What the Lady Wants (13 page)

T
he next day, Delia went into Arthur's room and sat on the bed that she'd never been invited into.

“We need to talk.” She reached for his hand. “Please, come sit with me. It's important.”

“Are you unwell? What's wrong?”

She bit down on her lip, hard enough to make it hurt, as if she wanted to punish herself for what she was about to say.

He studied her face while deep lines sank into his brow. “What's this all about?”

“It's about us.” She sighed. “I know you love me. And I love you, Arthur. But I can't go on pretending that everything is fine between us.”

“Is this about the horse farm?”

“No.” She could have laughed had the worry in his voice not been so heart wrenching.

“Is it about having a baby?”

“Oh, Arthur, let's not kid ourselves. How can we have a baby when you don't want to try?”

“That's not so. I do.”

“When? Once a month? Once every six weeks? And it's always me begging you. And when you do want to, you're too drunk.” She reached over and stroked his hair. “Oh, Arthur, you try—I know you try—but I don't want a husband who has to try. I want a man who wants me.”

“But I do want you.”

“Not enough. You don't want me enough. You don't want me in the right way. And I'm sorry, but Marsh does. He does want me.”

He pulled away from her. The color drained from his face.

“I'm sorry but I can't pretend anymore. I'm in love with him.” Hearing the words aloud for the first time both thrilled and terrified her. “I didn't mean for it to happen, but it has and I can't help the way I feel.”

“He's my friend. He's taking you away from me and you're taking him away from me, too.” Arthur stood up and went to the other side of the room and dropped into a chair.

She went and knelt by his side. “No one's taking anyone away from you. I love you, Arthur, but what we have here in this marriage—this just isn't enough for me.” She rested her cheek on his knee. “I never meant to hurt you. Marsh and I . . .” She couldn't finish her thought because he had started to cry.

His shoulders shuddered and he hung his head, fisting up his hands. “You can't leave me.” He looked up as the tears streaked down his cheeks. “You can't disgrace me like this. I can't have a divorce in my family. My parents will disown me. My father is a judge. He'd never understand.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, unable to speak.

“Do as you please with Marsh,” he said. “I'll look the other way. I'll do whatever you ask, but please don't divorce me. Don't
shame me like that. All I ask is that you let me have my dignity. Please, Dell, I beg of you—don't leave me.”

“Oh, Arthur, I'm not going to leave you. I don't
want
to leave you. But I can't lie to you, either. I can't sneak around behind your back.”

“What are people going to say? You'll ruin yourself in this town, you realize that, don't you? Your reputation will be destroyed. Along with mine.” He shook his head. “My God, you're going to make me a laughingstock.”

“No, you won't be. I promise. I won't lie to you or Nannie, but no one else needs to know. I'll be discreet, you know I will. This is our business. I'll keep your secret and you'll keep mine.”

•   •   •

T
he next morning Arthur walked into the dining room with a packed valise in his hand. He set his bag down next to the sideboard and sat beside her at the table. “I'm going down to Ottawa for a few days.”

Delia nearly missed the saucer when she put her coffee cup down. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I just need to be alone right now.” He stroked her face with a tenderness that she now understood to be a gesture of kindness and friendship, nothing more.

She wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and walked him outside where his coach was waiting. Both of them had tears in their eyes as they embraced.

“It's cold out here,” he said, running his fingers over the fringe on her shawl. “You shouldn't be outside without a coat.”

“Don't stay away too long,” she said, gripping onto him.

“Take care of Marsh while I'm gone.” There wasn't a trace of resentment in his voice.

She stood on the walkway, waving long after his four-in-hand turned the corner. Seeing him ride off like that left her
feeling lost, ungrounded. All she wanted then was to run to Marsh, the only place where she belonged now. Knowing that Nannie was still in Kentucky, Delia clutched her shawl about her shoulders and hurried off for the Field mansion.

