What the Lady Wants (17 page)

Delia stole a quick glance at Marsh. It was time. She went and joined Arthur on the settee, placing her hand on top of his. “Arthur, darling, Marsh and I have some news.”

“Oh?” Arthur looked first at Delia and then at Marsh.

Delia cleared her throat and curled her fingers about his. “Arthur, honey, I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby. All of us.”

“A baby?” Arthur's expression went blank. It was impossible to read. He shot up off the settee, stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked into the center of the room before he abruptly turned and faced the windows. “A baby,” he said, with his back toward Delia and Marsh. “You're having a baby.”

Delia nodded though she knew he couldn't see her. She stole a glance at Marsh who kept his eyes trained on Arthur's back. They were waiting, in a standoff, and all Delia could think was that they'd made a terrible mistake. She was holding her breath when Arthur turned back around. He looked at Delia and then at Marsh. Then he raised his fists above his head and laughed. Tears clung to his lashes as he rushed over and hugged them both.

“We're having a baby,” he said, his cheeks damp from crying. “Champagne—” He called to Williams. “We need champagne!”

When the glasses were poured, Arthur raised his first in a toast. “To you,” he said, looking at Delia and then Marsh. “Both of you. And to the baby. Our baby.”

They finished that bottle of champagne and opened another. The hour was growing later. They were giddy to begin with and now they were getting tipsy.

“If it's a boy,” said Arthur, “I say we call him Rufus.”

“Rufus?” Marsh shook his head and laughed. “That'll never do. I had an uncle Rufus once. And if you'd known him, you'd understand my objection.”

“And besides,” said Delia, “what if it's a girl? I like the name Constance or Ophelia.”

“Ophelia and Delia. You want your names to rhyme?” Marsh questioned her teasingly.

“And what do you suggest?” asked Arthur.

Marsh thought for a moment. “I've always liked the name Newton.”

“New
ton
Ca
ton
?” Delia wrinkled up her nose.

“She's right,” said Arthur, laughing, “too many
tons
for one name.”

Marsh started laughing, too, slapping Arthur on the back.

Delia held out her glass for more champagne. As she watched Marsh and Arthur sitting side by side, laughing, she got a warm feeling, right where their baby was. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that this was the right thing for them—all three of them.

The next morning Delia had a slight headache from all the champagne. Therese brought her a tray with her morning coffee and the newspaper. As Delia lay back in bed, she turned to the society page, and read about all the Christmas parties and balls from the night before that she hadn't been invited to. And honestly, she didn't care. Her body felt alive and magical.
It was making a baby!
Marsh's baby!

After breakfast, she bathed and dressed and went down to State Street to finish up her Christmas shopping. All the stores had put up their Christmas decorations and she walked by
garlands in the windows, wreaths on the front doors. Normally the Field & Leiter windows were the most spectacular of all with golden trumpets and a Nativity scene resting upon blankets of snow. Shoppers would stand on the sidewalk, four and five rows deep, just to get a look at their Christmas windows. But this year, the Exposition Hall was only modestly decorated; it didn't have the type of windows that allowed for Christmas displays.

She moved on, going in and out of stores, looking for last-minute gifts. She had just purchased a velocipede cycle for her nephew, Spencer, and Shiebler silver hair combs for Abby. Thankfully she had already gotten presents for her parents and all of Arthur's family, too. Now she was shopping for her other family, for Marsh and his children. She even looked at the baby sections of several stores in anticipation of buying bassinets, rattles and buggies. With a smile on her face all she could think was that the three of them, Arthur, Marsh and her, were getting what they wanted for Christmas.

1878

D
elia awoke one morning feeling tired and queasy. She was entering her fourth month and soon she'd be showing and would need to wear a maternity corset. An icy chill swept across the floorboards as she forced herself to ring for Therese. It was time to get dressed. After all, it was cataloging day for the book drive and Delia wasn't about to shirk her responsibilities.

She planned to meet Bertha and Abby and some of the other women—the few members who were still speaking to her—at the community center to sort through the book donations. Typically, cataloging day was a big event for the Chicago Women's Club, but because of the recent surge of gossip about her, she knew better than to expect much of a turnout that year. If it weren't for Bertha and Abby, she feared she might end up there by herself.

It was snowing hard that day, the middle of January. Looking
out the carriage window, Delia took in the scenery. Calumet Avenue was a stretch of endless white with fresh carriage tracks running down the center of the street. The community center on Dearborn was even prettier: a majestic limestone building with a splendid cupola and six massive pillars all perched upon a steep flight of snow-covered steps.

As she alighted from her carriage Delia noticed a woman standing near the doorway, pacing back and forth. She wondered if perhaps the front doors were locked and continued on, carefully navigating the slick steps covered with snow and patches of ice. She was almost to the top when the woman turned around. Delia took one look and almost slipped. It was Nannie.
Nannie!
Delia never thought she'd show up that day. Despite the cold weather she felt a rush of heat filling up her body. Delia hadn't seen her in over two months, not since the night of the fire. Since then Nannie had ignored all of Delia's calling cards.

