by Renée Rosen
St. Moritz was everything they’d hoped it would be. Though they had missed the height of the season, they were thrilled by the privacy. No reporters, no obligations to attend luncheons and balls. They had just each other and the Alps.
One afternoon they went to see the Leaning Tower of St. Moritz. Standing on the stone walkway they were surrounded by evergreens and the Alps. It was breathtaking. As the funiculars in the distance strained their way up the mountainside, Marsh pointed to the peak of Corviglia and said to his new wife, “Mrs. Field, when I look at that mountaintop, I think of you and me.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Because we’ve climbed and crawled our way up just as steep a mountain to get to where we are now.”
“Why, that’s almost poetic, Mr. Field.” She laughed as she settled into his arms, loving the feel of his lips and mustache on her cool cheek as he kissed her. This was contentment. This was pure happiness. All she’d ever wanted. It was as if after thirty years, she could at last breathe freely. She’d finally left the ghosts of Nannie and Arthur behind.
She realized that she and Marsh were the opposite of most newly married couples. Most newlyweds were excited about sharing their lives together, whereas Delia and Marsh were excited about finally sharing the life they’d been living with the rest of the world. She was so proud that they had stuck it out together, that they were now free to be man and wife and that their love for each other was even stronger now than it had been thirty years ago.
“I want to climb that mountain,” he said, his arms still wrapped around her.
“I can’t picture you as a mountaineer,” she said.
“Do I detect a challenge?” He laughed. “I’ll tell you what, next year—on our anniversary—I shall climb that very mountain. And if you’re so inclined, Mrs. Field, you may join me.”
Marsh stood behind her, their bodies pressed together, his arms about her waist. She looked down at his wedding band and smiled. “I’m glad you’re wearing that,” she said, running her thumb over the gold band. “You never wore your wedding ring when you were married to Nannie.”
“Oh, I did in the beginning, but something happened early on and I took it off and never wore it again.”
“What happened?”
Marsh held up his right hand, extending his crooked index finger. “That’s what happened.”
“Nannie did that to your finger?”
“We’d been married about six months and we were in the midst of our first truly grand argument. I’d never heard her raise her voice before. It was shocking, I tell you.”
“What were you arguing about?”
He laughed. “Can’t for the life of me remember. But I do remember that it was hot as the devil that night. All the windows were open, but it didn’t help much. We were living in a dump of a place with poor ventilation. Anyway, Nannie was having a fit. And I do mean a genuine fit. I’d never seen her like that before. The soft-spoken Southern girl I married had turned into a ranting lunatic. At one point, I told her to go to hell or something equally as endearing. I got up and went over to the window to get some air. I had my hands on the ledge and Nannie came charging up behind me and slammed the window shut. I got all my fingers out of the way in time but this one. Later she swore up and down that it was an accident, but she did it with malice. That’s when I knew I’d married an evil woman. I took off my wedding band and never put it back on.”
Something about what he said struck Delia and struck her hard. Nannie did have an evil streak. No doubt about that. Delia remembered how she’d set the birds loose, terrifying her, and of course Delia would never forget that look of smug satisfaction on her face the day she fell down the stairs and lost her baby. All these years Delia questioned whether Nannie could have really pushed her. Could she have possibly done something that wicked, that malicious? Because she had no proof, she never said anything to Marsh, but now she knew that Nannie was to blame. Now she had her answer.
• • •
Six weeks later when they returned to Chicago, Delia wanted all traces of Nannie removed from their life. She walked through the Field mansion with the head housekeeper, who took copious notes as Delia made her comments.
“Please see to it that all the King Louis XVI pieces in the parlor are removed,” she said. “And I want those birds out of this house, too.”
“Right away, Mrs. Field.”
Mrs. Field. It still sounded foreign to her, but she was the new Mrs. Field and she had every right to make this house into a real home for Marsh and her.
After finishing up with the head housekeeper, Delia returned to the house on Calumet, where she planned to divvy up the staff with Abby, deciding which servants would follow Delia to Prairie Avenue and which ones would remain on Calumet.
As soon as she stepped inside, Abby and Catherine rushed to her side.
“We tried to stop them,” said Abby.
“They’re just helping themselves to all your things, Aunt Dell.” Catherine pointed toward the library.
Both Abby and Catherine followed Delia inside, where she came face-to-face with Mrs. Caton and Arthur’s sisters along with several members of the Caton Colony staff.
“All the books,” said Mrs. Caton. “And that sculpture on the desk. In fact, take the desk, too.”
“Excuse me,” said Delia. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, and the Tiffany lamp.”
“Mrs. Caton”—Delia stepped in front of her—“this is still my house.”
“And thanks to you, my son is dead. He would have rather killed himself than stay in this house with you. This is all we have left of him and we’re taking it.”
Delia faltered as if she’d been struck. All the wind had been knocked out of her. “Fine,” she said, trying to recover. She wasn’t about to argue this point with Arthur’s mother. She knew the truth and that had to be enough. “Fine. Take it. Take it all.”
