What the Lady Wants (15 page)

M
rs. Caton paid Delia a visit the following week. Before she arrived Delia rearranged her Émile Gallé vase of flowers, straightened the sofa doilies and inspected for dust in anticipation of what her mother-in-law would find fault with that day.

But ten minutes into their visit not a critical comment had been made. In fact, they were sitting in the parlor having tea when Mrs. Caton said, “I have something for you.”

“For me?” Delia was taken aback. Could it be that Mrs. Caton was finally coming around? Delia watched her mother-in-law check her hair in the beveled mirror on the wall before she reached inside her satchel and pulled out a bottle. “Here.” She handed it to Delia. “This is for you.”

Delia held the blue bottle of Ayer's Sarsaparilla. She didn't know what to say.

“It comes from Massachusetts,” Mrs. Caton said, pointing to
the cherubs on the label. “They say it's very good for woman problems.”

“But I'm not unwell. I'm perfectly fine.”

Mrs. Caton raised an eyebrow. “They say it's very effective for women in your condition.”

“My condition?”

“Delia, my dear, let's not pretend, shall we? After all this time, at the very least I would have expected to have a grandchild on the way by now.”

Delia swallowed hard. Naturally they assumed
she
was the problem.
She
was the reason they were barren. She graciously accepted the bottle of Ayer's Sarsaparilla knowing that Arthur's family would never suspect the true nature of her marriage. Or of their son.

After Mrs. Caton left, Delia paced about the parlor. Obviously this issue wasn't going to go away. And she did want a child every bit as much as her in-laws wanted an heir. All this time she and Marsh had been so careful. They practiced coitus interruptus as taught in the pages of Robert Dale Owen's
Moral Physiology
. But now it occurred to her that if she were to become pregnant—with Marsh's child—it could alleviate so many problems, and remove the speculation and blame. It would do the same for Arthur. And even Marsh said he longed for more children. In many ways if she became pregnant, it would be the best thing that could happen for all three of them.

That night when Arthur came home, Delia followed him into his bedroom. She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors of his armoire and drew a deep breath to help with her resolve. “Your mother and father are very eager for an heir. Your mother stopped by today. She gave me something to help things along.” Delia handed Arthur the bottle of Ayer's Sarsaparilla.

Arthur looked at the bottle and set it on the nightstand. “I believe it's going to take more than this.”

“Maybe. But it
could
still happen.” She tilted her head to catch his eye. “It could, you know. Given our”—she struggled for the right word before settling on—“situation.”

He looked toward the ceiling, deliberately avoiding her gaze. “Is this your way of telling me you're with child?”

“No.” She laughed sadly, got up and went to his side. “But, Arthur, think about it.” She placed her hands on either side of his face, her fingers buried in his muttonchops. “If I were to become pregnant, it would certainly pacify your family. You could give them an heir and it would put all this pressure to rest. And you love children. You'd be a wonderful father.”

“This is about Marsh, isn't it? You're talking about having a child with him, not me?”

“But the child would be ours. All of ours.”

“So I'm assuming you and Marsh have talked this over.”

“No. I just—I haven't talked to him about it. I just know he's always wanted more children. You know that too. But this is between us right now. This is something that you and I need to discuss first.”

He grew quiet for a moment and she thought he was about to dismiss the whole idea when he turned and asked, “How would this work if you were to become pregnant?”

“You would raise the child as your own. It would be a Caton heir, not a Field. And I would make sure Marsh knew that up front.”

“Oh, Dell.” He picked up the bottle of sarsaparilla and examined the label. “You know I want an heir. I don't want to let my family down, and you make it sound so easy. Surely you know it would be so much more complicated than that. How would Marsh
feel about this? How would Nannie handle it? What if people found out the truth? What if the child looked like him? You have to take all that into consideration.”

“Well, it hasn't happened yet. And it may not. But”—she took the bottle from his hand—“I'm asking if I can have your blessings to at least try. For all our sakes.”

