by Renée Rosen
As they were leaving the tearoom that day, Bertha draped her arm about Delia’s waist and walked her down the street to where her landau carriage was waiting.
“I do have something that might help,” said Bertha.
“Please, tell me,” said Delia. “I need to do something. I can’t go on like this.”
“Well.” Bertha placed her hands on her lap, lacing her fingers together. “I just attended a meeting yesterday for the Columbian Exposition. I’ve been named the chairman of the Board of Lady Managers.”
“Oh, Bertha, what a wonderful honor.”
“Thank you. It is an honor. And it’s also a great deal of work. I can’t possibly handle all the responsibilities myself. So, I wonder, Mrs. Caton, if you would be my assistant?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
One week later Delia found herself in the boardroom at the mayor’s office. Portraits of Carter Harrison and the mayors that came before him lined the walls in heavy gilt frames. She counted twelve sweating silver water pitchers stationed about the long boardroom table along with twenty crystal goblets. At each place there was also a pad of paper with the World’s Columbian Exposition Fair logo embossed on the top.
This would be Delia and Bertha’s first meeting with the executive committee for the world’s fair, composed of the top city officials and the men who were helping to finance the event. Delia liked the idea of being in a meeting with Marsh. It gave her a sense of equality to be sitting right across from him at an oversize table along with men like Potter Palmer, Gustavus Swift, Cyrus McCormick and Philip Armour.
Once the meeting started, the mayor asked for a report on the main attraction. “It’s got to be something spectacular,” he said. “Something that will rival France’s Eiffel Tower.”
“We did get a proposal from a railroad engineer,” said Marsh.
“Oh, you mean the gentleman working on the giant Pleasure Wheel,” said Potter.
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“You’re talking about George Ferris,” said Gustavus Swift.
“Is it worth us having a meeting with him?” asked the mayor.
Potter and Marsh exchanged glances and both nodded.
The mayor scratched down his name and then moved on to Cyrus McCormick. “And what about the faulty sewer system near the park? We’re going to have to deal with a host of sanitation issues down there and I won’t have a cholera outbreak in the midst of this fair. . . .”
When it was finally their turn, Bertha announced that the Board of Lady Managers had selected the architect who would design the Women’s Building. “We’ve decided to award it to a very bright, very talented twenty-one-year-old graduate of MIT named Sophia Hayden.”
“Did you say Sophia?” Daniel Burnham, the head architect for the fair, leaned back in his chair and cupped his ear.
Delia had known Burnham for years, as she and Arthur had commissioned him to build their home on Calumet Avenue. He hadn’t changed much at all, still full and round-faced with a scraggly handlebar mustache.
“Indeed I did,” said Bertha.
Burnham folded his arms across his chest. “Do you think she’s up for the task?”
“Why do you ask?” Delia said, turning to him. “Because she’s so young? Or because she’s a she?”
There was a ripple of commotion before Gustavus Swift spoke up. “Mrs. Caton, Mrs. Palmer, please let’s be reasonable here.”
“Exactly.” Burnham wrinkled his brow and leaned forward. “Need I remind you that we have less than two years to build this exposition? This is a monumental task. Do you have any idea what it’s going to take to transform Jackson Park into the White City?”
The mayor straightened his tie and spoke up. “And just what is this White City that you keep referring to? I’ve heard you use that term countless times and I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
Burnham jotted something down on his notepad before he looked up and began to speak. “The White City is my theme for the fair. It’s no secret that our greatest challenge is convincing the Europeans to come to Chicago. All they’ve ever heard is that our city is dirty. It smells. It’s dangerous. They realize that Chicago is a modern city—a glimpse into the future—but let’s face it, Chicago frightens them. We need to dispel the belief that Chicago is a dark and dangerous place. We’re going to construct more than two hundred buildings—all in white—along the perimeter of the basin. We’re literally going to construct a pristine, white, gleaming paradise—the White City. Right now Jackson Park is nothing but swampland. We have to dig a basin and drain the water and transform the whole place. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before and in such a short time period. That’s why I’m questioning the women’s choice of architect. We need the very best people on these assignments.”
Marsh planted one elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Then we’ll continue to look for a new architect for the Women’s Building. I say we move on with the business at hand and—”
“The business at hand,” said Delia, giving Marsh a glaring look, “is to award the design to the most qualified architect—be it a man or woman.”
“And I believe, Mrs. Caton,” said Marsh, “that we’ve already determined that your candidate is not the best architect for this project.”
“But you haven’t even looked at her proposal.” Delia felt Bertha’s hand on her arm, trying to calm her down. Delia reached into her file and pulled out Sophia Hayden’s sketches and blueprints. For the next thirty minutes the group pored over them.
Finally Potter spoke up. “If the Board of Lady Managers think this Sophia woman is the best person for the project, then I say we proceed.”
“But with caution—” Philip Armour raised a finger. “Daniel, if you need to step in and assist—”
“I assure you that won’t be necessary,” said Delia. “You worry about the men. We’ll worry about the women.”
