by Renée Rosen
What they did question, however, was why Abby, Augustus and Catherine were still living at Delia’s home.
“Surely they could have found a home or built a new one by now,” said Junior, turning to his uncle Arthur. “Don’t you find it odd that they’ve stayed on? Even Spencer thinks it’s strange. He can’t for the life of him understand why.”
“They’re not in my way,” said Arthur.
“But that’s not the point,” Junior persisted. “Why are they still living at the house on Calumet?”
“They’ve been talking about buying a town house in Washington, D.C.,” said Delia. It came out a bit more defensively than she intended, but at least that seemed to settle it. Delia of course would be the one purchasing the town house out of her own inheritance, and she was doing it so that Abby could be closer to her children. She wanted to keep an eye on Spencer, who worked in D.C., and on Catherine, who, on the pretense of seeing her brother, made frequent trips to the capital in order to see Senator Albert Beveridge. He’d been courting Catherine for several months and Abby disapproved.
After the children and Arthur left for the night, Marsh came up behind Delia and put his arms around her. “We’re going to do more of this,” he said. “Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries—I want us all to celebrate them together. And I want to spend more time with you, too. We’ll travel. Go see the world.”
She leaned into his chest and reached up to stroke his face. “And what about the store?”
“Shedd and Selfridge are more than capable of running the day-to-day duties.”
“Really?” She did a quarter turn, looking into his blue gray eyes. “My goodness, you’re serious.”
“I am. It’s time for me to pass the baton. I would have liked to hand it over to Junior, but for now it will go to John Shedd.”
“You’re going to make John the new president of Marshall Field’s?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m still president, but John will be running things from now on. So like it or not, I’ll be spending more time with you these days.”
• • •
About a month after they had that conversation, Delia could sense that Marsh was growing restless. He’d already shown the boys how to clean their hunting rifles, how to bait their fishing lines. Now he was looking for the next project, the next challenge. After nearly fifty years of running his store, overseeing hundreds of departments and supervisors and thousands of employees, cutting back on his work schedule quickly went from liberating to outright befuddling.
Delia observed him struggling to fill his days. He read newspapers front to back including the obituaries of people he’d never known. At half past ten he started talking about lunch. At four in the afternoon he was thinking about dinner. He became overly involved in the affairs of the house, even holding meetings with the butler and head housekeeper, looking for ways they could be more efficient. He was forever in search of the next thing to cross off his list. Accomplishment was what fueled him. Ordinary life didn’t suit him. Leisure was an enigma.
It was during Henry’s tenth birthday party that Delia knew Marsh couldn’t sustain this unstructured, unproductive way of life. She noticed he stifled yawns while the children played party games and stole glances at his pocket watch when they brought out the cake. While opening the presents, he leaned over and whispered, “I’m just going to step outside for a little air.”
“Are you unwell?” Delia asked.
“I’m fine. Just going to take a little walk is all.”
By three o’clock the party was over. The servants were stacking up plates and presents, pulling down streamers and balloons. Marsh still hadn’t returned, so Delia went to find him. She knew exactly where to look, too.
Ever since he’d handed the controls over to John Shedd, he was afraid that something would go terribly wrong. She suspected that he’d snuck out of the party to go down to the store. And she was right. When she entered Marshall Field & Company, she found him on the main floor berating Harry Selfridge and another clerk for moving a display of evening gloves.
“I want these put back where they were immediately. And just because I’m not here every minute of the day, don’t you dare forget whose name is on the door.”
“My name should be on that door, too,” Harry snapped back. “I’ve been with Marshall Field & Company for twenty-four years now and I deserve to have my name on the door.”
Marsh looked at him, his jaw twitching. “You know what, Selfridge, I think you’re absolutely right. It’s high time you had your name on the door. Someone else’s door. Now get your things and get out.”
Delia watched Harry storm off in one direction while Marsh took off out the front door. She caught up to him at Washington and State. “Was that really necessary?” she asked. “Harry’s been with you a long time.”
“I don’t need Harry. It’s still my store.”
“Of course it’s still your store.” She stopped and reached for his arm, making him turn toward her. “What’s really bothering you?” she asked.
He looked up and down State Street and his brilliant eyes came close to clouding over with tears.
“Marsh? My goodness—what is it?”
He shook his head and then raised his chin. “I’m scared, Dell. I don’t want this to be the end. I’m not finished yet.”
She slipped her arms in the opening of his coat and pulled him close. He was gripped with fear. She could see it on his face. Her own eyes filled with tears as she tried to reassure him. “It’s not the end, you hear me. This is not the end.”
He dropped his head to her shoulder and drew a deep breath. “I still have ideas and plans. I still have dreams. I still have things to do. I have to make my mark.”
“You have made your mark. Look around here, Marsh. You turned State Street into the Ladies’ Half Mile. You created a palace of a store—nothing like it existed before, and now others have copied you in New York, in Boston. You even created the Loop. You made Chicago what it is. None of that would have happened without you. And you’re not done yet. I know you aren’t.”