“What!” Abby was alarmed. “But we won’t have any furniture left. We’ll be here in an empty—”
Delia raised her hand to stop her sister and then turned back to Mrs. Caton. “Take everything. And once you’re done, do me a kindness and never step foot inside this home again.”
She went to the drawing room on the other side of the house with Abby and Catherine trailing after her.
“But, Aunt Dell, they will take it all. They will.”
“You should see what they’ve already done to the upstairs,” said Abby.
Delia was cool and collected. “Let them take it all. I’ll redecorate the house. It’s worth it for me just to have them out of my life once and for all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A month after Delia and Marsh returned from their honeymoon, they went to New York for a gallery opening. It was Delia’s first time back in New York since Arthur’s suicide.
They stayed at the opulent Holland House on Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street. From the moment they stepped through the front doors until they reached their suite, they were surrounded by Siena marble, bronze and stained-glass accents. Only the Palmer House could rival the Holland House’s amenities.
Their first night in the city, they went with the Astors to see Oliver Twist at the New York Theater on Forty-fifth Street and afterward the four of them dined at Delmonico’s. The next day, despite the brisk November air, Delia and Marsh strolled through Central Park, where the bare trees were already bracing for the coming winter.
“It’s getting cold out here. What do you say we get in a cab and go down to Thirty-second Street. There’s a couple of new merchants over there. A fellow named Herman Bergdorf and his partner, Edwin Goodman. I’d like to get a look at their store.”
Delia found the store to be rather cramped and poorly lit. It was nothing like the bright spacious Marshall Field & Company, but even Marsh had to admit their merchandise was fir
st-rate.
“If they can figure out a way to better display their goods,” said Marsh, “I think they might be able to make a go of it.”
After Bergdorf Goodman’s Marsh wanted to see Macy’s new location at Herald Square. As they approached Broadway and Thirty-fourth Street, Delia saw the red awning first, and as they drew closer, she paused to admire the neoclassical facade. Inside it was pure luxury. Marsh kept pulling a notebook from his breast pocket to jot down thoughts to discuss with John Shedd when he got back to Chicago.
Delia and Marsh returned to their suite at the Holland House around three that afternoon, wanting to rest and have time to freshen up before dinner with the Vanderbilts that evening. While Delia waited for the maid to draw her bath, the telephone rang. It was Spencer calling.
“Aunt Dell—” His voice was quaking.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Delia pinched her wrapper closed and gripped onto the armchair. All she could think was that something had happened to Abby or Augustus. Or Catherine.
“It’s Junior,” Spencer said, throwing a punch to her stomach. “There’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” She looked over at Marsh, who rushed to her side.
“He’s been shot.”
“What!” Delia shrieked. “Who shot him? Is he alive?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
By then Marsh had grabbed the telephone from Delia while she watched the color drain from his face.
Delia and Marsh were on the train at ten o’clock that night. The New York Central would arrive at Chicago’s Thirty-first Street Station early the next afternoon. Though it was an express train, the journey seemed to take forever. There were other passengers on board, business travelers and families bound for Chicago, too, but Delia and Marsh kept to themselves in their private compartment.
Marsh tried to distract himself with newspapers, but Delia saw that he hadn’t moved off the front page in over half an hour. Delia herself stared out the window as their train barreled through the Pennsylvania mountains. It was a cold, harsh-looking landscape and it gave her the chills.
“I still can’t understand how he could have shot himself,” Marsh said, folding his newspaper in half. “Junior’s been handling guns all his life.”
Delia didn’t have an explanation. They were both frustrated, not having any details. They didn’t even know how serious his injury was. All they knew was that Junior had accidentally shot himself. The bullet was lodged in his abdomen and they were going to operate. Albertine had already been told. She’d been away with the children visiting relatives in New Jersey and was on her way back to Chicago, too.
Their porter managed to find one newspaper with a brief paragraph stating: “Marshall Field, Jr., son of Chicago’s mercantile magnate Marshall Field, has been shot and rushed to Mercy Hospital. No family members were available for comment.”
When their train pulled into Chicago, the station was filled with reporters awaiting their arrival. Spencer was waiting for them, too, with his Oldsmobile idling at the curb. The November air was raw and punishing with the winds kicking up off the lake. The photographers pushed and shoved, trying to get closer to the couple, asking for a statement. It was a frenzy and Delia was frightened. When one of the photographers reached for her arm, Marsh grabbed hold of his camera and smashed it on the platform before rushing Delia toward Spencer’s motorcar.
Marsh and Delia went directly to Mercy Hospital, where another swarm of reporters and photographers were gathered outside, their collars turned up, hats held down in place while they bombarded Delia and Marsh with questions as their flash bags popped off.
“Do you know who shot your son, Mr. Field?”
“What have the doctors told you about Marshall Field Jr.’s condition?”
“How severe is his injury, Mr. Field?”
“No comment,” was all Marsh said as he and Delia climbed the stairs trying to get away from the cameras.
Once inside the corridor they were met by the head of the hospital, who ushered them down the hall to a waiting area just outside the sickroom. Albertine sat with Gwendolin on her lap, Marshall III and Henry at her side. Albertine was pale and Delia felt her tremble in her arms when she embraced her.