• • •
Within a month of that initial meeting with the executive committee, Delia and Bertha had set up an office next door to the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts on Michigan and Van Buren. Together they wasted no time decorating their work space. Some may have considered this a silly extravagance, but Delia and Bertha couldn’t help themselves. They were both so accustomed to being surrounded by luxury and beautiful things. Besides, they believed that an aesthetically pleasing environment was conducive to their success. They purchased a Persian Mahal carpet and two hand-carved De Morgan walnut partners desks that faced each other with matching marbleized stained-glass desk lamps. Off to the side they had a little seating area with a pair of exquisite mahogany scrolling armchairs, a matching settee and a table with an enormous Mont Joye glass vase of lilies on top.
One morning Delia and Bertha were having their coffee while going through the invites for the Women’s Pavilion planning meeting.
“Well,” said Delia, looking over the updated list, “we just heard back from Arizona and Nebraska, so we now have our two representatives needed from each state.”
“And would you look at all these entries we’ve already received?” said Bertha. She was surrounded by piles of envelopes and boxes.
As word spread that they would showcase women’s achievements throughout the world, applications flooded their office. Each day they received paintings, poetry and short stories, needlepoint and embroidered pieces, fashion designs and inventions all created by women.
“Did you see this?” said Bertha, holding up a sketch they’d just received. It was a sofa built into a bathtub.
They had a good laugh over that as they continued sorting through the letters and cables touting the accomplishments of suffragettes, women in law school, women doctors and women who worked in the man’s world.
“Isn’t it amazing?” said Bertha. “Just think of all the capabilities these women display.”
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“Yes, and just think of how many bright, talented women are overlooked in this world, simply because they’re females.” Delia was just getting a taste of what it meant to work side by side with men. Stubborn, arrogant, pushy men. If there was one thing she hoped the Women’s Pavilion would prove, it was that women deserved a chance to excel every bit as much as a man.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
1893
Delia looked at the invitation, a hand-drawn note from Frances Glessner requesting her presence at a meeting for the women of the Prairie Avenue District. She crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash. It had been years since she’d attended a meeting with these women and she didn’t relish the thought of sitting in a room with all of them now. Bertha and Abby had stopped by her house on their way to the meeting, determined to convince her otherwise.
“It’s for the world’s fair,” Bertha explained. “You have to attend.”
“As if we don’t have enough meetings right now,” said Delia, sorting through a stack of mail. “It’s March. The fair opens in three months. What could they possibly want to meet about?”
“Dancing lessons,” said Abby with a shrug.
Delia stopped shuffling the mail and looked up. “Dancing lessons?”
Bertha nodded. “The women all agree that if we are to present a regal image of Chicago at the world’s fair, our men had best master their dance steps.”
Delia laughed, trying to picture some of the men like Gustavus Swift and Lionel Perkins taking waltzing lessons.
“As a member of the Board of Lady Managers, you have to be there,” said Bertha.
“And don’t worry,” added Abby, handing Delia her hat and gloves. “I won’t leave your side for a minute.”
Half an hour later Delia felt all eyes on her as the three of them stepped inside Frances Glessner’s library. There were fifteen women already there, perched on their chairs, teacups balanced on their laps, necks craned her way. Delia couldn’t read their expressions and had a mind to turn around and leave when Frances rose from her seat and walked over. Delia froze in place thinking, Here it comes.
But a smile spread across Frances’s face as she took hold of both Delia’s hands, kissing her on either cheek. “I’m so glad you could make it today.”
While Frances greeted Bertha and Abby, Malvina Armour went up to Delia. “It’s so wonderful to see you,” she said. “It’s been too long.”
Another woman stepped up and introduced herself. “I don’t know if you’d remember me,” she said, clasping Delia’s hand. Delia had indeed remembered her. She was Thelma Moyer and she had snubbed Delia on several occasions. “I think the work you’ve done on behalf of the women in this town is outstanding.” She smiled, still holding Delia’s hands. “Just outstanding.”
And no sooner had she finished speaking with Thelma than the other women lined up, waiting to pay homage to Delia, thanking her for all her efforts on behalf of the fair. She was especially taken aback when Sybil Perkins invited her to a luncheon the following week and Annie Swift asked if she would have time to sit on a committee for the Fortnightly Club.
“I don’t know,” said Delia. “Am I still a member?”
Annie and Sybil laughed as if Delia’s exclusion had never been a possibility. “Of course you’re still a member,” said Sybil. “We’ve all missed you terribly. Haven’t we, ladies?”
“Oh, of course,” said Malvina as several others all chimed in, circling around Delia and agreeing emphatically.
“And you know the Chicago Women’s Club still meets every Tuesday,” said Harriet Pullman.
“So there you have it,” said Mary Leiter. “Time to let flygones be bygones.”
