What the Lady Wants

by Renée Rosen

  That evening Delia, Arthur and five thousand other prominent guests attended a ball held at the Auditorium Theatre. The Auditorium was the tallest building in the country. It had opened in 1889 and Delia had always enjoyed seeing the Chicago Symphony and the ballet there, as well as other productions. The theater was attached to a hotel and housed a glamorous ballroom with a golden ceiling and crystal chandeliers.

  The opening ball was the event of the decade and one where all their dance lessons were put to good use. Dressed in one of the Worth gowns she’d purchased while in Paris, Delia danced with Marsh and then her brother-in-law. She danced with Potter and George Pullman and even Paxton while Arthur sat at a nearby table, tapping his cane to the beat of the music.

  Delia was finishing up her dance with Paxton when she saw Ethel Field go over to Arthur. Her heart began to race. This was the first time she’d seen Ethel since her wedding. During the past week Delia had telephoned and sent cards inviting Ethel to tea and lunch, but all had gone unanswered. Ethel’s husband didn’t make the crossing with her and Delia knew there were rumors circulating around London that Ethel was having an affair with a Royal Navy officer named David Beatty. Whether or not there was any truth to it, Delia hoped the rumors would have at least made Ethel more compassionate about her father’s circumstances.

  Junior and Albertine also returned to Chicago for the fair, and while Delia was delighted to visit with them, she still longed to see Ethel and patch things up.

  Delia finally excused herself from Paxton and went over to see Ethel, who was still speaking with Arthur.

  “Thank goodness you’re all right,” Ethel said, hugging her uncle Arthur for the second time. “Will you need that dreadful thing much longer?” she asked, gesturing toward his cane.

  “Hopefully not,” he said, reaching for Delia’s hand.

  “Well,” said Ethel, “I think it’s just dreadful that you have to use it at all. . . .”

  Delia stood back, holding on to Arthur’s hand, while Ethel chattered on, not once acknowledging her presence. When Delia did manage to capture Ethel’s attention she went over and gave her cheek a kiss. “It’s so good to see you, dear.”

  She felt Ethel tensing up, her body going stiff, her eyes narrowing just before she abruptly pulled away. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  That was it? Not so much as a hello? Delia was stunned. A sinking feeling settled into her gut as she watched Ethel walk away, the train from her dress disappearing into the crowd.

  “Aw, Dell,” said Arthur, “try not to take it personally. You know how stubborn she is.”

  “Not take it personally? She wasn’t even cordial. What if she never forgives me? What then?”

  Delia sat at the table next to Arthur, willing herself not to cry.

  It wasn’t until Marsh came to get her for the final dance that Delia’s spirits began to lift. As they glided about to Valisi’s “Waltz-Polka,” twirling this way and that, Delia smiled at Marsh. Gazing into his blue gray eyes, she was savoring this moment. It was a victory for them both on so many levels. He had succeeded in bringing the world’s fair to Chicago and by so doing had put the Haymarket hangings behind him. The Women’s Pavilion was a success, and Delia had restored her reputation. What’s more, here she was dancing in front of the whole world with the man she loved.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  1896

  There was a draft coming in from the library windows even with the drapes drawn. Delia’s fingers were cold as she signed her name and set her fountain pen down on her desk blotter. For a moment she thought she heard the jangling of little Flossie’s collar, but it was only Abby’s bracelets. Poor Flossie. Her old age had finally caught up with her, and though she’d been gone for nearly two years now, Delia still expected her to come circle about her legs before settling down at her feet.

  “Are you sure that will be enough?” she asked as she handed Abby the check.

  Abby looked at the amount and nodded sheepishly. “Thank you.”

  “If you find yourself running short again this month, you have to tell me. I won’t have you going without.”

  “This should be more than enough. I just hadn’t counted on Spencer needing extra money. I’m trying to get him to live within his means but . . .” She shook her head and let the unfinished thought linger in the air like dust motes.

  They both knew she couldn’t blame it on Spencer. Yes, it was true that the boy had no sense of money. He was twenty-two and expected his parents would supplement his extravagant whims. He’d been raised on the false assumption that his family was wealthier than they were and Abby never had the heart to tell him otherwise. And it wasn’t just Spencer. All the Eddys were living beyond their means.

  “Well,” said Delia, closing her ledger book, “if you need more, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Dell,” said Abby as she carefully folded the check, slipping it inside the pocket of her satchel. “I don’t know what we’d do without—”

  Delia stopped her with a raised hand. “I’m glad I can help.”

  After Abby left, Delia went into the drawing room and visited with Arthur, who had started in on his second cocktail for the day.

  “Sure you won’t join me?” he asked, gesturing with his empty glass.

  “Not tonight. I’m afraid I don’t have time.”

  “Well, then, do give Marsh my best.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and retreated to the hallway, where Williams helped her on with her coat.

  She felt the shock of the freezing cold on her cheeks the instant she stepped outside. A fine but heavy snow fell in thick flakes, making it hard to see even just a few feet ahead. The only images she could make out were the streetlamps glowing in the distance. By the time she’d made her way down Calumet and over to Prairie Avenue, she could barely feel her fingers or toes.

