by Renée Rosen
The next morning after they said good-bye Delia made her way around the corner to the house on Calumet. With each step the elation over wedding plans seemed to fade. Delia couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur. Even though he had given her his blessings, she felt she was betraying him, abandoning him, leaving him behind.
Arthur was in the sitting room when she returned, still in the same bathrobe he’d been wearing the day before. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in days. An untouched newspaper, neatly folded, sat at his side along with a glass of bourbon.
“I’m sure Marsh was pleased,” he said.
She went over and put her arms around him, leaning in to kiss the top of his head. “You’re a good man, Arthur.”
He gave off a soft sound, half laugh, half sob.
“How about a hand of cards?” she asked, desperate to lift his spirits.
“Can I ask one final favor of you?” he said as if he hadn’t heard her.
“A final favor. You know I’ll always do anything for you.”
“I want you to accompany me to New York next week. There’s a dinner, in honor of my father. A memorial. They’re presenting him with an award and I told Mother I would go and accept on behalf of the family. I’d like you to accompany me, as my wife, just this one last time.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” She was surprised that Arthur had agreed to it and that his mother would have encouraged it. But then again, as far as Mrs. Caton was concerned, her son had only lost a close friend, nothing more.
“I think it’ll be good for me. I owe it to Mother and to the judge.”
“Then of course I’ll go to New York with you. Of course I will.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Just one month after Paxton passed away, at the end of July, on a balmy, steamy afternoon, Delia and Arthur headed for New York City. The train station smelled of creosol and Delia brought a handkerchief to her nose as passengers rushed in and about them, boarding the train.
She had reserved a first-class Pullman coach for the two of them with plush velvet seats, crystal chandeliers and a private sleeper car. Two porters were on hand for anything they needed.
Arthur spent much of the trip talking about Paxton. “Remember how he loved the theater? Loved going to plays? Couldn’t stand to be a moment late . . . The last time I was in New York, it was with him. . . .”
The train rolled on as the hours passed, and the next day, the flashing red lights blinked and the bells began clanging as they approached their stop. The porters opened the doors at Grand Central Station, letting a rush of hot air in along with the heady smell of coal and smoke.
When they arrived at the Waldorf Astoria, Arthur stood in the lobby and sighed woefully. “Paxton always loved to stay at this hotel.”
“Oh, Arthur.” Delia felt a sting. She knew this was where they stayed when they were in Manhattan. “I’m sorry. I should have made a reservation somewhere else.”
“No, no. I love the Waldorf. This is perfect. Just perfect.”
The bellhop showed them to their rooms, a penthouse suite with adjoining bedrooms. It was beautifully appointed with bouquets of fresh flowers and baskets of fruit, cheese and a bottle of wine, which Arthur asked the bellboy to open.
They had a glass of wine and talked about the award for his father and about getting tickets to see Little Johnny Jones on Broadway. Arthur then rose to go change for dinner, but before he left he went over to Delia and gave her a tight embrace and a long kiss on the cheek.
“I do you love you, my pet. Always know that much is true.”
She looked into his face, sensing that something was off, something in his tone, in his eyes. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s perfect.”
He had said the word perfect a few too many times since they’d arrived in New York. Delia watched him go into his room. “Arthur?” she called to him, and when he turned back around she simply said, “I love you, too.” She stood there for a moment, waiting until he disappeared before she went into her adjoining room to get ready for the dinner.
She took her time getting dressed, and after considering two gowns that she’d brought for that night, she chose a beautiful blue satin by Worth embellished with crystal beading along the bodice. Having not brought Therese along, Delia was struggling with her buttons and needed Arthur’s help.
“Arthur? Arthur, can you help me with these but—”
She heard a blast. A blast so loud and sharp and piercing, her whole body went stiff. She froze in place, afraid to move. Please dear God, don’t let that be a gunshot. A moment later, all was quiet. Too quiet.
“Arthur?” Delia’s heart was racing as she got hold of herself and ran through the suite, calling for him. “Arthur!”
He didn’t answer.
She tore into the second bedroom, frantically looking and calling for him. The bed looked untouched, the pillows fluffed. She saw that the bathroom door was closed and rushed toward it. As she reached for the glass doorknob, her hand began to shake. It was as if she knew what she’d find on the other side. The longer she took, the longer she waited to turn that knob, the longer it wouldn’t be true.
She drew a deep breath and threw the door open. Everything seemed fine. The white fluffy towels were hanging on their gold racks. Arthur’s shaving kit was laid out on the vanity with his brush resting in the soap dish. His slippers were tucked in the corner. All was in its place. But then she shifted her eyes and saw the spray of blood on the wall. When she looked in the mirror she screamed. She saw Arthur’s reflection, faceup on the marbled bathroom floor. A pool of blood was collecting beneath his head, soaking his blond hair dark and spreading out in all directions. The gun was lying next to his hand.
