What the Lady Wants (16 page)

Nannie was still woozy on the ride home, her head lolling from side to side as she murmured, “What's burning now? Don't let me catch fire. Don't, don't . . .” More incoherent chattering followed.

When they pulled up to the Field mansion, it had stopped raining. Nannie was slumped down in the seat, her head pressed to the window, her breath fogging up the glass each time she exhaled. Arthur hoisted her in his arms and carried her into the house.

Delia followed behind, explaining the night's events to the butler. “Please have Mrs. Field's maid put her to bed. She's had a very emotional evening. I wouldn't expect Mr. Field back any time soon. He's still down at the store.”

“Don't worry about Marsh,” Arthur said when they finally made it home. “He's been through far worse than this.” He climbed the stairs, heading up to bed. He could barely keep his eyes open.

Delia had Therese draw a hot bath for her, and afterward she dressed for the day and went back downstairs. She couldn't sleep, unable to turn off her mind. Her lungs still ached each time she took a deep breath. To think Marsh could have died had Arthur
not saved him. How ironic. She'd never thought of Arthur as the brave, fearless type, but that night he had been a hero and she would never forget the way Marsh looked at him, his eyes filled with new respect and gratitude.

Over several cups of tea she worried how Marsh would bounce back from the devastation of a fire for a second time. Even a man as strong as Marshall Field had his limits.

She was still awake when Williams brought in the morning papers. When she turned to the society page of the
Daily News
, she nearly spilled her tea. There was the headline: “Mrs. Arthur Caton Consoles Marshall Field as Fire Destroys State Street Store.” Delia's eyes skimmed the article as the knot in her stomach twisted with each sentence. How was she going to explain this?

Mrs. Arthur Caton appeared to be the only personal friend of Mr. Field's at the store when the fire broke out. . . . When asked where Mrs. Field was, there was no comment. . . . Mrs. Caton and Mr. Field rushed away, refusing to answer any additional questions. . . .

Delia reread the article. Her gut felt like she'd swallowed a fist. She could only guess what Nannie would think when she saw it. Nannie and everyone else. And poor Marsh, a scandal was the last thing he needed right now. And what about Arthur? How would he feel about seeing something like this?

When Arthur stumbled downstairs Delia went to him with the paper in hand. “You might as well see this now,” she said, pushing the newspaper toward him.

“I haven't even had my coffee—” He stopped once he saw the headline. Delia watched his eyes grow wide and his mouth drop open as he read. “They printed this about you!” He slapped the
newspaper against the table. “As if there wasn't enough talk about the two of you already.”

“Oh, Arthur, I don't know what to say. I'm sick over it, too.”

“They're already laughing at me. Now this.”

Delia couldn't think of anything to say. She was overwhelmed with guilt.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood up and shook his head. “I'm exhausted. I'm going back upstairs to lie down.”

Delia waited anxiously for the afternoon editions to arrive. The
Daily News
led with another story of the fire. An estimated $1,200,000 in merchandise was lost. She knew Marsh had a $1,000,000 insurance policy, something he had taken out after the fire of 1871. She hoped it would be enough for him to rebuild the store.

Delia skimmed the entire article, grateful that her name did not appear.

Then she moved on to the
Chicago Tribune
:

The Destruction of St. Peter's at Rome could hardly have aroused an apparently deeper interest than the destruction of this palatial dry goods establishment. It is questionable whether the death of the Pope or the burning up of the Vatican could have excited such a keen local interest. . . . This was the place of worship of thousands of our female fellow-citizens. It was the only shrine at which they paid their devotions.

Delia folded the newspaper and clutched it to her chest. She felt a surge of pride for Marsh. This was the only article that should have appeared. This one said it all.

T
he day after the fire Marsh stopped by to see Arthur and Delia. He looked exhausted and probably hadn't slept at all. Had Williams not been standing there waiting to take Marsh's overcoat and hat, Delia would have run and thrown her arms around him.

“Is Arthur here?” he asked. “I want to apologize to him about all this business in the newspaper.”

Delia motioned to Williams, and after he'd gone to get him, she led Marsh into the parlor and closed the doors. “What did Nannie say about the newspaper article?”

He lowered his eyes. “She came right out and asked if I was having an affair with you.”

Delia drew a sharp breath. “What did you say?”

“I told her the truth.” He gazed back up at her. “I said I was in love with you.”

“Oh, Marsh.” She clutched her heart. “She's too fragile. I thought you couldn't tell her yet.”