Delia graciously accepted all their attention and invitations though she knew it was only because she was part of the Board of Lady Managers. Now all the women who had previously spurned her were welcoming her back into their circle.
“Come now, everyone,” said Frances Glessner, calling the meeting to order. “We have a great many items to discuss. . . .”
Delia sat in between Abby and Bertha, listening to the elaborate plans for the opening ball.
At one point Harriet Pullman looked at Delia and frowned. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. I just realized something. We forgot about Arthur’s injury. He won’t be able to join in on the dancing, will he?”
“Afraid not,” said Delia. “He still relies quite heavily on his cane.”
“Well, we simply must find you a partner,” said Frances.
“Yes. Yes.” The others all agreed.
“There’s Mr. Howton,” said Annie Swift.
“He’s arthritic,” said Abby, shaking her head.
“What about Mr. Beauregard?” suggested Harriet.
“Mr. Beauregard?” Malvina made a face. “We can’t do that to Delia. He’ll barely come up to her shoulders.”
“Mr. Fitzsimons?” said Frances.
“Oh no,” said Sybil. “He’ll be drunk and passed out in a corner before the orchestra finishes the first waltz.”
Delia sat back, not saying a word, fascinated by everyone’s preposterous attempts to pair her off.
Finally Bertha spoke up, cutting through the chatter. “What about Mr. Field? We all know Nannie won’t be in town for this.”
The room went quiet and Delia held her breath waiting for the outrage to strike. But it never came. The women grew very still, but no one gasped; no one raised even the slightest protest. After all, they all knew that Arthur couldn’t dance and Marsh was separated from Nannie and had no partner of his own.
“It’s settled, then,” said Frances. “Delia’s partner for the opening ball will be Mr. Field.”
The round of applause that followed took her completely by surprise.
After that meeting at Frances Glessner’s, Delia’s engagement book was flooded as never before with invitations to dinner parties, luncheons, teas and meetings. How ironic, she thought: the very women who had torn her down now—because of all her work on the fair and the Board of Lady Managers—regarded her as an advocate for women worldwide. Like their queen, Bertha Palmer, Delia Caton was seen as a feminist and as one of the most progressive and influential women in the city.
This was a wondrous time for Delia. She’d never felt stronger or more self-assured. She couldn’t tell whether the women had changed toward her because she herself had changed, or whether it was the women who had changed her. All she knew was that with her fortieth birthday fast approaching, she was finally feeling grown-up. She saw the world differently and the world in turn treated her differently.
After that meeting, once a week for the next six weeks Delia and her neighbors congregated at the Bournique Dance Academy near Prairie Avenue. Before a wall of mirrors, the couples stood in two straight lines facing each other. Delia was directly across from Marsh.
A pianist played various waltzes while Miss Bournique walked around the room, calling out instructions and inspecting their form. “Shoulders back,” she said, tapping George Pullman’s arm. “Look at your partner, Mr. Eddy,” she said to Augustus as he turned Abby in a circle.
Delia watched her sister and brother-in-law across the way. They smiled, looking as though they hadn’t a care in the world. No one would have guessed that Delia had paid for their clothes, their shoes and even their dancing lessons.
Miss Bournique continued to weave in and out of the couples going, “And one, two, three. One, two, three . . . and twirl to the left. Your other left, Mr. Swift . . .”
Delia gazed over at Arthur, his cane lying flat across his lap. He’d had quite a lot to drink before they’d left the house and she could see that even though his eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot, he never once lost sight of Paxton and Penelope Lowry dancing.
• • •
Finally, on Tuesday, May 2, 1893, Delia watched the World’s Columbian Expositio
n open with fireworks, marching bands and parades. A grand pageant of two dozen carriages delivered President Cleveland and the other officials and dignitaries to the fair. Delia and Bertha, representing the Board of Lady Managers, rode together in the procession that was accompanied by Chicago’s mounted guard.
Delia glanced out the carriage window at the patriotic bunting and banners hanging from the storefront windows, including $10,000 worth outside the new Marshall Field & Company building. Crowds of people lined the sidewalks, cheering them on as the cavalry moved alongside the carriages. The air still carried the mossy scent of rain from two consecutive days of downpour. But the clouds were parting and the sun was on their side now.
When they arrived at the Administration Building, where the opening ceremony and dedication took place, Delia was overwhelmed. She and Bertha emerged from their carriage as she took in all the sights. The faux facades of the buildings looked like white marble. No one would guess that they were made mostly of plaster and that they’d been designed as only temporary structures. To see those white gleaming buildings positioned about the grand basin gave Delia a rush of pride. This was her city, on display for the world to see, and there was no place like it on earth.
And the proof was in the grandstands that overflowed with people who had paid twenty-five cents apiece to hear President Cleveland’s speech and join in the singing of “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” As the fairgrounds officially opened, more fireworks ignited and fountains throughout the midway sprang to life as electrical lights illuminated every building, thrilling the crowd of people, many of whom had never seen so much as a single lightbulb before. The whole experience was magical.