All Albertine knew was that three doctors were operating on Junior at that very moment. While Delia sat and waited with Albertine, Marsh paced up and down the corridor and then sat, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together.
It was an hour later when the head doctor came out and pulled down his surgical mask, letting it hang beneath his chin. “Mr. Field’s a very lucky young man,” he said. “I’m pleased to report that the wound was not fatal.”
There was a gasp of relief as Albertine hugged Delia and then Marsh, tears collecting in their eyes.
Marsh leaned forward, fingers pressed together. “Does that mean he’ll be okay?” he asked.
The doctor nodded. “As I said, he’s a very lucky man. I think we can expect him to make a full recovery.”
Delia looked around the waiting room, feeling the tension leaving her neck and shoulders. Even the air seemed thinner now that they knew Junior would be all right. Still, Albertine insisted on staying at the hospital in the room next door. She wanted to be there when he woke up.
In the meantime, Marsh and Delia took the grandchildren home and got them into bed before they returned to the Field mansion next door. A cluster of reporters was huddled together out front, standing beneath a streetlamp. It had started to snow and a white dusting was collecting on their hats and overcoats. Still they didn’t budge. They were waiting for a statement, but Marsh waved them off, asking for privacy.
About an hour after they’d returned home from the hospital, the doorbell rang, and a few moments later, the butler escorted Spencer into the drawing room. He looked like he’d been drinking. His dark hair was ruffled, his necktie loosened about his collar. It was cold and snowing outside, but he was perspiring.
“This is a bit indelicate,” he began, pacing back and forth in the drawing room. “I didn’t want to say anything over the telephone when I called you in New York, or at the hospital in front of Albertine.”
“For God’s sake what is it?” Marsh got up and blocked Spencer’s pacing.
“Well—” He stopped, his eyes shifting from Marsh to Delia and then back to Marsh. “Junior didn’t exactly shoot himself. It was an accident, but he didn’t do it.”
Delia and Marsh both stared at Spencer. “What in God’s name happened?”
“It all started when Junior and I met up with a friend of ours from New York. Miss Scott. Vera Scott. We started out at a dinner and then we decided to go to a party—some friends of hers. Junior and I didn’t know any of them. It was getting late and we were all ready to call it a night, but then Vera—Miss Scott—suggested we go to the Everleigh Club.”
“The Everleigh Club! What in the devil was my son doing in a place like that?”
The Everleigh Club was Chicago’s most exclusive bordello and Delia had heard that it cost fifty dollars just to get in the front door. People said that night after night the two sisters, Minna and Ada Everleigh, entertained celebrities and dignitaries, princes and kings from around the world.
“Well, we ended up there,” said Spencer, slicking back his hair with both hands. “Everyone was clowning around and having a good time, when all of a sudden Vera and Junior got into an argument. It was a friendly argument, though—mostly they were just teasing each other. But then, out of nowhere, Vera pulled a pistol out of her handbag. She was still joking around. I swear, it was just in fun. But then Vera kept taunting Junior with the gun, waving it in his face. We both kept telling her enough was enough and to put the gun away. And when she wouldn’t listen, Junior tried to take it from her and that’s when it accidentally went off and shot Junior right in the stomach.”
/> “This happened inside the Everleigh Club?” Marsh pressed his hands to his forehead. “My son was shot inside a brothel!”
“That’s why we moved him.”
“What?” Delia and Marsh were both astonished. “What do you mean, you moved him?”
“We knew we couldn’t leave him there in the club. Minna and Ada didn’t want him there, either. I don’t need to tell you that the press would have had a heyday with that. So we moved him. It was his idea. Junior was talking the whole time, telling us to take him home. So Vera and I got him into a cab and brought him back to his place. We didn’t think he was hurt all that bad. We knew Albertine was out of town with the children and we thought we’d get him fixed up before she got back. Anyway, we took him up to his dressing room and we realized how bad off he was. He lost consciousness shortly after we got him upstairs and that’s when we telephoned for the ambulance.”
“Now what? You’ve tampered with everything. How are we going to explain all this!”
Delia had never seen Marsh so rattled. Seeing him—her rock—lose his composure shook her at first. But then it made her tap a reserve of strength that she’d almost forgotten she had. It was the core of strength she’d found the night of the Great Fire nearly thirty-five years before. Marsh needed her now in a way he never had before. Suddenly her mind was cycling, looking for angles, looking for solutions.
“Now wait a minute,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on Marsh’s arm. “I think they did the right thing.”
Marsh and Spencer looked at her, both of them surprised.
“We can figure this out,” she told them. “We just need to think it through. Now, did anyone else see her shoot him?”
“It was just the three of us in there. In one of the rooms in the back of the house.”
“And did anyone else hear the gun go off?”
“I don’t know. It was really noisy in there that night. They had a couple big parties going on and the place was packed. Loud music was playing in all the rooms. I’m the one who went and got the sisters. They hadn’t heard a thing.”
