Why? Why couldn’t she meet Marsh? A chilling wind swept across the street and with it came a sense that something very deep inside her could change, had changed. For underneath all the hurt and disappointment, the frustration and anger, was a new understanding. A calm, clear understanding. Her husband was incapable of fully loving her. Nannie was not a friend. The other women in town had already condemned her. There was no defending her reputation. No one would believe she hadn’t done anything wrong. So why? Why—when every cell in her body wanted him—why couldn’t she go meet Marsh?