by Renée Rosen
She was lucky. She had the best of both her men.
• • •
Arthur turned twenty-five that spring and in honor of his birthday Delia threw a coaching party. At noon, a dozen of the city’s finest horse-drawn carriages lined up on Calumet Avenue, outside the Caton mansion. The plan was to caravan up to Highland Park for a picnic before coaching back to the city, where Delia’s staff was preparing an elaborate dinner for their forty-seven guests.
Arthur’s four-in-hand took the lead with his prized black stallions harnessed and gleaming, and his coachman dressed in his finest red uniform with brass buttons and a matching cap. Abby and Augustus rode behind them with the Palmers in their white carriage. The Pullmans, Swifts, Armours, McCormicks, Leiters, Glessners, Perkinses and several others all followed suit. A carriage of servants tailed behind the caravan.
Arthur sat up on the box, alongside his coachman, while Delia and Marsh remained inside the carriage with its plush velvet seats and matching fringed curtains. It had been at Arthur’s insistence that Marsh ride along with them.
When they all arrived in Highland Park they picnicked on the lawn beneath the shade from the nearby trees. The horses grazed off to the side. Delia’s staff set out wheels of cheese and crusts of bread, summer sausages and fruit, while several of their guests played croquet and badminton. After the games were done and the last of the wine had been finished, they all climbed into their carriages and made their way back to Delia and Arthur’s home.
Delia had transformed her dining room into a floral garden with two long tables draped in lilies and violets. After dinner they moved into the ballroom, where a ten-piece orchestra accompanied the dancing. The whole event was magnificent, and Delia was thrilled to see Arthur so happy. When the orchestra took a brief break, the footmen rolled out an enormous cake and Delia looked on as the candles illuminated Arthur’s boyish smile. He so adored the attention.
After the cake was served, a group of men circled around Arthur. They sat off to the side, all a bit tipsy, especially Arthur, who raised his glass as Lionel Perkins launched into a toast in his honor. As soon as he finished, Gustavus Swift stood and made the next toast. The men carried on, laughing and drinking, oblivious that the orchestra had started playing again and the dancing had resumed.
The hour grew late and some of their guests had already left, but the same group of men still sat off to the side where they’d been the majority of the evening. They were quieter now, slouched down in their chairs, blurry eyed with fresh drinks in their hands. Arthur looked groggy, but still had a smile on his face.
When the orchestra finished its last number, Delia heard a sudden burst of laughter coming from the men. She turned and saw all the men cackling, rocking back and forth, holding their sides. All of them, that was, except for Arthur. He was alert now and after another burst of laughter Delia watched his face turn dark red.
“Arthur, darling,” she called to rescue him. “Can you help me here for a moment?” She reached for his arm and pulled him to the side. “Is everything all right?”
He glanced at her hands circled about his forearm. “I’d say you’ve already put on enough of a show for everyone. And this”—he indicated her hold on him—“is only making matters worse.” He pulled himself free.
“Arthur—”
“Do you know what they just asked me? Do you have any idea? They wanted to know if I just watch or if I climb into bed with you and Marsh.” He turned and started for the stairs.
“Arthur, wait—they’re drunk. They don’t know—”
He gave her a sharp look and she realized there was nothing she could say. There was no way to make it better. This was the world they had made for themselves.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mrs. Caton paid Delia a visit the following week. Before she arrived Delia rearranged her Émile Gallé vase of flowers, straightened the sofa doilies and inspected for dust in anticipation of what her mother-in-law would find fault with that day.
But ten minutes into their visit not a critical comment had been made. In fact, they were sitting in the parlor having tea when Mrs. Caton said, “I have something for you.”
“For me?” Delia was taken aback. Could it be that Mrs. Caton was finally coming around? Delia watched her mother-in-law check her hair in the beveled mirror on the wall before she reached inside her satchel and pulled out a bottle. “Here.” She handed it to Delia. “This is for you.”
Delia held the blue bottle of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. She didn’t know what to say.
“It comes from Massachusetts,” Mrs. Caton said, pointing to the cherubs on the label. “They say it’s very good for woman problems.”
“But I’m not unwell. I’m perfectly fine.”
Mrs. Caton raised an eyebrow. “They say it’s very effective for women in your condition.”
“My condition?”
“Delia, my dear, let’s not pretend, shall we? After all this time, at the very least I would have expected to have a grandchild on the way by now.”
Delia swallowed hard. Naturally they assumed she was the problem. She was the reason they were barren. She graciously accepted the bottle of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla knowing that Arthur’s family would never suspect the true nature of her marriage. Or of their son.
After Mrs. Caton left, Delia paced about the parlor. Obviously this issue wasn’t going to go away. And she did want a child every bit as much as her in-laws wanted an heir. All this time she and Marsh had been so careful. They practiced coitus interruptus as taught in the pages of Robert Dale Owen’s Moral Physiology. But now it occurred to her that if she were to become pregnant—with Marsh’s child—it could alleviate so many problems, and remove the speculation and blame. It would do the same for Arthur. And even Marsh said he longed for more children. In many ways if she became pregnant, it would be the best thing that could happen for all three of them.