“Nannie,” she said, teetering on the top step. “I didn't expect you here today.”

“I'm on this committee, too. In case you've forgotten.” Nannie was standing right in front of her, blocking her way from stepping up to the landing.

“No. No, I haven't forgotten.” Delia cleared her throat, gripping onto the railing. “Actually, it's a good thing that you're here. I think maybe it's time the two of us talked about a few things.”

“As if I'd believe anything you have to say. I asked a long time ago if you were having an affair with my husband and you flat-out denied it. You're a liar. You've been sneaking around behind my back for God knows how long. And you call yourself a friend.”

Delia's cheeks burned hot as she squeezed the banister harder. She wanted to set Nannie straight. She wanted to remind
her that she was not the cause of Nannie's troubled marriage. The problems were there long before Delia had come along.

Before Delia could respond, Nannie narrowed her eyes and said, “And now I hear you're with child.”

Delia went light-headed as she searched Nannie's eyes. How did she know? Had she overheard them talking? She was certain that Marsh hadn't said anything to her yet.

“Just understand one thing—” Nannie leaned forward with daggers in her eyes. “I can and will ruin you in this town.”

Delia didn't doubt it. Her nerves unraveled. She was still on the step and Nannie was staring down at her. Delia was shaking and hoped that Nannie would think it was from the cold.

“Well, then,” said Delia, “shall we go organize the books?” She started to sidestep around Nannie when she felt a jolt from behind that took her off-balance. Her heel slipped out from under her and she felt her body reeling backward as if in slow motion. She heard herself scream as her arms flailed and she began to tumble. A flash of white stars blinded her each time she struck a step. Her body spiraled down the stairs, going faster and faster until she stopped with a deafening thud.

She realized she must have passed out for a minute. When she opened her eyes, the whiteness of the snow was blinding. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and she couldn't feel her lips or teeth. Her head throbbed; her eyes stung with tears as splintering pain shot through her back and limbs. Her carriage driver raced over, asking if she was okay. Delia could hardly speak. She tried to move and that's when she felt the flood of hot wetness between her legs, soaking through her drawers and petticoat. She looked down and saw that the snow beneath her was turning crimson.

The last thing she remembered before she lost consciousness
was Nannie, standing at the top of the steps, glaring down at her with a stone-cold look on her face.

•   •   •

W
hen she came to, Delia was in the hospital. Her eyes landed on a pitcher and basin on a table next to her bed. Each time she tried to move the metal bed frame squeaked and just a turn of her head sent the room whirling. Even blinking made her skull throb. Every breath made her feel as if her body would crack in two. She still had the taste of blood in her mouth and her lips were swollen. She ran her tongue along her teeth, checking to see if they were all there.

She hadn't noticed the doctor in the room, but now he spoke and with his words, he came into focus. He was tall and stocky and stood at the foot of her bed looking over her chart.

“You're very lucky,” he said. “It's a miracle you didn't break any bones.” He set her chart back down. “There was some internal damage, however.”

Delia then became aware of the warm liquid oozing from between her legs. “My baby?” she asked, or maybe she only thought she did. Either way, she already knew the answer. She already knew it was too late.

“I'm sorry.” He shook his head. “It's unlikely that you would be able to conceive again.”

Delia burst into tears. It felt like a pane of glass shattered inside her chest. The sobs rumbled up from deep within her and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

“Your husband was here all day,” said the doctor. “I finally sent him home to get some rest.”

He was still speaking, warning her about something, saying she had a rough time ahead of her, but Delia was too distraught to comprehend anything other than the fact that she'd lost her baby and probably wouldn't be able to have another one.

The nurse came in and gave her something for the pain, but later that night, the medicine wore off and the cramps began. In the following hours the pain was piercing and the blood seemed endless. The nurse changed the rag bag towels every ten minutes because they were soaked through. But worse than that were the contractions. Spasms and convulsions racked her body. She cried out in panic realizing that she was actually going into labor. She was going to have to deliver a baby that was already dead. Tears streamed down her face as more contractions came with searing bands of pain that made her scream in agony.

While the nurse was giving her a sponge bath, Delia turned her head and gasped at what she saw. Nannie was standing in the doorway. And that's when the horror came rushing back to her and she remembered the feel of Nannie's hand on her back and the sudden jolt just before her foot slipped out from under her. She wanted to scream, to cry for help—but she was too drained.

“What's with all the fussing, dear? You're fine. I'm right here.” The nurse turned around, and when Delia looked again, Nannie was gone. “You're just having fever dreams,” she said, patting a cool cloth down Delia's arm.