Arthur sat on the side of the bed and hung his head low for a long time. Finally he raised his eyes and looked at her. “And if I say no?”

“Then I'll never mention it again.”

“But even so, it could still happen. At least I assume that's a possibility.”

She nodded. “I suppose it could.”

He nodded back. “Then, if it should happen and that's what you want—and if that's what Marsh wants—I won't stand in your way.”

•   •   •

“I
want us to try,” she said to Marsh the following night. He was in her bed. Arthur wasn't home, having made an abrupt departure for Ottawa that morning.

Marsh was sitting up, knees bent with his arms looped around them. He hadn't said anything yet. It was warm inside Delia's bedroom and a welcome breeze blew in through the windows, making the drapes balloon out.

Delia propped herself up on one elbow. “I mean it, Marsh. I want us to try.”

“You're asking me to father your child. A child that would be raised as a Caton?” Marsh stroked his mustache, staring ahead, his eyes half-closed. She thought he was going to tell her no, but then he leaned over and kissed her, slipping his arm about her waist and sliding his body up against hers. In the midst of that kiss he said in a breathy voice, “Let's try. Let's try right now.”

He parted the fabric of her wrapper and brought his mouth to her bare breast, his fingers dancing over her skin and sending shivers down the slope of her hip and to her core. He took his time with her that night, making love to her with a purpose, his kisses deeper, his touch more intense, his desire consuming her. His body fit around hers soft and warm, holding her close. His breath whispered along her neck, his lips against her ear, while her rib cage heaved in and out as she clung to him. The heat built up inside her as she cried out his name, her mouth pressed to his collarbone. There was a ripple of pleasure and then another, ringing out within her, until at last he broke and she took all of him in. He dropped down in her arms, his heart thumping against hers. They fell asleep that night bathed in sweat and blissfully spent.

All that spring and into the summer, while Arthur split his time between Ottawa and Chicago, Delia faithfully took her two tablespoons of Ayer's Sarsaparilla each morning and tried to make a baby with Marsh.

One morning she awoke before Marsh and stole the quiet to observe him undetected while he slept. She considered it a privilege to be so close to his genius, to the mind that thought like none other. She ran her fingertips along the wisps of white hair on his forehead and watched him, lost in his dreams, wondering what he was conjuring up, as she knew his was a mind that never truly stopped. It was one of the things she loved most about him.

That astute mind must have sensed her staring because he began to stir. She eased up off her elbow and rested her head on his chest, content when she felt his arm absentmindedly circle about her waist, turning her skin to gooseflesh even in the summer's heat. Marsh mumbled something and rolled over.

She smiled and lightly ran her fingers through his hair again before she got up and went to the bathroom. It was then, without
any warning, without the hint of her usual monthly symptoms, that she saw the blood. All the warmth left her body. She felt herself an empty husk, a meaningless woman. Her purpose had passed her by. She was no closer to being with child now than she had been before she started her mother-in-law's tonic. Her eyes filled with tears as she reached for a vial of Ayer's Sarsaparilla and threw it against the marble floor, shattering it into shards that skidded halfway across the room.

She was staring at the mess when Marsh rushed into the bathroom, his hair rumpled. “What happened? Dell? Are you all right?” He stepped around the broken glass and reached for her, pulling her to him. “What's wrong?”

She sobbed into her hands. “I'm never going to have a baby. I'm barren.” She collapsed into his arms, dropping her head to his shoulder as he guided her back to the bedroom.

He sat her down on the side of the bed. She stared at a portrait on the wall, never before noticing the mother-of-pearl buttons on the woman's bodice or the gilt acanthus leaves on the frame. She was absorbed in the most infinitesimal of details, hoping to make her mind go blank.

“Come back to bed,” he said, coaxing her. He kissed her and pulled her body close to his. “I'll make you a baby. I'll make you pregnant or I'll die trying.”