She was still screaming and keening when she heard the pounding on the penthouse door. She crawled across the suite, unable to stand. Her head was in a fog of shock and horror. When she managed to open the door, she saw two men from hotel security. They said they’d heard the gunshot and rushed upstairs. Delia pointed toward the bathroom and watched from the doorway as they stepped over Arthur’s body. The one man leaned over to take Arthur’s pulse. Delia turned away, unable to watch. She already knew.
It wasn’t until after they’d removed his body and the hotel manager had been up to see her, to see if he could do anything for her, that she noticed the letter sitting on Arthur’s bedside, addressed to her:
My Dearest Delia, my Dell, my pet,
Don’t hate me for this. And don’t be sad. For me this is relief. I just can’t go on this way any longer. You know I’ve never found a true, honest place for myself in this world and the pain of continuing on has been too great. I’m just not strong enough. Forgive me for that. You and Marsh can be together now as you should have been all along, and this gives me peace as I say good-bye. Don’t blame yourself. This one is on me, my dear sweet Dell.
Yours for all eternity,
Arthur
Delia sank down on the edge of the bed. The room turned hazy before her eyes. She was suddenly aware of the motorcars twelve stories below, blasting their horns. She heard a guest keying into the suite across the way and the ding of the elevator car down the hall. She heard water running through the pipes and the creaking, settling of the building. There was so much noise inside her head she couldn’t shut it out.
She clutched Arthur’s letter to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. She should have known. He had probably been planning this ever since Paxton died, ever since he said he’d give her a divorce. She thought they’d gotten rid of all his guns after he went into the asylum. She was sure that they had. She tried to read his note again but couldn’t make out the words through the blurring of her tears.
She started to telephone Marsh but remembered that he was in Europe. She slammed the base of the phone down hard and started to sob. After a while she composed herself enough to tele
phone Junior.
“I’ll call Spencer,” he said. “We’ll be on the next train. We’ll make all the arrangements. You just sit tight.”
Delia was still numb on Monday morning when the boys arrived in New York. They found her in the suite, unable to bring herself to change hotels or even switch rooms. She was paralyzed and felt that leaving that room was in some way leaving Arthur behind and she wasn’t ready to do that.
The first thing Spencer and Junior did was get Delia away from the Waldorf.
“We’ll go over to the Carlton,” suggested Junior. “The change of scenery will do you good.”
Delia docilely did as they instructed. Having Junior and Spencer there afforded her the chance to give in to her sorrow and she sobbed in their arms, barely able to stand. After that, she let them take charge of matters. While she sat in the lounge with Junior, Spencer was at the front desk, on the telephone, making the arrangements to have Arthur’s body sent back to Chicago.
“You can’t blame yourself for this, Aunt Dell,” Junior said.
Delia just shook her head. How could she not blame herself? “I didn’t know he was in such a state. I wish he would have talked to me about it. Maybe I only saw what I wanted to. I was just so sure that he was ready to start a new life. But then he lost Paxton and . . .” She couldn’t finish her thought and dropped her head to her hands.
Even after his death she wouldn’t betray Arthur’s confidence.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
After the funeral, the Caton mansion felt unbearably empty to Delia, even though Abby, Augustus and Catherine still lived there. Delia wandered through the hallways and in and out of rooms as if in a trance. Just like when Nannie passed away, Delia felt the house was haunted with Arthur’s spirit. While sitting in the library, she was certain she heard his voice, or saw his shadow move across the room, smelled his shaving soap. It got to be too upsetting for her in the house and she retreated back to the Field mansion.
Delia’s grief was deep and unrelenting. As she expected, Marsh’s only way of dealing with his pain was to throw himself into his work. But Delia had no such distractions. Bertha and Abby tried to take her mind off things, insisting she join them for lunch and shopping or a walk through the Art Institute. But it was no good. Delia couldn’t shake her sorrow, couldn’t let any joy inside her life.
Every day she asked herself the same question: What was she to do now? Go about her life as if her husband hadn’t killed himself? How could one’s pain be so great as to think it would be better to not exist? Why, oh why, hadn’t he talked to her about it? She felt guilty for every breath she could still take, for every bit of this earth that she still inhabited. Something as simple as a cup of coffee felt like an undue pleasure. Nothing was untouched by the loss. How was she supposed to be all right with this world, let alone be happy about anything now? The minute she’d catch herself laughing, or not dwelling on poor Arthur, she would rein herself back in, reminding herself that she didn’t deserve to feel any semblance of joy.
She confessed all this to Marsh one night when he found her crying out in the garden, looking across the way at her house.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Marsh. “Arthur wouldn’t want you to punish yourself like this.”
It was ten o’clock at night, just three weeks after Arthur’s suicide. The August night air was still, motionless. Fireflies flickered around the rosebushes while crickets chirped in the dark. The moon was just a sliver, a toenail of light suspended overhead. Marsh pulled a lawn chair up close to where Delia was sitting.
“Life goes on. It simply has to,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing a failed sales event.
She tried to let the comment pass, but for Arthur’s sake she couldn’t. “How dare you be so callous. We’re not talking about Nannie here. This is about Arthur! He’s dead! Don’t you understand that?”