That night when Arthur came home, Delia followed him into his bedroom. She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors of his armoire and drew a deep breath to help with her resolve. “Your mother and father are very eager for an heir. Your mother stopped by today. She gave me something to help things along.” Delia handed Arthur the bottle of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla.
Arthur looked at the bottle and set it on the nightstand. “I believe it’s going to take more than this.”
“Maybe. But it could still happen.” She tilted her head to catch his eye. “It could, you know. Given our”—she struggled for the right word before settling on—“situation.”
He looked toward the ceiling, deliberately avoiding her gaze. “Is this your way of telling me you’re with child?”
“No.” She laughed sadly, got up and went to his side. “But, Arthur, think about it.” She placed her hands on either side of his face, her fingers buried in his muttonchops. “If I were to become pregnant, it would certainly pacify your family. You could give them an heir and it would put all this pressure to rest. And you love children. You’d be a wonderful father.”
“This is about Marsh, isn’t it? You’re talking about having a child with him, not me?”
“But the child would be ours. All of ours.”
“So I’m assuming you and Marsh have talked this over.”
“No. I just—I haven’t talked to him about it. I just know he’s always wanted more children. You know that too. But this is between us right now. This is something that you and I need to discuss first.”
He grew quiet for a moment and she thought he was about to dismiss the whole idea when he turned and asked, “How would this work if you were to become pregnant?”
“You would raise the child as your own. It would be a Caton heir, not a Field. And I would make sure Marsh knew that up front.”
“Oh, Dell.” He picked up the bottle of sarsaparilla and examined the label. “You know I want an heir. I don’t want to let my family dow
n, and you make it sound so easy. Surely you know it would be so much more complicated than that. How would Marsh feel about this? How would Nannie handle it? What if people found out the truth? What if the child looked like him? You have to take all that into consideration.”
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet. And it may not. But”—she took the bottle from his hand—“I’m asking if I can have your blessings to at least try. For all our sakes.”
Arthur sat on the side of the bed and hung his head low for a long time. Finally he raised his eyes and looked at her. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll never mention it again.”
“But even so, it could still happen. At least I assume that’s a possibility.”
She nodded. “I suppose it could.”
He nodded back. “Then, if it should happen and that’s what you want—and if that’s what Marsh wants—I won’t stand in your way.”
• • •
“I want us to try,” she said to Marsh the following night. He was in her bed. Arthur wasn’t home, having made an abrupt departure for Ottawa that morning.
Marsh was sitting up, knees bent with his arms looped around them. He hadn’t said anything yet. It was warm inside Delia’s bedroom and a welcome breeze blew in through the windows, making the drapes balloon out.
Delia propped herself up on one elbow. “I mean it, Marsh. I want us to try.”
“You’re asking me to father your child. A child that would be raised as a Caton?” Marsh stroked his mustache, staring ahead, his eyes half-closed. She thought he was going to tell her no, but then he leaned over and kissed her, slipping his arm about her waist and sliding his body up against hers. In the midst of that kiss he said in a breathy voice, “Let’s try. Let’s try right now.”
He parted the fabric of her wrapper and brought his mouth to her bare breast, his fingers dancing over her skin and sending shivers down the slope of her hip and to her core. He took his time with her that night, making love to her with a purpose, his kisses deeper, his touch more intense, his desire consuming her. His body fit around hers soft and warm, holding her close. His breath whispered along her neck, his lips against her ear, while her rib cage heaved in and out as she clung to him. The heat built up inside her as she cried out his name, her mouth pressed to his collarbone. There was a ripple of pleasure and then another, ringing out within her, until at last he broke and she took all of him in. He dropped down in her arms, his heart thumping against hers. They fell asleep that night bathed in sweat and blissfully spent.
All that spring and into the summer, while Arthur split his time between Ottawa and Chicago, Delia faithfully took her two tablespoons of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla each morning and tried to make a baby with Marsh.
One morning she awoke before Marsh and stole the quiet to observe him undetected while he slept. She considered it a privilege to be so close to his genius, to the mind that thought like none other. She ran her fingertips along the wisps of white hair on his forehead and watched him, lost in his dreams, wondering what he was conjuring up, as she knew his was a mind that never truly stopped. It was one of the things she loved most about him.
That astute mind must have sensed her staring because he began to stir. She eased up off her elbow and rested her head on his chest, content when she felt his arm absentmindedly circle about her waist, turning her skin to gooseflesh even in the summer’s heat. Marsh mumbled something and rolled over.
She smiled and lightly ran her fingers through his hair again before she got up and went to the bathroom. It was then, without any warning, without the hint of her usual monthly symptoms, that she saw the blood. All the warmth left her body. She felt herself an empty husk, a meaningless woman. Her purpose had passed her by. She was no closer to being with child now than she had been before she started her mother-in-law’s tonic. Her eyes filled with tears as she reached for a vial of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla and threw it against the marble floor, shattering it into shards that skidded halfway across the room.