“She's already back on the laudanum anyway. And besides, I had no choice. I had to tell her. She backed me into a corner. And frankly I'm relieved. It was time. I can't stand this sneaking around. I don't like to think of myself as a liar. And I want to be with you. I can't stay married to her. I told her I want a divorce.”

Delia took another deep breath. “And?”

“She won't hear of it.”

Delia's shoulders slumped forward. She wasn't surprised that Nannie wouldn't divorce him. “She must despise me. I have to speak with her.”

“I doubt she'll hear you out. She's not even speaking to me at the moment. She says we've humiliated her.”

Delia closed her eyes, fighting the throbbing pain behind her temples. Bertha's words from long ago came rushing back to her:
You don't want to cross Nannie.

Arthur joined them in the parlor, and when Marsh thanked him for his help the night before and extended his hand, Arthur ignored the gesture.

“So what is it that I can do for you
now
?” Arthur asked him, folding his arms across his chest.

“I want to apologize for the article that appeared. And I want you to know that I fully intend to have the
Daily News
retract the story and—”

“Afraid the damage has already been done,” said Arthur. His voice was tight. He hadn't looked at Delia once.

“That's precisely why I want them to retract the article.”

“Ah yes, but you
are
in fact having an affair with my wife. And now everyone's suspicions have been confirmed.” Arthur gave a woeful laugh.

“Fair enough,” Marsh conceded, his hands raised in surrender.

Arthur stepped forward, closer to Marsh. “You know, this is something I should have done a long, long time ago.” And without warning, Arthur drew back his fist and punched Marsh in the face.

Delia shrieked as Marsh reeled backward, losing his balance and landing on his backside. He looked more shocked than injured, even as he reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. Marsh made no attempt to get up and defend himself and Arthur didn't make another attack. He just held his hand, his knuckles raw and already swelling.

“There's your hero,” Arthur said to Delia. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

•   •   •

A
fter the incident with Marsh, Arthur went upstairs and stayed there all day. It was only later that evening that Delia went to check on him.

“Arthur?” She knocked gently on his bedroom door. “Arthur, are you all right? You haven't eaten anything all day.” She looked at the dumbwaiter. “Do you want to have supper sent up to you?”

There was no answer. Delia slowly turned the doorknob. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Delia found Arthur in his union suit curled into a ball, the bedsheets twisted about his torso. He had his back toward her. “Go away.”

“Oh, please don't be like that.”

He lifted his head off the pillow, his eyes red and swollen. “What kind of man stands back and does nothing while his wife carries on with his friend? I'm a fool.”

He started to break down and Delia went to his bed, wrapping her arms about his waist and comforting him like she would a child who'd had a bad dream. “Shhh,” she said soothingly. “Everything will be all right.”

“How?” Arthur rolled over. “How can I show my face at the club, or anywhere else in this town?”

She held him tighter, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

“Oh God,” he sighed from deep within himself. “I can't bear to have everyone laughing at me.”

“No one's laughing at you. It's me they despise.”

“What will my father say? What will I tell my parents?”

“This is our business. No one else's. You don't have to say a word about it to anyone.”

“Oh, Dell.” He howled in agony as he placed his hand on her stomach. His touch was hot, so hot that she could feel every finger through the fabric of her dress. “I can change,” he said. “I know I can. I want to. I do. I can give you a baby.”

“Arthur, no.”

“But I can. I know I can.” Slowly he worked his hand down to her thigh.

“Arthur, no.” She tried to stop him.

“I've missed you, Dell.” Now both his hands were groping her.

She hated the feel of him on her. He didn't want her. He was only doing this to prove something to himself, something to everyone. Arthur sighed again as he caressed her neck and then her breasts.

“Arthur . . .” She began to squirm. “Come on, now . . .”

“I can change. I can give you a baby. I'll change.”

When he leaned in to kiss her, his teeth gnashed against hers. She turned away and his dry lips brushed against the side of her cheek. He reached for her face and held it in place while he covered her mouth with his. She kept her lips pursed, thrashing her head from side to side.

“Don't shut me out like this.” He grabbed hold of her and in one swift move he had hurled his body on top of hers. “You're my wife.”

“Arthur, please. You don't want this.” She tried prying herself out from under him, but she was pinned beneath his weight. His breath was hot on her face and neck. “Arthur, no! Stop it!” She heard the fabric of her dress rip as he tugged on her corset. He kissed her with a full, wet mouth and reached for her exposed breasts. He smothered her with another gagging kiss. He was sweating and she could smell the sour scent of the liquor he'd been drinking. When he yanked down her drawers, she cried out, thinking:
This is not happening. This can't be happening.
“Arthur, stop it! You're hurting me! Please—
stop
!”