“Then what now?” Marsh pulled back from her, raised his hands and let them drop to his sides. “I’m not a young man anymore. My friends are dying, and goddammit, I want my last hurrah. I don’t want to be written off just yet.”
She studied his face, his eyes, the pulsing of his temples. The answer was so simple. She reached up and stroked his face. “Go. Go back to work. Full-time.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “But we were going to travel and spend more time together. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I mean it. You’re no good to me this way. Go back to work. It’s what you love. It’s what you do. It’s who you are.”
He nodded, kissed her cheek and turned around and went back into Marshall Field & Company. He worked until ten o’clock that night and was back in the store by seven the next morning.
Soon he was back to working twelve- and fourteen-hour days. He worked through his grandsons’ baseball games and track meets and Delia wasn’t surprised. As much as he tried to be a family man, it was a lie. He would always be who he truly was: the Merchant Prince.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
1905
Delia was back at the house on Calumet Avenue to get a necklace from her jewelry box when she heard the horn blast. Rushing to the bedroom window, she gazed out and saw that Paxton had just pulled up in his new motorcar. It had a gleaming white body with red leather interior and a wooden steering device.
“But I don’t need to go for a ride in that contraption,” she heard Arthur saying as she came down the stairs. “I’ll take my coach over that iron horse any day.”
“You’re jealous,” said Paxton. “Just admit it.”
“Please,” said Arthur. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“What’s all the commotion ab
out?” asked Delia as she joined the men in the foyer.
“Arthur here is being an old stick-in-the-mud is all,” said Paxton.
“Why? Because I don’t want to go for a ride in that ridiculous machine of yours?”
“You’re just jealous. Now come for a ride. Delia, you too.”
“I don’t want to ride in that thing,” said Arthur.
“That thing is a brand-new 1905 Studebaker, I’ll have you know.”
Delia laughed. “You two are something else. Come,” she said, looping her arms through both of theirs, “let’s go have some tea.”
They moved into the parlor and Delia and Arthur sipped tea while Paxton had a whiskey. The two men continued to battle over coaches versus motorcars.
“I’m telling you there’s no way that heap of metal is ever going to replace the horse,” said Arthur.
“I agree,” said Abby as she and Catherine came in to join them.
“I don’t,” said Catherine, sitting on the sofa next to Delia. “Sorry, Uncle Arthur, but I do think motoring is the way of the future.”
“You mean to say that you’d rather ride in that box than in my coach,” said Arthur, a hand splayed over his heart.
They laughed but a few minutes later the argument between Arthur and Paxton heated up again. Delia was always struck by how competitive they were. A good horse race or a round of golf always managed to rile them up. Perhaps that was just the male ego or maybe they longed to be each other’s heroes.
The following week they were at it again. The two of them were playing lawn tennis while Delia and Penelope sat in a gazebo, sipping lemonade and watching, listening to the steady ping, ping, ping of the ball playing off their rackets.
“It’s amazing how Arthur can get around now. I mean after his accident and all.”
“It still hurts him plenty, though,” said Delia. “Especially when it’s damp out.”
Paxton let out a yelp after missing a shot.
“They’re so very close, aren’t they?” said Penelope. “Truly the very best of friends.”
Delia nodded as she shaded her eyes and watched the two of them.
“Hardly any room for anyone else, is there?”
Delia turned around and looked at her. Penelope’s eyes grew wide, pleading for reassurance or perhaps just answers.
Delia pressed her hand to her chest. They had never discussed this. She never thought they would. “They share a bond,” she said finally. “They always have.”
Penelope reached for her lemonade and then thought better of it and set the glass back down. “I’ve tried my best to be a good wife.”
Delia looked at Penelope, at all the confusion and frustration on her face. It was as if she were looking into a mirror from years gone by. “I’m certain that you are a good wife.”
“Obviously not good enough.” Penelope twisted up her mouth and wrinkled the bridge of her nose. “All these years I’ve been trying to compete.”
Delia shooed a fly away, stalling. She was unprepared to have this conversation. “Oh, honey,” she said finally, “but you can’t compete. You just can’t.”
“It hurts me so to know that his son and I aren’t enough.”
“You mustn’t think like that. It’s so much more complex. It’s something you and I can’t understand.”
“Aren’t you angry?”
Delia thought for a moment. “No. Not anymore.”
Paxton missed another shot and leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Oh, come on now,” Arthur teased. “Don’t tell me you’re getting tired already. . . .”
Delia saw Penelope’s eyes tearing up. That could have been her, the long-suffering wife, had it not been for Marsh. “I think in this case, in a situation like ours,” said Delia, “it’s perfectly fine for you to seek out your own happiness.”
Penelope looked at her, stunned.
“All right,” said Arthur, “your serve. Hurry it up now.”
“But Paxton is my happiness,” said Penelope. “I’ll never love anyone the way I love him.”