“Oh, Delia.” He leaned back and let out an exasperated sigh as he looked up at the stars. “Of course I understand that Arthur is dead. He was my friend. But you can’t torture yourself like this. It isn’t fair to you. Or to me.”
“To you!” She bolted up straight. “Who gives a damn about what’s fair to you? You’re still alive. You have everything you want now.”
She started to get up, but he reached for her arm and stopped her. “For God’s sake, woman! I don’t have you. I’ve waited a long, long time to make you my wife. I’m tired of waiting. I say we get married and we do it now.”
She struggled to pull away from him. “How can you even think about that now?”
“He gave you his blessing.” Marsh was on his feet then, too, standing in front of her, holding her still. “He wants us to be together.”
“But it’s too soon.” She could feel the grief mounting beneath her rage as she twisted herself free from his hold, dropped to her knees and let her tears flow.
He knelt down beside her. “Don’t do this to us, Delia. Don’t sabotage us. For the first time there’s no one standing in our way.”
“What is the big rush? Why so soon?”
He brought his hands to the top of his head as if to keep it from exploding. “So soon? Good God, woman. I’ve been waiting thirty years for you.”
She looked at him and in spite of herself she was struck by the absurdity of it all. She began to laugh. At first he stared at her in shock, but then gradually he began to laugh as well. They stayed there in the garden laughing until the tears poured from their eyes.
• • •
They agreed to marry right away, in Europe, where they could escape the scrutiny of the press. Delia and Marsh set sail for London on August 25. Delia still grieved, but she had come to see her marrying Marsh as a tribute to Arthur, as if she was carrying out his final wish for her.
The crossing was peaceful and Marsh and Delia stayed in the Fields’ stateroom on board the Baltic. Everything from the furnishings to the silver and china was of the finest quality. The seas were calm and the gentle breeze upon the deck was refreshing. They made love in the middle of the afternoon and lingered in bed until dinnertime. There was no pressing business, no meetings, just time for each other, and for once the quiet, the stillness of it all, was enough for Marsh.
They arrived in London on Saturday, September 2, three days before they were to be married. They stayed at Claridge’s with Junior and Albertine, who arrived the next day, along with Abby, Augustus, Spencer and Catherine.
Ethel did not take the news of her father’s marriage very well. The day before the wedding they went to Ethel’s home on Eaton Square. After being introduced to her new husband, David Beatty, Marsh slipped his arm about Delia’s waist and announced their wedding plans.
Ethel stared at her father. “What do you expect me to say?”
“A simple congratulations would do,” he said, tightening his hold about Delia’s waist.
“How can you do this to Mother and to poor Uncle Arthur?” Ethel theatrically covered her face in her hands and began weeping. Her husband tried to calm her down, but she just sobbed into his chest.
Delia had hoped that Ethel would understand—especially since she herself had had an affair and was now married to that man. Surely she wouldn’t stand back in judgment any longer. But Ethel’s stubborn streak wasn’t about to give.
When Ethel pulled away from David she addressed Delia for the first time. “Uncle Arthur hasn’t even been gone a month! You drove him and Mother to their graves.”
Delia felt the sting of her words, but she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t dare betray Arthur’s secret. If Ethel wanted to blame it on her, then so be it.
Later that night they all dined at Forman’s and the evening was a disaster. Delia burned her tongue on the bisque and then Marsh spilled a glass of red wine down the front of his suit. Ethel pouted the whole time. On their way back to the hotel, their motorcar got into an accident—no one was h
urt—but an accident just the same. Ethel’s words haunted Delia, and images of Nannie rose up unbidden. Delia couldn’t help but think Nannie was sabotaging them from the grave.
The next day, Tuesday morning, September 5, 1905, was their wedding day and by ten o’clock Delia had experienced even more mishaps. While Therese helped her into her dress, the clasp on her bracelet caught on her cuff and tore a section of the lace trim. She stuck herself with her brooch, sending a droplet of blood onto her cream-colored shoe. The snag in her stocking seemed minor in comparison. Delia couldn’t help but think their union was cursed.
Of course she didn’t dare share her fears with Marsh. He always pooh-poohed her superstitions. But still she worried that the ghost of Nannie would see to it that they didn’t have a moment’s peace. Delia was waiting for something—something bad—to catch up with them. If only she’d known that stain on her shoe and a snag in her stocking would be the least of it.
Three hours later, Delia, at fifty-one, married her seventy-one-year-old groom. They said their vows at London’s St. Margaret’s Church in a private ceremony for just their family. Ethel reluctantly attended and cried during the ceremony. Delia and everyone else knew they were not tears of joy.
Word of the nuptials had somehow leaked to the press, and immediately following the ceremony, newspapermen swarmed Delia and Marsh with a host of questions while camera flashed, releasing a smokeless powder in the air. Spencer and Junior held the reporters and photographers at bay while the newlyweds made their escape and began their honeymoon.
They took the train from London to Chur and then on to St. Moritz. En route they traveled through Paris, Dijon and Zurich and other cities that charmed them with their breathtaking scenery. At stops along the way they shopped for clothes, for furniture and antiquities.