She was staring at the mess when Marsh rushed into the bathroom, his hair rumpled. “What happened? Dell? Are you all right?” He stepped around the broken glass and reached for her, pulling her to him. “What’s wrong?”
She sobbed into her hands. “I’m never going to have a baby. I’m barren.” She collapsed into his arms, dropping her head to his shoulder as he guided her back to the bedroom.
He sat her down on the side of the bed. She stared at a portrait on the wall, never before noticing the mother-of-pearl buttons on the woman’s bodice or the gilt acanthus leaves on the frame. She was absorbed in the most infinitesimal of details, hoping to make her mind go blank.
“Come back to bed,” he said, coaxing her. He kissed her and pulled her body close to his. “I’ll make you a baby. I’ll make you pregnant or I’ll die trying.”
• • •
Arthur broke ground for the solarium in July of that year. After the comments at their coaching party and knowing that Delia was trying to conceive Marsh’s child, Arthur wanted to send up a smoke signal to the neighbors indicating that everything was fine inside his home. So fine, in fact, that they were building a fancy solarium onto the back of their house.
Nannie was sending up smoke signals of her own as well. After six months of being away, she’d been released from the sanitarium in August. She returned to Chicago wanting to prove to all that she was fine, never better. In fact, Frances Glessner was hosting an elaborate luncheon in Nannie’s honor to welcome her back. All the members of the Chicago Women’s Club had been invited. Delia didn’t relish the thought of seeing Nannie. She was sick inside over betraying her and had wanted to back out of the party. But she reluctantly attended, knowing that it would look suspicious if she wasn’t there.
When she arrived, Nannie and Frances stood in the front parlor receiving their guests. Nannie looked well rested with a vibrant, healthy glow, but Delia could hardly make eye contact with her. All she could think was, My Lord, I’m in love with this woman’s husband. I’m trying to have his child.
Marsh still hadn’t told Nannie about the affair. He wanted to wait until she was stronger before he broke the news to her. Delia had no choice but to go along with the charade, but she was certain that Nannie and everyone else could see the deceit on her face, hear it in her voice, smell it seeping through her pores. Oh, how she wished that Nannie knew the truth. She just wanted it out in the open whatever the retribution might be. Then maybe she could breathe again, look at herself in the mirror and not see a despicable liar and sneak.
“Are you unwell?” Abby asked.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
During the luncheon while Nannie spun stories about her fabricated shopping sprees in London and Paris, going on and on about her supposed travels through Europe, Delia felt the deepest pangs of sadness and guilt. Did anyone even suspect that she’d been locked away in a sanitarium this whole time? The more Delia listened, the more upset she became. She tried to appear amused and engaged with each new tale Nannie delivered, but it was wearing her down.
Before dessert was served, Delia feigned a sore throat, left the luncheon and went to see Marsh down at the store.
“I don’t know how many more of these social encounters I can handle,” she said to Marsh after he closed his office door. “Look at me—” She held out her fingers. “I’m still shaking.”
Marsh reached for her hands, covering them with his own. “I told you, I can’t tell her yet. I need to wait until she’s more stable. The doctors warned that the slightest upset could cause a setback. Believe me, I’m not afraid of the consequences for myself. Only for her and for the children. I need you to be patient a little while longer and then I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her everything.”
“And then what? She won’t divorce you. I can’t leave Arthur—what are we doing? What can we even hope for?”
Someone was at the door. Delia
jumped away from Marsh just as Levi Leiter stormed inside.
“There you are,” he said, jamming a cigar in his mouth and heading over to Marsh. Levi was worked up, and if he did notice Delia standing there, he didn’t bother with her. “Your cashboys are standing around downstairs complaining about wanting a raise.”
“Then fire them,” said Marsh, planting his hands on his hips. “Fire the whole lot of them. I don’t need that kind of chatter on the floor.”
“Maybe if the Merchant Prince could climb down off his throne long enough to deal with this, they wouldn’t be complaining.” Levi butted his barrel chest up against Marsh.
“For your information, you hired half those boys yourself.”
They were both talking over each other and Delia knew that she’d lost Marsh. He was every bit as oblivious to her standing there as was Levi. She reached for her things and without a word she let herself out of his office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Delia and Marsh stole their time together, trying to be discreet for Nannie’s sake. There were early morning rendezvous when he should have been at the store and midafternoon breaks when he would have been at the Chicago Club, but it was always rushed, always cloaked in risk of being caught. Gone were their leisurely nights together, lying in each other’s arms, talking until three, sometimes four in the morning. The whole thing didn’t sit well with her, but she loved Marsh and there was no other way.
Meanwhile she watched Marsh and Nannie carry on as if everything were fine and in turn she paraded about town as Arthur Caton’s dutiful wife, attending charity balls, joining him for family affairs and entertaining guests in their new solarium. It went on like that throughout the rest of the summer and into the fall.