“You're still my wife, dammit! You're still mine.”

She twisted and tossed beneath him. He was grinding his body into hers as the stays in her corset dug into her rib cage. She could barely breathe as he bore down on her. He had managed to free his penis from his union suit and was prying her legs open with his thigh, trying to work his way inside her.

She locked eyes with him. He looked like a crazed man as he froze in place, his face just inches from hers. She felt helpless and weak, all the struggle draining out of her. She couldn't fight him off anymore. “If you insist on doing this, just hurry up and get it over with,” she said, biting back tears.

In that instant his pupils constricted and the wild, menacing glare left his eyes, replaced by a look of disbelief and then disgrace. His face contorted into a terrible grimace as he rolled off her.

She climbed off the bed, clutching her torn dress, covering her breasts. “What's the matter with you?”

“Delia, I'm—”

“How could you do that?” She was trembling.

Arthur sat up, dropped his head to his hands and sobbed. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Dell. It won't happen again. I promise.”

By then she was crying, too. He turned to face her, his eyes
red, a strand of spittle hanging off his lip. His hair was flat on his forehead like in the photographs she'd seen of him as a young boy. She could picture him as a child then, crouched down in a corner of his room, bawling because of something his father had said or done until his mother came and coddled him.

Delia saw the scene play out in her mind and she understood what had gone wrong with Arthur, why he was the way he was. He was still just a child—in some twisted way, he was
her
child—and that was what finally broke her and made her go to his side. Taking him in her arms, she stroked his hair and pressed her lips to his damp temple while she rocked him back and forth, promising that everything would be okay.

D
elia stared out her back window, past the stables, looking through the sinewy branches of the elms and sycamores that lined her yard, framing her view of the Field mansion. Her body was stiff and sore from what had happened in Arthur's bedroom the other night. She still felt dirty and soiled. It was hard to imagine that she'd ever once craved Arthur in that way. Filled with remorse, he'd apologized again and again, wincing each time he looked at the bruises on her arms. She'd told him she didn't want to speak of it again. She didn't want to even think of it. Besides, she was more concerned about Marsh. She hadn't seen or spoken to him in two days, not since the fire and not since Arthur had struck him.

She grabbed onto the velvet pleats of her draperies, fearing that Marsh had fallen into a deep depression. After all, how could he not be discouraged? He'd already rebuilt his store once after the Great Fire and now this. And then of course there was
Nannie, back on laudanum and finding out about his affair, not to mention the newspaper article and his falling-out with Arthur. It was just too much.

Everything was unraveling. She wanted to make things right, only she didn't know where to begin or if it was even possible to repair the damage. Delia wanted to talk to Nannie about the newspaper article. She didn't know what she'd say to her, but she knew that the incident could not go ignored. She'd left her calling card for Nannie the day after the fire but hadn't yet received a response.

Therese came up from behind her and draped a shawl over her shoulders. Delia reached up and patted her maid's hand.

“You have a visitor, Mrs. Caton. Mr. Field is in the parlor.”

Delia was both relieved and concerned. She braced herself to find a broken man waiting for her as she followed Therese to the front of the house. She found him standing in the doorway of the parlor and she gasped when she first saw his lip, bruised and swollen.

“Oh, Marsh—” Even before Therese had left the parlor, Delia ran into his arms. “I've been so worried about you.” She willed herself not to cry, wanting to be strong for him.

“Now why are you looking so blue?” he asked.

“Don't be glib at a time like this. Where have you been? I was worried sick.”

“You should know better than to worry about me.” He cracked a sly smile, making his eyes crinkle. “I've been busy getting my new store ready to open.”

“What?” Delia reached for his cheek, feeling the bristle of whiskers from his unshaven face. He wasn't broken. Far from it.

He looked at her and placed his hand on top of hers. “You didn't think I'd let something like a little fire close me down? And especially not during the Christmas season.”

How could she have doubted him? Just like after the first fire,
he'd wasted no time in rebuilding. It was his resilience, his strength, that made her love him all the more.

“I found an abandoned building down on Michigan and Adams. It's the old Lakefront Exposition Hall. It's not perfect but it's the best I could find. It'll be a temporary space until I can figure out our next move. And in the meantime I'm rounding up as many men as I can find to help me get the place in shape.”