“Come on now,” said Arthur. “I don’t have all day. Paxton? Hey, Paxton—very funny. Cut it out.”
Delia gazed over at the court. Paxton had dropped his racket, his arms flailing in the air.
“It’s true, you won’t,” she said, turning back to Penelope. “But there are other kinds of loves in this world. Don’t deny your own chance at happiness.”
“Hey, Paxton,” shouted Arthur. “Come on now. Paxton? Paxton! Oh my God—PAXTON!”
Penelope let out a scream and Delia turned around just as Paxton’s legs buckled and he collapsed onto the lawn.
• • •
A week after Paxton’s funeral, Delia was sitting with Arthur in the solarium. A shadow veiled his face and she could almost see the darkness coming from inside of him. He was still in his bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon, starting in on his second drink of the day. She didn’t say a word. How could she stop him from drinking at a time like this? His world had just been shattered and there was nothing she could do to comfort him. Or herself. Delia couldn’t begin to address her own feelings of grief, for she, too, had lost a dear friend.
So they sat together and stared out at the garden, watching the bees fluttering in and out of the rose blossoms, listening to the breeze rustle the sycamore leaves. Life was going on without even a pause. People died every second of every day, but this was Arthur’s loss and thus Delia’s, and she resented the nonchalance of the universe, just accepting Paxton Lowry’s death as a matter of course.
She also resented the sounds of Abby and Catherine’s bickering filtering in from the other room. It all seemed so trivial to her. Mother and daughter were once again arguing about Albert Beveridge.
“But he is a good man,” she heard Catherine telling her mother.
“If he makes it to the White House, that’s one thing,” said Abby. “And if he doesn’t, then what? What kind of a life will you have?”
“Spencer warned me that you wouldn’t like him,” said Catherine. “It’s just like with Lurline. You don’t think anyone’s good enough for your children and it’s just not true. You refuse to give anyone a chance. . . .”
Delia got up and closed the door. “Can I get you anything?” she asked Arthur.
He stared into the amber liquor in his glass and said, “I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve given this a lot of thought and well, I’ve decided to grant you a divorce.”
At first she thought she hadn’t heard right. It was so out of the blue, so unexpected. She looked into his eyes as if seeking confirmation.
“I want you to be happy,” he said. “And life is much too short. Much too unpredictable.”
“But, but . . .” She had a million questions. “What about your mother?”
“As I say, life is much too short.”
She always thought that if this moment ever came, she would have been elated. Instead, it felt bittersweet. There were so many tentacles to their situation; they were all tied to one another in such complexity.
“Thank you,” she said solemnly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But I won’t kid you, I’m terrified. I’m afraid to go it alone without you. I’m not sure how to manage without you in my life.”
“I’ll always be in your life, Arthur. You know that. You and Marsh and I are a family. That will never change.”
He smiled but his eyes were weeping and it nearly split her down the center. She sat with him while he finished his drink, the two of them holding hands. This is friendship, thought Delia. This is love. They would always be there for each other.
• • •
Marsh was leaving in the morning for a business trip to Europe and Delia waited until he was out of the store to tell him the news. They were walki
ng arm in arm along the lakefront, south of Grant Park to the site of the Columbian Museum of Chicago that was soon to be renamed the Field Museum. Delia could already see it coming into view. It was one of only two buildings that remained from the world’s fair.
On that beautiful summer evening just as the sun was setting, Delia turned to Marsh and said, “Mr. Field, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
He stood back and gave her a quizzical look.
“Arthur has agreed to grant me a divorce. I’m going to be a free woman.” She was smiling. He was not. This gave her a scare. Her heart began to hammer. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn’t be pleased. His blue gray eyes narrowed and she nearly stopped breathing. “You do want to marry me, don’t you?” He hesitated for an agonizing minute and she braced herself for a fall.
“Now what do you think?” He began to laugh as he picked her up and whirled her in a circle.
They were giddy as they made their way back to the Field mansion. He rang for his butler, asking for champagne, and as he cupped Delia’s face in his hands, he kissed either cheek and then finally her lips. Through the years there had been millions of kisses between them, some quick like a punctuation mark, others long and exploring and still others filled with urgency and passion. Yet, this kiss was different from all the others. This one kiss said that in the world filled of people, you are my very favorite one. You are my one and only.
She didn’t think she could possibly love him any more or any deeper and yet here she was, in his arms, falling for him all over again. He was going to be her husband and suddenly it was more than just a label.
Just as their kisses had taken on every expression imaginable, so had their lovemaking. In the early years they relied on the intensity and fiery passion to convey their feelings and desire for each other. But as their love matured they no longer needed to ravish each other to prove their affection. Like a vivid painting whose definition blurs and softens the closer you stand to it, so was their love. Intimacy had taken on a different kind of pleasure now. A richer, deeper, more satisfying pleasure. That night they made love slowly, tenderly, like two old souls dancing.