•   •   •

A
rthur broke ground for the solarium in July of that year. After the comments at their coaching party and knowing that Delia was trying to conceive Marsh's child, Arthur wanted to send up a smoke signal to the neighbors indicating that everything was fine inside his home. So fine, in fact, that they were building a fancy solarium onto the back of their house.

Nannie was sending up smoke signals of her own as well. After six months of being away, she'd been released from the
sanitarium in August. She returned to Chicago wanting to prove to all that she was fine, never better. In fact, Frances Glessner was hosting an elaborate luncheon in Nannie's honor to welcome her back. All the members of the Chicago Women's Club had been invited. Delia didn't relish the thought of seeing Nannie. She was sick inside over betraying her and had wanted to back out of the party. But she reluctantly attended, knowing that it would look suspicious if she wasn't there.

When she arrived, Nannie and Frances stood in the front parlor receiving their guests. Nannie looked well rested with a vibrant, healthy glow, but Delia could hardly make eye contact with her. All she could think was,
My Lord, I'm in love with this woman's husband. I'm trying to have his child.

Marsh still hadn't told Nannie about the affair. He wanted to wait until she was stronger before he broke the news to her. Delia had no choice but to go along with the charade, but she was certain that Nannie and everyone else could see the deceit on her face, hear it in her voice, smell it seeping through her pores. Oh, how she wished that Nannie knew the truth. She just wanted it out in the open whatever the retribution might be. Then maybe she could breathe again, look at herself in the mirror and not see a despicable liar and sneak.

“Are you unwell?” Abby asked.

“No, no. I'm fine.”

During the luncheon while Nannie spun stories about her fabricated shopping sprees in London and Paris, going on and on about her supposed travels through Europe, Delia felt the deepest pangs of sadness and guilt. Did anyone even suspect that she'd been locked away in a sanitarium this whole time? The more Delia listened, the more upset she became. She tried to appear amused and engaged with each new tale Nannie delivered, but it was wearing her down.

Before dessert was served, Delia feigned a sore throat, left the luncheon and went to see Marsh down at the store.

“I don't know how many more of these social encounters I can handle,” she said to Marsh after he closed his office door. “Look at me—” She held out her fingers. “I'm still shaking.”

Marsh reached for her hands, covering them with his own. “I told you, I can't tell her yet. I need to wait until she's more stable. The doctors warned that the slightest upset could cause a setback. Believe me, I'm not afraid of the consequences for myself. Only for her and for the children. I need you to be patient a little while longer and then I'll tell her. I'll tell her
everything
.”

“And then what? She won't divorce you. I can't leave Arthur—what are we doing? What can we even hope for?”

Someone was at the door. Delia jumped away from Marsh just as Levi Leiter stormed inside.

“There you are,” he said, jamming a cigar in his mouth and heading over to Marsh. Levi was worked up, and if he did notice Delia standing there, he didn't bother with her. “Your cashboys are standing around downstairs complaining about wanting a raise.”

“Then fire them,” said Marsh, planting his hands on his hips. “Fire the whole lot of them. I don't need that kind of chatter on the floor.”

“Maybe if the Merchant Prince could climb down off his throne long enough to deal with this, they wouldn't be complaining.” Levi butted his barrel chest up against Marsh.

“For your information, you hired half those boys yourself.”

They were both talking over each other and Delia knew that she'd lost Marsh. He was every bit as oblivious to her standing there as was Levi. She reached for her things and without a word she let herself out of his office.

D
elia and Marsh stole their time together, trying to be discreet for Nannie's sake. There were early morning rendezvous when he should have been at the store and midafternoon breaks when he would have been at the Chicago Club, but it was always rushed, always cloaked in risk of being caught. Gone were their leisurely nights together, lying in each other's arms, talking until three, sometimes four in the morning. The whole thing didn't sit well with her, but she loved Marsh and there was no other way.