“What all needs to be done?” came a voice from behind them.

They both turned around and there was Arthur, leaning against the doorjamb with a drink in his hand.

“I can help,” he said. “That is, if you want me to.”

Delia saw the edges of Marsh's lip curl up and then she saw Arthur's eyes turn misty.

“You ever sand a floor before?” Marsh asked.

“Never.”

“Perfect.” His smile broadened. “I don't suppose you've buffed one, either,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Arthur. “We've got work to do.”

Later that day, Arthur went down to Michigan Boulevard and spent ten hours whitewashing the walls. For the next two weeks, he faithfully reported to Marsh, eager to help. He learned to work a lathe, and a circular saw. He built cabinets and hung mirrors. He came home at night with calluses and blisters covering hands that had never before known a day of manual labor.

And by the end of November, to everyone's delight and astonishment, Field, Leiter & Company reopened its doors.

•   •   •

E
ven though things between Arthur and Marsh had returned to normal, Delia's life was anything but. It was the start of the holiday season and her schedule was noticeably thin. Typically she and Arthur would have had two and three engagements
a night, not to mention the regular meetings she usually attended each week for the Chicago Women's Club and Fortnightly Club. But since the article about her and Marsh appeared in the
Daily News
, she hadn't had the stomach to show her face at any meetings. And she hadn't been getting their usual invitations, aside from charitable organizations looking for money.

Delia was on the committee for the Chicago Women's Club's annual book drive that year along with Nannie, Abby, Bertha and several other members. She thought about backing out, but it was the one committee she truly enjoyed. Books had always been her companions, her escape. The pages she turned had taken her places and taught her to dream. The books they collected went to orphanages and needy families that couldn't afford to buy them. Out of all the luncheons and teas, the speaking engagements and social events, this was the one that was most important to her and she wasn't about to shirk her responsibilities because of that newspaper article.

The story had appeared a little over three weeks ago, and since then, Delia hadn't spoken to any of her women friends other than Abby and Bertha. She could understand her sister's loyalty, but when she questioned Bertha's, she told Delia about her own tales of being ostracized by the ladies of their social set.

“When I became engaged to Potter they wanted nothing to do with me,” Bertha had explained one day while having tea in Delia's parlor. “They were appalled that such a young girl would marry a man old enough to be her father.” Bertha had laughed as she toyed with her necklace. “Of course once they saw that hotel, those women changed their tune. But I know how it feels to be shunned by them. It can be very lonely. Those women, especially Nannie, have a cruel streak. And believe me, if she weren't married to the most powerful man in Chicago, those women wouldn't tolerate her, either.”

Bertha never directly asked about her affair with Marsh. Not that she was above gossip. Heavens, no. She and Delia had passed many an afternoon sipping sherry and sharing all they'd seen, heard, read and suspected. When it came to particularly salacious tidbits, Bertha would get that look in her eye and say with a giggle, “Oh my, but we're going to the devil now!” Delia assumed that Bertha was too good a friend to get involved in her relationship and had remained quiet out of respect for both her and Marsh.

So aside from Bertha and of course Abby, Delia kept to herself. On those occasions when she came across Sybil or Frances or any of the others, they passed by her without a word, pretending they hadn't seen her. She knew that she'd been removed from the guest list for Malvina Armour's annual Christmas luncheon and the Swifts' holiday pageant. The Glessners hadn't sent an invitation for their New Year's Eve party, either.

They were all punishing Delia and she wanted desperately to defend herself. It enraged her that she was being judged without them knowing the whole story. If only those women understood the truth about Nannie and Arthur, they'd understand that she wasn't some wicked, scheming adulteress. But it was pointless. She'd never tell anyone that her marriage was a sham. She wouldn't do that to Arthur and she knew Marsh would never reveal the truth about Nannie, either.

One afternoon as she sat at her secretary going through her empty calendar, something new occurred to her. She looked back through December and into November and October, counting and recounting the days. She set down her dip pen and closed her engagement book. Could it be possible? She'd given up on the Ayer's Sarsaparilla and had stopped marking down her cycle, but if she wasn't mistaken, she had missed her monthlies twice in a row.

She sat still, all too aware of her shallow breathing, of the sound of the clock in the corner ticking off the seconds. She was
stunned as she rose and made her way upstairs, holding on to the banister for support. She counted the steps as she went, too afraid to let herself be hopeful, too overwhelmed by what this could mean to her, to Marsh and to Arthur.

