What the Lady Wants

by Renée Rosen

  When she told him that Nannie was back in town, Marsh cursed and slammed the ledger shut, sending it and various papers to the floor. She knew that he was angry with Nannie, not her, and that she’d been right to tell him. He stood back, blew out a deep breath and ran his hands back through his hair, trying to regain his composure.

  “Damn that woman.” He kicked a heap of papers out of his path and planted his hands on his hips. “She knows exactly how to infuriate me. It’s just like her to swoop back into town and disrupt everything.”

  “If it helps at all, I can tell you that the children were happy to see her.”

  “Of course they were. They don’t know what kind of witch their mother is.” Marsh reached for his suit jacket and muttered, “I suppose I should go home and find out what she wants this time.”

  As they headed for their neighborhood, Delia felt the holiday magic drifting away even before the season had begun.

  And later that night, Arthur felt it, too.

  They were having cocktails at home with Paxton and one of his new girls. Her name was Penelope Briggs and she was a young socialite, the daughter of a banker. She had just celebrated her twenty-first birthday. She sat very close to Paxton on the settee, and when Arthur made a toast, the two of them, Paxton and Penelope, gazed at each other over the rims of their glasses. She had a perfect heart-shaped face and even longer lashes than Paxton did.

  “Say,” said Arthur, turning to Paxton, “I’ve got a new rifle. Come have a look.”

  “In a bit,” he said. “Relax. We just got here. Let us enjoy our drinks first.”

  Delia saw the disappointment on Arthur’s face and she knew what he was thinking. They were used to Paxton bringing his girls around, but something about this one was different. It was making Arthur nervous and with good reason. Clearly, Paxton was smitten with Penelope and she was obviously quite taken with him, too.

  In many ways Penelope reminded Delia of herself and she desperately wanted to warn her, encourage her to move on. Keep Paxton as her friend but move on. She wanted to tell this young girl that even if Paxton was to fall for her, even if he was to marry her, she might never be fulfilled. She might never have children. She might never be loved and desired the way that every woman wanted and needed to be.

  The following week, Paxton joined Penelope and her family for Thanksgiving, leaving Arthur in such a state of jealousy that he drank away half the holiday afternoon.

  “I don’t even feel like having Thanksgiving this year,” he said, refilling his glass. “Let’s just cancel and not go to my parents’ tonight.”

  “I would love to, but it’s Thanksgiving and my family will be there, too. I promised Abby I would protect her from your mother.”

  As they were leaving their house to walk next door to the Catons’, they heard a blast of loud music along with an army of voices chanting, “Fair Pay for a Fair Day” and “Death to Capitalism.”

  She grabbed hold of Arthur’s hand and they raced to the corner; what Delia saw there stopped her heart. There were hundreds of men and women whose tattered coats and hats were so out of place on Prairie Avenue. Some were beating drums or blowing horns, while others hoisted black and red flags—the flags of the anarchists—into the air. The anarchists were here! In her neighborhood! Her whole being flooded with panic.

  “We will fight with dynamite! You will die!” They shouted these hideous threats over and over again.

  Delia watched in horror as they stormed the Pullman mansion, surrounding all the entrances, pounding on their drums and the front door, calling for Pullman’s assassination. They did the same thing to the Perkins mansion and when they arrived outside the Field mansion, they pushed open the gate and took to the stairs, fists pounding on the door. Delia could hear the brring brrring brrrring of the doorbell ringing while they chanted, “Death to the Merchant Prince.”

  “Come on,” said Arthur, tugging at her arm. “It’s not safe out here. Let’s go.”

  They scurried back to their house and locked all the doors just moments before the demonstration bled over onto Calumet Avenue. Delia heard the music and chanting as she clutched Flossie to her chest. The protestors pounded on the doors and windows. She was afraid they would break them down. The buzzer on the doorbell rang so shrilly it nearly made her come out of her skin.

  “Stay away from the windows and doors,” she heard Arthur telling Williams. She could see the staff was as terrified as she was.

  Delia huddled in the safety of the parlor, praying that Marsh wouldn’t be foolish enough to go outside and engage them. If he did, she was certain that they would kill him.

  Eventually the police arrived. The pounding eased up and the shouting grew fainter and fainter as the demonstrators moved on, leaving the lawns and gardens trampled. Delia was still shaking even after the last of them had left the Prairie Avenue District.

  The terror of it stayed with her for weeks afterward and she feared the anarchists weren’t finished with them yet. And though Delia had long since been excluded from the city’s biggest holiday parties, that year she was relieved to stay home on Christmas Eve with Arthur.

  But Arthur wasn’t quite as content to spend the night home alone with her. Paxton had stopped by earlier in the evening, but said he couldn’t stay long. He was expected to join Penelope at her family’s home.

  “Just one more drink,” Arthur had begged when Paxton got up to leave forty-five minutes after arriving.

  Paxton looked at his pocket watch and twisted his handsome lips as he slumped back down on the sofa. “Just a quick one,” he said. “And then I really do have to go.”