Meanwhile she watched Marsh and Nannie carry on as if everything were fine and in turn she paraded about town as Arthur Caton's dutiful wife, attending charity balls, joining him for family affairs and entertaining guests in their new solarium. It went on like that throughout the rest of the summer and into the fall.

Delia did her best to avoid socializing with Nannie and
Marsh, but every now and again, the four of them turned up at the same party. One night, at the Glessners' charity ball they were even seated at the same table along with Abby and Augustus. Delia felt woozy as she unfolded her napkin, smoothing it across her lap. Nannie chattered on innocently, obliviously, even complimenting Delia on her gown and her necklace—a Carlo Giuliano—that had been a gift from Marsh for her twenty-third birthday. She remembered that Nannie had been stowed away in a sanitarium the day he walked into her bedroom, the box hidden behind his back. She'd been seated at her dressing table and saw him through the mirror. He bent down and kissed her on the neck, setting the box on the vanity before her.

“We'd love for you to join us at the theater next week to see
The Black Pearl
,” said Nannie.

“How lovely,” said Delia. A stab of guilt grabbed hold of her as it did each time Nannie extended a kindness her way. She looked quickly at Marsh, her eyes begging for a way out.

“It's short notice,” said Marsh. “They may have other plans.”

“Oh, nonsense. Cancel them whatever they are.” Nannie laughed. “We insist you come and be our guests, don't we, Marshall? We won't take no for an answer.” Nannie raised her wineglass and took a delicate sip.

Delia could scarcely look at her. Poor Nannie. She was the one left in the dark, the only one unaware of what was really going on. They were all betraying her, even Arthur.

As the first course of melon and consommé royale was served, Augustus asked Marsh about his business. “I hear talk that Lord & Taylor and a few other outfits from New York are thinking of coming to Chicago.”

“If the competition comes to town,” said Marsh, “we'll be ready for them.”

Delia offered a half smile, as she tried not to appear overly
interested in Marsh, and yet not too indifferent, either. It was a delicate balance. She found the evening exhausting and painful. All she could hope for was that Nannie would get well enough soon so Marsh could tell her the truth.

•   •   •

I
t stormed the night of the play. Rain pelted against the windows in Delia's room while Therese finished helping her dress. She had selected a magnolia satin Morin-Blossier gown with a beaded train and a series of bouffant folds cascading from her waist.

“Are you almost ready, Dell?” Arthur asked, standing in the doorway of her bedroom. He was handsomely dressed in a silk waistcoat and red ascot, his walking stick in hand. “You look beautiful,” he told her.

“I'm dreading this evening,” she said, turning while Therese snapped the clasp on her diamond necklace.

“It's one night,” he said, extending his arm to her. “We'll get through it.”

The heavy downpour continued as they left, riding to McVicker's Theatre with Marsh and Nannie in their coach. The streets were a sloppy mess with carriages stuck everywhere, the horses unable to pull free from the mud.

Despite the weather, there was a full house at that evening's performance. Delia always adored McVicker's. She felt as if she were in Greece each time she passed by the marble pillars in the mezzanine and the enormous murals of Greek gods and goddesses running floor to ceiling.

They entered the theater and took their seats in the Fields' gilt-trimmed box. As soon as the play began, Nannie and Delia peered at the stage through their gem-encrusted lorgnettes. When Delia wasn't watching the actors, she stole glimpses at Marsh, sitting one seat over. She studied his strong profile, his
firm jaw and aquiline nose, his full white mustache. It was a face she loved like none other. She was still staring at him when Nannie caught her, holding Delia's gaze long enough to make her flush. She didn't dare look at Marsh for the rest of the performance.

After the play, they were about to go for a late supper at Rector's on Clark and Monroe when Marsh's office boy came running into the theater. He was soaking wet, panting hard as droplets of rain fell from the tips of his hair.

“I'm sorry,” said the boy, wheezing as he spoke, “but there's trouble down at the store. A fire's broken out on the top floor.”