She walked into her dressing room and stood before the cheval mirror. With hands splayed against her flat abdomen, she turned to the left and then the right. She unbuttoned her dress and unlaced her corset. When she slid the straps of her chemise off her shoulders, she raised a hand to her breasts and noticed they were swollen and tender. Her nipples were darker, larger than she remembered. This would explain why she'd felt nauseated and tired the past few days. How had she not noticed the symptoms? Maybe she'd been too afraid to even let herself speculate. Tears sprang to her eyes. Now that she was paying attention, she knew there could be no doubt. She was pregnant. Pregnant with Marsh's baby.

•   •   •

D
elia gazed out the carriage window as her driver rambled down Wabash Avenue. Her news was only then just hours old and she couldn't wait to share it with Marsh.

Men and women scurried along the sidewalks, wincing at the frigid winter weather. It was sleeting and the fierce winds coming off the lake battered the coach, gently rocking her from side to side. Despite the conditions outside, Delia had her driver drop her at the corner of Wabash and Adams.

She was always careful about visiting Marsh at work, and now, thanks to that newspaper article, she needed to be more discreet than ever. Recently, Arthur had been seen around town with Marsh at the Chicago Club and in restaurants, but Delia had kept her distance. The only times she'd seen Marsh over the past two weeks was when Arthur brought him by the house. She knew even that was enough to rouse the neighborhood gossips, who no
doubt kept their binoculars on the ledges of their windows. She didn't need any of them seeing her carriage dropping her off outside the Exposition Hall store. Instead she walked around the corner, heading into the wind and sleet, gritting her teeth as ice pellets stung her cheeks and patches of slush challenged her every step.

Once inside the store Delia shook the sleet from her coat and muff, and stomped the slush off her boots while pretending she didn't notice Malvina Armour and Annie Swift standing just a few feet behind her.

“She has some nerve coming down here,” she heard Annie saying.

“Can you believe she's still going to participate in the book drive?”

Delia spotted Marsh right away, standing by a makeshift counter piled high with bloomers. She knew Annie and Malvina were watching her, but she'd come there with news and what she had to tell Marsh was bigger than their petty gossip.

She went over to his side, tentatively tapping him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. Field? May I have a word with you?”

As soon as they were alone in his office, he closed his door and pulled her to him, embracing her. He traced the curve of her back with his fingertips as he kissed her slowly, tenderly at first, before letting it build into a fierce passion that she knew would be hard to interrupt. She couldn't stop herself either. They hadn't been alone for so long. He didn't even ask what she'd needed to talk to him about. She took a moment to savor the feel of his arms around her and lost herself in the familiar scent of his aftershave. How she had missed him! As those feelings of love welled inside her, she thought about the wonderful news she'd come to share with him. Taking a deep breath, she took a step back and stared into his eyes.

“Marsh, there's something I have to tell you.”

His expression turned to one of alarm.

“No, no.” She reached up for his face. “It's nothing bad. It's . . . it's wonderful.” But the words—the actual words—just wouldn't come. Instead she brought her hand to her stomach and smiled.

He did a double take, looking down to her belly and then back up into her eyes. He seemed to almost stagger then, and he stepped back to sit in his chair.

“Are you sure?” he asked, finally.

“I haven't been to the doctor yet, but I know. I'm certain of it.”

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her full on the mouth. “I can't believe it—a child. With you.”

They sat with that for a moment. Delia was letting it all sink in: one astonishing realization that gave way to another. She was going to be a mother. She was right now, at that very moment, carrying Marsh's child. There was only one downside and she looked at him and asked the inevitable: “Do you think Nannie will suspect it's yours?”

“I'm sure she'll figure it out. I suppose I have to tell her.”

“And then what?”

He sighed and shook his head. “There's no way to predict what she'll do. But handling delicate situations with grace and dignity is not her forte.” He ran his hand along his jaw, his fingertips brushing up against his whiskers. “Have you told Arthur yet?”

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

He placed his hands on her belly and they stayed like that, Delia sitting in his lap with her head resting on his shoulder. Marsh leaned in and kissed her hair. “Do you want me with you when you tell Arthur?”

Delia looked up at him and smiled. She wanted Arthur to feel included, to know that this child was his, too, and she couldn't
think of a better way to convey that. “Yes, let's tell him together tonight.”

•   •   •

T
he three of them were in the drawing room, waiting for dinner to be served.

Arthur was in a jovial mood, already on his second cocktail, talking about a polo match that had taken place in Palm Beach. “It was all over the newspapers earlier today. Of all the matches to miss . . .”