  The Fields’ butler seemed especially somber as he helped Delia off with her things.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked as he led her into the library.

  “Pity,” was what he said with a shake of his head as he stood in the doorway and announced her.

  Marsh was sitting on the sofa, a telegram in his hand. The sight of it gave her a chill. It was just a sheet of paper, yet she knew how a single telegram could change the course of people’s lives.

  She ran to his side. “What’s going on? Marsh? What’s happened?”

  He handed the telegram to her.

  She read it over, each word sinking in, filling her with a sense of sadness and, at the same time, relief. Nannie was dead. At the age of fifty-six she overdosed on laudanum while vacationing in the south of France. She passed earlier that day, February 23, 1896. Delia closed her eyes trying to picture Nannie’s face, trying to comprehend that that face no longer existed.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. We knew something like this would happen sooner or later.”

  She looked up at him. “Oh, Marsh. How are the children?”

  “Ethel’s devastated. Junior’s holding her together.” Marsh looked at Delia and said, “I couldn’t stand the sight of her in the end. Couldn’t tolerate the sound of her voice. I keep asking myself how I ever could have loved her. The anger I’ve felt toward her filled up so much of my life for so long—and now she’s gone, but the anger’s still here. Shouldn’t she have taken it with her?”

  “You know Nannie would never let you off the hook that easily. She always did love to make you suffer.”

  While Marsh got up and fixed them drinks she glanced about the library. She’d been in the Field mansion thousands of times before, but now that Nannie was gone, it seemed haunted. She swore she felt the ghostly touch of a hand on her shoulder as she sat on Nannie’s sofa, drinking from Nannie’s glasses. She even thought she detected a sudden burst of Nannie’s perfume.

  At one point Marsh leaned over to kiss her and th
e desk lamp flickered. Delia nearly dropped her glass. The lamp had never done that before. She immediately took it as a sign that Nannie was watching. It sent a chill through her.

  She took a sip of the scotch to calm herself. It was strong and burned her throat as the heat spread throughout her chest.

  She didn’t say a word to Marsh. He didn’t believe in anything or anyone other than things he could see and touch; he’d scoff at her. She knew he would call her fears foolish, but Delia couldn’t shake them.

  She sat beside Marsh, hardly speaking, lost in her own thoughts. Nannie’s passing was making her think about death in a whole new way. She suddenly found herself questioning what would become of Nannie’s soul. Would she be reunited with God or turned away for her addictions and weaknesses and for all the wrongdoings she’d caused? Nannie lived with demons—did that mean those demons would follow her in death?

  Delia had never shared Arthur and Paxton’s curiosity with séances, but now she had to wonder if the dead might actually be all-powerful in some way. What if Nannie now had the final say over Delia and Marsh’s fate? What if she could bestow blessings and punishments on them? Delia no longer felt in control of her destiny. She felt doomed and subject to the ruling hand of Nannie Field.

  Later that night, after they’d picked through dinner, they retired to the parlor, where a roaring fire threw shadows about the room and warmed them in its glow. Delia sank into Marsh’s arms and nuzzled her head against his shoulder. With the moonlight peeking through the parting of the drapes, Delia began to relax and even felt a bit foolish. There was no such thing as ghosts. She was sure of it. And as crass as it sounded, she was glad Nannie was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  1899

  Delia stood beneath the giant patina clock suspended overhead outside Marshall Field’s. She turned up her collar to block the winter chill as she waited for Abby, who was meeting her for a day of shopping. Marsh had installed the giant clock just two years before and it had since become the meeting point for shoppers up and down State Street.

  She heard the rivet guns down the street where the new Carson Pirie Scott building was under construction. Marsh told her that Sullivan, the architect who had criticized the latest renovations to the Marshall Field & Company building, was designing a dry goods store with nothing but glass along the first floor. She couldn’t imagine it. But then again, she couldn’t have imagined skyscrapers like the Reliance Building or the Masonic Temple, either. She never could have predicted half the changes that had taken place in the past few years. There were over a million people in Chicago now and the city had stretched to accommodate them all with more el cars and cable cars that ran from the outskirts into the heart of the Loop. There were more homes and neighborhoods springing up in places people used to consider the countryside. Motorcars were increasingly replacing carriages on the roads. It was all progress, visible everywhere but Delia still longed for the familiar Chicago in which she had been raised.

  She shaded her eyes from the sun and waved to her sister as her new driver helped her down from the coach and onto the sidewalk. After learning that Augustus had to let their old driver go, Delia had insisted on hiring a new coachman and paying his salary.

  Delia and Abby hurried up to the doorman, who greeted them by name before letting them inside. Marsh had recently installed a newfangled circular doorway at the main entrance that revolved around and around. The doorman gave it a push, and with a magical whoosh, the glass doors rotated and there they were, standing in the main entrance, humming with busy shoppers and tempting displays. Delia and Abby rode the moving staircase—another new addition to Field’s—up to the eighth floor and worked their way down. After several hours of shopping, Delia had several parcels and half a dozen others that would be delivered to her house. She had also purchased some items for Abby, including a black velvet reticule she’d been admiring, a tortoiseshell hair comb and an abalone spangled silk fan.