Delia watched Marsh's face go chalk white. They were all thinking the same thing.
Not again.
Nannie fisted up her hands, hunched her shoulders close to her ears and began pacing in the mezzanine.

“Is anyone hurt?” Marsh asked.

“No. The store was closed. The alarm bells were sounded and the fire trucks just got there. Mr. Leiter's been told and he's on his way down there, too. We've got a few clerks trying to save the merchandise, but we're going to need more help.”

Everything happened so quickly then. They hurried toward State and Washington in the Fields' carriage. It was still pouring and the main roads were turning into mud-packed creeks. When their carriage approached the store, the four of them looked up at the flames shooting twenty feet into the sky, defying the downpour of rain. A fire engine, drawn by three white horses, pulled up in front of the building with its bells clanking as steam belched from the boiler beneath the water tank in the truck. One of the horses shook its head, rattling its bridle, sending off a spray of rain in all directions.

The alarm bells rang out again while the fire raged on. The air filled with a choking smoke and the stench that Chicagoans knew all too well. Dragging their hoses along, the firemen
entered the building while onlookers stood beneath awnings and umbrellas.

Levi Leiter came outside with his sleeves rolled up and hair matted down with sweat. Two clerks followed him, carrying crates stuffed with carpets and lamps, bolts of fabric, lace and other merchandise.

Leiter saw Marsh and shouted, “I've got men on the third floor. The fourth and fifth floors are already gone. So are the elevator shafts. We're trying to haul everything down to the first floor.”

Marsh called over to his office boy and a handful of clerks who were there to help salvage the merchandise. “We need horses, wagons, drivers—get anyone willing to help us. Find some old barns or empty buildings where we can house everything once we get it out of here. Otherwise the rain will ruin it just as surely as the flames.”

As Marsh started for the doorway, Delia reached for his arm. “Oh, Marsh—”

Nannie let out a shrill cry and Delia's pulse jumped. She had forgotten her place, forgotten that she was just the neighbor, the friend. But Nannie hadn't noticed the inappropriate gesture. “Marshall,” she cried out again, “I can't breathe!” She was clawing at her neck. “I'm burning! It's my hair—my hair's on fire!”

Marsh went over and grabbed Nannie by the shoulders, shaking her firmly. “You're fine, you hear me. You're not on fire. Go wait in the carriage.” Marsh turned back to Delia. “It's because of what happened to her sister.”

“I'll watch her for you.”

He nodded. “I'm going down to the basement to see if the boilers and pumps are working.”

This time Delia blatantly reached for his arm. “Be careful.”

“Noooo!” Nannie cried as Marsh rushed into the store with Arthur following behind him.

Delia couldn't watch. She needed to distract herself and helped Nannie back inside the carriage. When she returned to the front of the building, she gripped onto her umbrella, feeling the cold mud seeping through the soles of her shoes as she looked for signs of Marsh and Arthur. Her heart lurched each time someone came outside. More firemen appeared with extinguishers and axes in hand. As they all headed for the upper floors, Delia tried not to think about Marsh and Arthur putting themselves in danger. There were no flames on the first floor yet, but she could see them torching the sky from the upper floors.

Meanwhile a group of young men hefted up crates of merchandise and hauled them outside where two drivers jumped in to relieve them and loaded the crates into the backs of drays. It went on like this, the filling up of crates, dragging them out to the wagons and going back inside for more. Delia had no idea what time it was when she saw Marsh appear in the doorway. He looked haggard, his white hair covered in soot, ashes perched on his shoulders and sleeves, streaks of black across his chin and forehead.

“Are you all right?” She rushed over to his side. “Where's Arthur? Is he safe?”

Marsh nodded and coughed. “He's okay—he's with Levi. But it's bad in there.” He dragged his arm across his forehead. “We've lost the top floors, the third is almost gone. There's nothing left.” He hung his head and started to cough.

It was still raining. Big quarter-size drops pelted everything. Marsh leaned over, hands planted on his knees, hacking while Delia rubbed circles over his back, urging him to breathe.