Marsh was in the sitting room with a stack of Sunday morning newspapers piled on the table next to his wingback chair. As soon as the butler brought her in, he stood and waited for his butler to disappear. When they were alone he embraced her, filling Delia with a clash of relief, remorse and guilt.

“I told him,” she said, clinging to Marsh, speaking into his shoulder.

“How did he take it?”

She felt his hand pressed against the back of her hair. Delia shook her head. “I don't envy you having to tell Nannie.”

Marsh didn't say anything. He released her from his embrace and backed away, refusing to look at her and instead gazed at a shelf of books.

Her blood quickened. “Marsh?”

He ran his finger along the ledge as if inspecting for dust.

“What's wrong? What's the matter?”

“I can't tell her yet.”

“What?” Delia's stomach roiled.

“I received a cable this morning from Nannie's cousins in Kentucky. She's unwell. It appears as though she's had some sort of a nervous breakdown. They're worried for the children. I'm leaving on the six o'clock train tonight to get her. There's a sanitarium in Rochester—”

“A sanitarium?”

“I've decided to take her there for a while. Her cousin is bringing the children back here in a few days.”

Delia was speechless. She heard Nannie's cockatiels sqawking in the parlor next door.

“I knew she was headed for trouble,” he said. “The woman's been a wreck ever since Paris. Every time I turn around she's taking more laudanum.”

Delia dropped her eyes to the floor. “Oh, Marsh . . .” She looked up, tangled in a million emotions. Their plan had just taken a detour and then another concern struck her. Delia pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “We did this to her, didn't we?” She said this as if thinking aloud. “We've destroyed Arthur and now Nannie. We're bad people. Something bad is going to happen to us.”

“Don't talk like that. We've fallen in love. That's not a crime.”

“Yes it is. It is when you're married to other people. Maybe we should stop this. Stop it right now.”

He reached for her wrists. “Don't. You've told Arthur. You've done the right thing, and as soon as Nannie is well, I'll tell her.”

“But she was fine until Paris.”

“She was never fine. Don't take that on.” Marsh went and stood over by the windows and rubbed his eyes. “Nannie has been unwell for a very long time. Who knows what set her off this time. They tell me this sanitarium is the best place for her. I need to take her away from Chicago. Let the gossips here assume she's back in France vacationing. The fewer people who know the truth, the better.”

Delia thought she detected a slight mist collecting in his eyes and she didn't know whether to be touched or jealous. She'd never before seen Marsh show any genuine feelings or tenderness toward Nannie.

“I have to figure out what I'm going to do with the children once they get back to Chicago,” he said. “Their governess will take care of them while I'm in Rochester with Nannie, but I don't like the idea of leaving them at a time like this. I don't know what they've seen, what they've heard. I don't even know what they've been told about their mother.”

“I'll look in on them,” she said. “I'll check in on them every day if you want. Arthur will, too, when he gets back in town.”

He pressed his lips together, his mustache covering his mouth completely. “Thank you for that.”

“Of course.” She stroked his face with the tips of her fingers, letting them slide down his jaw and land in her lap. “Of course.”

Delia stayed with him, the two sitting quietly side by side, their fingers laced together, her head on his shoulder. It was not romantic. It was real. She knew she had just complicated her life exponentially and yet she felt it was right to be with him. She belonged with this man and had never felt closer to anyone, not even her sister. She and Marsh were lovers now. They were connected, sharing everything, both good and bad. She wanted him to know that his problems were now hers. They didn't speak then. They didn't have to. He knew what she was thinking. Certain things were understood.

Several hours later, knowing she couldn't see him off at the station, she said good-bye to Marsh at his house. He gave her a quick kiss rather than a long, passionate one intended to sustain them during their separation, and this, too, she understood. It was easier for him to leave her that way.