  At the end of the day, Delia reached into her satchel, took out two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to her sister. “Please, treat yourself to something nice. Do it for me. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go buy you something that you probably won’t like.”

  Abby made a halfhearted attempt to resist before she clutched the bills and said, “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll pay you back every penny.” But of course they both knew she never would. What’s more, they both knew it wouldn’t matter.

  When Delia arrived home after dropping off Abby, Williams lowered his voice and said, “I believe Mr. Caton could use your help.”

  “Is he all right? Where is he?” she asked quickly, handing him her parcels, hat and gloves.

  “I’m afraid he’s upstairs.” Williams gestured with his eyes toward the grand staircase. “In the tub.”

  Delia rushed the staircase and found Arthur shivering in a bath that had long since turned cold. He rocked back and forth as he hugged his arms around his shins, his knees pulled up close to his chest. Tears dripped down his cheeks.

  “Arthur? What is it? What’s wrong?” She reached for a towel and draped it over his shoulders.

  “It’s the judge.” He grabbed her hand, gripping it tight. “He’s gone. He’s dead. Mother said he was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper, and that was it. She thought he was napping. But he never woke up.” His words came out like a burst of hiccups.

  “Oh, Arthur. I’m so sorry.” She leaned in and helped him to his feet, wrapping the towel closer about his body.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked, weeping, stepping out of the tub, his fingertips pruned, his arms and legs covered in gooseflesh. “He died thinking I was nothing but a loser.”

  “Shssh.”

  “He thought I was lazy and weak.”

  “Come on now, don’t think like that.”

  But he couldn’t stop himself. “I never once stood up to that son of a bitch and now I never can. What am I supposed to do? I was supposed to prove something to him. I just needed a little more time. I was going to make him proud. I just needed time.” His legs began to buckle as he sobbed harder and sank to the floor.

  Delia sat with him on the wet marble floor and held him while he cried.

  Throughout the wake and the funeral, she never left his side.

  • • •

  Arthur was haunted by all the unfinished, unresolved matters with the judge. Delia knew that, and as the weeks and months passed, he continued to grieve and struggle with a loss that was still as raw as the day he’d received the news. She feared for him, knowing that he could never win the approval he so desperately needed. He felt frustrated, angry and cheated out of the chance to set the record straight with his father.

  One evening, about six months after the judge’s passing, Delia heard a commotion coming from the drawing room. Arthur was in there with Paxton, and as she drew closer to the door, she overheard the two of them arguing.

  “You’re fooling yourself, Paxton. It’ll never work. I know it won’t. No one knows that better than I.”

  “But I have to try.”

  “Why? Why, when you know it won’t do any good? Why are you torturing yourself like this? Why are you torturing me?”

  “Maybe I’m not like you. Did you ever think of that? I have a child now. He’s getting older. I can’t go on living two separate lives.”

  Delia always feared that something like this would happen, that Paxton would leave Arthur for a more conventional, acceptable way to conduct himself. She drew a sharp breath and prayed that she was wrong. Given everything he was going through with the judge, she didn’t think he could bear losing Paxton now, too.

  “. . . It’ll never work and you know it,” said Arthur.

  Delia couldn’t bring herself to interrupt them and instead she went to the sitting room down the hall and distracted herself with a book. One chapter in, she started to doze off. It was half past te
n when Williams appeared in the doorway and announced that Mr. Field had arrived.

  Delia met him in the foyer. It had snowed quite a bit in the few hours since she’d been outside and Marsh stood in the foyer shaking the flakes off his coat and hat before Williams hung them up. The house smelled faintly of cigar smoke and they heard mumblings coming from the drawing room down the hall.

  “Is Mr. Lowry still here?” she asked Williams with surprise.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They were having an argument earlier,” she explained to Marsh. “They’ve been in there for hours.”

  Delia and Marsh were starting down the hall to the sitting room when they heard a loud crash coming from the drawing room and raced down the hall.

  Delia heard Paxton shouting at Arthur. “Just calm down! You’re acting like a madman.”

  “Maybe I am a madman!” Arthur shouted back. She could tell by the sound of their voices that they were drunk. “Did you ever think I just might be mad after all?”

  A moment later the drawing room door flew open, and from the hallway, Delia saw the buffalo head once mounted above the fireplace lying on the floor.

  “Arthur?” Delia called to him. “Arthur, what happened?”

  He brushed past her, leaning on his cane.

  Marsh reached for his arm. “Are you all right?”

  Arthur shrugged him away and kept walking down the hall.

  Delia and Marsh stepped inside the drawing room, where Paxton sat on the sofa, cradling his head in his hands. Next to the buffalo head, a table had been overturned and her Émile Gallé vase lay shattered on the carpet, flowers scattered everywhere.

  “Talk some sense into him, would you, please?” When Paxton looked up at them, Delia saw a bright red welt on his cheek.

  Delia excused Williams, and after he’d closed the door behind him, she turned to Paxton. “What on earth is going on?”