  Paxton left two hours and two drinks later and afterward Arthur turned to Delia and said, “Look at us. We’re all alone on the holidays.”

  “No, we’re not,” she said. “We have each other.”

  So they decorated their tree and exchanged gifts: a collection of leather-bound novels for her, a new saddle for him. Before ten o’clock that night Arthur was passed out on the sofa. After his valet helped him to bed, Delia stayed in the parlor, seated before the fireplace with all the stockings hanging down, filled and waiting for the children who never came. The tree stood off to the side, only adding to the absurdity of it all. Arthur had been right: she was alone for Christmas. She sipped her sherry and watched the snow falling outside the window, stacking up on the ledge. Eventually she got up and looked out the window, wondering what was happening across the way at the Field mansion.

  She’d never felt like a mistress before, the second tier, the next in line after the wife. But she knew that children trumped all else on a holiday. It was Christmas and Marsh’s place was with them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  1882

  The festivities were over and Delia tucked away her melancholy along with the tinsel, the ornaments and the other holiday decorations. Even though Nannie was still holed up in the Field mansion, Delia paid her little mind. She was focused on one thing and that was the grand opening of Marshall Field & Company.

  At first she’d questioned why Marsh didn’t get the store ready in time for the Christmas shopping season. But he was a perfectionist and refused to open his doors until every last detail was in place. Plus, he had enough faith in his customers to believe that women would come to shop no matter what the season.

  And now it was the beginning of January and the opening was just three weeks away. Delia and her father had just come from lunch and were now standing across the street from the new store. A massive green awning and four enormous granite pillars had recently been installed at the main entrance. The brass placard sign was mounted to the limestone and the flagpoles had been set up. It looked spectacular and everyone was enthralled with anticipation for Marshall Field & Company. Even though the ten-story Montauk Building, which the newspapers were calling a skyscraper, was under construction just a few blocks away on Monroe, everyone on Sta
te Street was talking about Marshall Field & Company, including the socialists. They stood across the street, at the southeast corner of Washington and State, chanting, “Long live the workingman! Death to the Merchant Prince!”

  “They make me nervous,” Delia said to her father, holding Flossie close.

  “Oh, they’re harmless.”

  “I don’t know. You heard what happened on Thanksgiving and now they’ve joined forces with anarchists from Germany.”

  “That’s just talk. That’s what they want you to think. Those workers and labor organizers have been out there protesting for ages. Nothing’s come of it. Nobody pays them any mind,” said her father, glancing over at the crowd and shaking his head. “But the thing that’s making the neighbors here nervous—and it’s got nothing to do with the labor movement—is the Merchant Prince. Just look at that.” Her father pointed to the left of the protestors, to the future Marshall Field & Company. “He’s building a palace compared to all the other dry goods stores on this street. He’s changing the face of State Street and putting the rest of the merchants to shame.”

  Her father paused and blew into his hands to warm them. “My, what an accomplishment that is. I remember when all us merchants were down on Lake Street. We thought it was something to have a second floor. We never could have imagined something like what Marshall’s building.” Her father whistled through his teeth. “Just goes to show, there’s no limit to what modern man can create. It all starts up here—” He pointed to his temple. “Yes indeed, that Marshall Field is something else. Now, there’s a man who doesn’t believe in the status quo. I can only imagine what he’s going to do with the inside.”

  The protestors began chanting again, “This is war! The plutocrats must die!”

  “I’ll tell you another thing about Marshall Field. He hates those labor organizers with a passion. He’ll do whatever it takes to break them. He refuses to even do business with them.”

  “Wouldn’t any merchant worth his salt?” she said, defensively.

  “Yes, but ole Marsh won’t even sell a labor member a toothpick.” He laughed.

  “And why should he? After everything he’s done for this city and after all the people he’s provided jobs to, is he supposed to just roll over and let the unions tell him how to run his business?”

  “My, oh my,” said her father, giving her a close look. “You’re becoming very politically minded these days, aren’t you?”

  “I just think it’s wrong. That’s all.” She agreed with Marsh and the other industrialists; these men—mostly the anarchist immigrants—were dangerous. They needed to be stopped.

  Mr. Spencer stopped and turned toward her with a serious expression on his face. “Dell, you’re a grown woman and I’ve never wanted to meddle in your private affairs but . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Delia busied herself with Flossie, holding her breath because she knew what was coming.

  “Do be careful,” he said. “All this talk, it’s not good for you or Arthur. It’s not good for any of us.”

  Delia gazed down at the sidewalk. She hated the thought of disappointing her father. They drifted to the corner of State and Randolph and she still hadn’t said a word to him.

  “Be careful. That’s all I ask.” Mr. Spencer leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before they parted ways and he headed down Randolph.

  A few moments later, despite her father’s warning, Delia turned around and headed back down State Street. She found one of Marsh’s office boys to let her inside to see him. Even from upstairs in his office she could hear the chatter from the protestors rising up from the street level, leaking in through the window.

  He looked out the panes of glass, his hands braced on the ledge. “Do you know what Junior told me last night?”