“Just rest for a minute.” She had her arm around him when he straightened up and that's when Delia noticed a newspaperman standing in front of them, pencil poised above his notepad.

“Would you care to make a comment, Mr. Field?” asked the reporter.

“Why don't you put your pencil down, for God's sake, and help!” Delia snapped. She kept her arm about Marsh's waist and the two of them walked away while the reporter shouted out more questions.

While Marsh went back inside to get what could be salvaged, Delia went to check on Nannie and found her passed out inside the carriage. An empty bottle of laudanum lay on the seat next to her. Delia was shocked. She thought that Nannie was done with all that and doubted that Marsh even knew she still carried laudanum with her.

Meanwhile the race to save the merchandise continued and Delia went back to the front of the building. Men came outside to cough and catch their breath. One of them told Delia that half of the second floor was already engulfed in flames. A thick, choking smoke was everywhere. Clerks soaked their handkerchiefs in rainwater and covered their noses and mouths so they could keep pulling out merchandise. The flames on the second floor forced Arthur, Marsh and the others down to the first floor. The smoke turned from gray to black. Arthur finally came out to get some air. Delia could see Marsh from the doorway, still filling a crate with shirt collars, neckties, perfumes, atomizers.

“Enough, Marsh,” Delia called to him from the doorway. “It's too dangerous in there. Come outside.”

He didn't respond.

The smoke was getting to her even though she was outside. Each breath felt like a blast of fire on her lungs. She saw the red and orange flames licking at the corners of the ceiling, working their way down the back wall.

“You have to get him out of there,” she said to Arthur, a sob escaping from her. “Please, get him out of there.”

“Come on now, Marsh,” Arthur shouted, his hands cupped about his mouth. “Leave it be.”

But Marsh kept going.

“I mean it, Marsh,” said Arthur. “Get out of there now!”

When he still didn't respond, Arthur darted inside. Delia watched Marsh twisting out of Arthur's hold when someone screamed, “Look out!”

Delia froze. She couldn't move. She was certain they were both going to die.

Arthur yanked Marsh to the side just as a flaming wooden beam came crashing down through the ceiling, missing Marsh's leg by inches. Both Marsh and Arthur stared at it in shock. Arthur pulled at Marsh's arm again and finally they both stumbled out of the store.

Marsh leaned up against Arthur's shoulder, panting, trying to catch his breath. Branches of lightning lit up the sky and through a curtain of rain Delia saw something in Marsh's face that she'd never seen before: fear. He was genuinely afraid as if he'd just realized what a close call it had been. Arthur continued to hold on to him, saying, “It's okay, Marsh. You're okay now.”

Marsh nodded and looked at the building burning and turned back around. “Thank you. Thank you for pulling me out of there.”

•   •   •

I
t was going on two in the morning when the firemen finally put out the last of the flames. Ambulances took those who had breathed in too much smoke off to the hospital. Delia had wanted Arthur and Marsh to go to the hospital, too, but they'd both refused. It was cold and damp, and people stood outside in clusters shivering. Someone brought over pots of hot coffee to pass around. Nannie was still in the carriage, passed out, oblivious.

Marsh looked exhausted and Delia was concerned for him. “Marsh,” she said, handing him a cup of coffee, “why don't you let us take you home. There's nothing more you can do here now.”

He brushed the coffee aside with the back of his hand. “I need
to stay. I need to see the damage in the daylight. I want to be here when the insurance adjusters arrive.”

But Delia knew it was more than that. She knew how his mind worked and he couldn't bring himself to leave.

“I'll stay with you, then,” she said, as Arthur came up behind her.

“Dell”—Arthur gently tugged at her arm—“it's time to go. We need to get Nannie home and you need your rest.”

Delia looked at Arthur and then back at Marsh, who simply nodded, indicating that Arthur was right. It was time for her to go. She reached out and squeezed Marsh's hand while Arthur tugged at her arm again, a bit more emphatically.