As he left for the depot, she went around the corner, back to Calumet Avenue. When she walked back into the house, she was acutely aware of being alone. All that warmth and belonging that Marsh had cocooned around her was gone. Now she was exposed to the raw consequences of her actions. She felt Arthur's absence as never before. The kitchen maid fixed her a cup of tea and Williams brought it into the drawing room, where Delia sat before the fireplace. She saw faces in the flames, like drama masks flickering, both laughing and crying. It was exactly how she felt. So happy to have Marsh, so guilt-ridden by what it took to have him. She couldn't stop thinking about Arthur. And Nannie. And those
children. How many lives were they disrupting and what right did they have to do so? She knew Marsh thought her superstitions were silly, but she worried that there would be retribution. There had to be. Without Marsh there to quell her fears, she was certain that they'd just invited trouble into their lives.

•   •   •

O
ne week later Arthur returned from Ottawa, acting perfectly normal, as he would after a return from any trip. He handed off his valise to Williams, kissed Delia's cheek and asked how she'd been. Before she had a chance to answer, he was already pouring himself a drink.

“How are you?” she asked, following him to the bar.

“Better,” he said, taking a long pull. “Much better now. Just needed to sort through some things in my mind.”

“I understand.”

He smiled sadly. “Oh but you couldn't possibly, my pet.”

“I'm sorry. You're right. I don't understand.”

He set his glass down and reached for her, hugging her fiercely. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. He held her with such strength it was bewildering. How could it be that he didn't want her the way a man was supposed to want a woman?

“I know it isn't natural,” he said as if reading her mind. “I don't understand it myself. I don't know what comes over me. I only hope that you don't find me too revolting.”

“Oh, Arthur, I could never . . .” She held on to him tighter.

“You need to know that I don't want to stand in the way of your happiness,” he said, kissing the crown of her head. “You'll let Marsh know that, won't you?”

She nodded, unable to speak as she clutched onto him.

Later that same evening at the judge's house, Delia took her rightful place next to her husband at the dining room table along with the entire Caton Colony. Her mother-in-law's tastes were
quite different from her own. Everything, from the sack chandelier to the marble-topped buffet, was done in the Second Empire style.

Delia was never at ease in their home, but on this visit, she was especially tense. After an icy cold greeting from the judge and Mrs. Caton, Arthur's sisters, Laura and Matilda, barely said hello. It was as if they'd heard the gossip about Marsh and had already condemned her.

The judge sat at the head of the table. The dining room filled with the smells of roasted garlic, sautéed onions and a host of other rich flavors. As the footman began serving, Mrs. Caton turned to Arthur. “And how did you find everything down at Ottawa?”

“Never better, Mother.”

His voice was too bright, too forced. Delia felt a stab of guilt. She couldn't bring herself to look at Arthur. She sank down in her chair, wanting to hide.

Then the judge turned to Arthur. “What did you make on the stallion you sold to that fellow in Highland Park?”

Arthur dabbed his mouth with his napkin and smiled proudly. “Two thousand. Cash.”

“What was your asking price?”

Arthur's smile receded as he smoothed his napkin across his lap. “Twenty-five hundred.”

“I figured as much.” The judge shook his head. “You never did understand the art of negotiation, did you? If you'd asked three, you would have gotten twenty-five and if you'd asked four, you would have gotten three. Everything I've taught you has gone in one ear and out the other. You practically gave that horse away. Just gave it away.”

All eyes were on Arthur. His cheeks were growing red and Delia saw the pinpricks of perspiration forming along his
forehead. She wanted to protect him, the way a mother protects her child.

“Bad enough you don't work,” said the judge. “And now you're giving your damn horses away.”

Delia couldn't take any more. “Please,” she said. “Please let Arthur be.”

Everyone at the table gasped and turned to her. Mrs. Caton froze with her hand splayed over her chest, her mouth hanging open. Arthur's sisters and their husbands stared at Delia. No one ever spoke to the judge like that.

“I beg your pardon.” The judge cocked his head and squinted as if he hadn't heard right.