  She sighed and nodded. “That he’d rather take art classes than work at your store?”

  Marsh looked at her from over his shoulder. “So you already knew, huh?”

  “Oh, Marsh, he was scared to death to tell you. Arthur was the one who encouraged him to talk to you about it.”

  “The boy needs discipline, not art classes.”

  Delia got up and placed her hands on his shoulders. “He’s only a teenager.”

  “He’s fourteen, and when I was his age, I was working.”

  “Times are different now. You can’t force him to become a merchant.”

  But no matter how many times Delia reminded him of that, Marsh continued to scoff at the drawings Junior brought home from art class and tacked up on the wall in his room. On more than one occasion Delia had seen Marsh reduce his son to a puddle of tears, calling him lazy and spoiled. It reminded her of the way the judge talked to Arthur. She tried to intervene, but that only threatened to drive a wedge between Marsh and her.

  Finally, thankfully, instead of berating his son, Marsh decided to concentrate on training his five hundred new Marshall Field employees, including doormen, cashboys, supervisors, clerks and elevator boys. He was strict with them, insisting that they address one another properly as Mr., Mrs. or Miss. They were expected to know all regular customers by name as well as learn each and every piece of merchandise in their department, memorizing colors, sizes and styles. He insisted that they become experts on every item they sold. He promised that in exchange for their hard work, he could make a merchant out of any of them.

  Delia had always known that Marsh was a stickler for perfection, but the longer she listened to him, the more she wondered if his staff would be able to live up to such steep expectations.

  The night before the store opening, Delia and Marsh went for dinner at an out-of-the-way restaurant down on Toothpick Alley at Madison and Clark. It was at one of those new cafeteria-style places that none of their friends or colleagues would have ever stepped foot in.

  “I’ve decided to invest in Charles Yerkes’s new cable car system,” Marsh said, arranging the salt and pepper shakers as if they were chess pieces.

  “Oh, Marsh, why?” Delia made a face and pushed her tray aside. She had read all about Yerkes in the newspapers. He’d come to Chicago from Philadelphia and used unscrupulous measures to obtain the capital needed to build his cable car lines. “The man is a thief.”

  “Yes, but by investing in his cable cars I can insist that they stop in front of my store.” He raised one eyebrow. “They’ll stop in front of the store and then loop back around and make a big circle and bring the next carload of passengers right to my front door.”

  “So all day long you’ll have his cable cars making one big circle—one giant loop—around your store?”

  “Exactly.”

  He spoke with such enthusiasm she could see it bubbling up inside him. Usually her excitement rose to match his, but this time he was too far out in front. With all her eagerness she’d never be able to catch up to him.

  After dinner they walked down Clark Street with January’s frigid chill in the air. The clouds were moving swiftly to the south and it looked as though it was going to snow.

  “I meant it when I said I can turn any clerk into a merchant.”

  “I know you did.”

  “And now I’ve got a new clerk who seems determined to prove me right. His name’s Harry Selfridge. He’s young, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. Certainly ambitious. He comes up to me today and presents me with a list of merchandising ideas. ‘I had some thoughts about the display windows out front, Mr. Field,’ he says to me. I couldn’t believe this young man’s gall.”

  “But don’t you want ambitious clerks like that? I thought that was the whole point.”

  “It is, but I tell you there’s something about this Harry Selfridge that rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Then why not get rid of him?”

  “Because the fact of the matter is, I looked at the list he gave me, and his ideas aren’t half-bad. I wish I’d thought of them mysel
f.”

  She wanted to put her arms around him but knew she couldn’t. It was bad enough that they were together in the evening, strolling along where anyone could have seen them. But something about that night emboldened them. They cut over to State Street and stood on the sidewalk outside the store. The drapes were drawn over the giant display windows, only adding to the mystique of what was about to be revealed to all of Chicago in just a matter of hours.

  She discreetly slipped her hand in his and leaned in, whispering, “Look at what you’ve done, Mr. Field.”

  They were still standing admiring the front of the store when two men darted around the corner. Delia noticed them from the corner of her eye and the hair on the back of her neck prickled her skin.

  “Field,” they began shouting, “you’re a dead man. We’ll destroy you and your store!”

  “Go on,” Marsh called after them as they scampered around the corner. “Run away, you cowards! I dare you to come back here.” He raised his fists in fury while Delia held him back from going after them. She was trembling, but Marsh didn’t appear to be frightened at all. Just angry. “I will fight those damn socialists with everything I’ve got.”

  • • •

  The next morning, January 26, 1882, was one of the coldest days of the year, but that didn’t derail Marsh’s plans. At eight o’clock precisely, the display window draperies parted and Marshall Field & Company officially opened its doors for business.

  Delia was enthralled by what Marsh had been able to do to the old Singer Building. The doorman standing out front in his green and gold uniform held the door and bowed as Delia, Flossie and Abby stepped inside. A potpourri of perfumes, toilet waters and scented sachets enveloped them and Delia felt as though she had just entered a royal palace, or been wrapped in cashmere.