Another contraction was coming on. Stronger this time. Delia closed her eyes and moaned through gritted teeth and to her horror, she felt it—she felt her baby slip out of her womb.

After the doctor examined her, Delia turned her head toward the pillow and sobbed. She'd barely gotten used to the idea of having the child and now it was over. She wanted Marsh there with her. She wanted Arthur, too. She needed them both. The doctor said Arthur was in the waiting room but that she needed her rest before he'd let her see him. But Delia couldn't rest. She was so upset that the doctor eventually had to give her something to quiet her down. She fought the sedative for nearly an
hour before it finally conquered her, sending her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she awoke, it was dark inside the hospital room. She was still groggy, and as her eyes began to focus, she became aware of Arthur sitting alongside her bed.

“The doctor said you're going to be all right.” He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “He said you're very lucky you didn't break your neck.”

She swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry.

“The doctor told me about the baby.” His voice cracked. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. “I'm so sorry, Dell.”

Delia felt the tears building up behind her eyes. “Oh, Arthur, I've let you down and . . .”

“Shhh.” He shook his head to silence her and squeezed her hand. “It's no one's fault.”

“But, Arthur, it is. It was—”

“Shhh. These things happen. It was an accident. There's no one to blame for—”

“Nannie,” she said.

“What?”

“It was Nannie. She pushed me. She knew about the baby and she pushed me down those stairs.”

“Oh, Dell—you don't know what you're saying. You poor thing. You're exhausted. Delirious.”

“But—”

“Even Nannie would never do something like that. Your imagination is running wild. I know you want someone to blame, but you have no proof. You need to rest now. You can't afford to get yourself worked up.”

Was he right? Was she delirious? Just looking for someone to blame? She knew it was a terrible accusation, but why would she
imagine that Nannie pushed her? Why could she feel the ghost of Nannie's hand on her back? She rolled over and faced the wall, fighting to keep her eyes open. She was so drained that she honestly didn't know what was real anymore.

Arthur stayed at her bedside for a long time, gently holding her hand, not saying a word. Finally, he turned to her, his eyes rimmed red. “Marsh should be here by now. I'll go get him for you.”

Arthur waited outside in the hall when Marsh came inside, pulled up a chair close to the bedside and reached for her hand. Delia could hear the sound of Arthur's shoes pacing back and forth outside in the hallway.

“It was a boy,” she said. “The nurse told me.”

He pressed her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes, bringing her hand from his mouth to his cheek. “I wanted this with you. I wanted this so much.”

“I know.” Her voice was breaking as she stroked his hair. She thought again about Nannie, thought about saying something to Marsh, but Arthur was right. She had no proof. And even Nannie—as dark as her soul was—could not have done anything that horrid. It was too cruel to fathom.

“We'll try again,” he said.

Delia felt her eyes tearing up. She didn't have the heart to tell him that she might never be able to conceive another child.

The nurse came in her room, and when Delia glanced through the open door out into the hallway, she saw Arthur. He was standing with his face to the wall, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his hands.

•   •   •

D
elia tried not to think about the baby. It was too painful. For two weeks, she could barely get out of bed. She passed her days staring at the William Morris wallpaper until she
started seeing a clown's face in the pattern. And the clown's eerie grin became superimposed in her mind on a picture of Nannie's face as she'd stared at her falling down the stairs.

She tried not to think about Nannie because doing so brought on hot waves of hate that nearly overwhelmed her. Instead, she turned her mind to God. God had done this to her, punishing her for loving another woman's husband.
Are
you happy now?
she said, fists drawn up toward the heavens.
Have you settled the score?
And then her bursts of anger always, always gave way to bouts of tears before leading her back to despondency.

As the days turned to weeks, Arthur and Marsh managed to resume their routines. Marsh worked more than usual and Arthur drank more. But Delia could not shake her melancholy. Abby assured her that time would ease the pain and Delia glared at her, wanting to scream, “What do you know about it? You've never lost a child.” Delia's parents, especially her father, had tried to lift her spirits with tickets to the ballet and the opera. Mrs. Caton had even come by with flowers and more tonics, but nothing helped.

It was about a month after she'd lost the baby that Arthur walked into the parlor with a surprise. “For you,” he said, handing her a white wicker basket with a pink ribbon tied to the handle.

Delia peered inside and clutched her heart as a tiny, furry gray-and-beige face popped up and barked. “Oh, Arthur!”

“She's a Yorkshire terrier,” he said, joining her on the settee.

“Well, look at you,” said Delia, scooping the tiny puppy into her arms. “How old is she?”

“Just five months. But she won't get much bigger. I thought she would cheer you up.”

Delia held the puppy closer, laughing as it licked her face. The dog didn't weigh more than four or five pounds. “Oh, Arthur!
Look at that precious face. She's perfect! I love her. I just love her.” She looked up at Arthur with tears in her eyes. “How did you know I . . .” She choked up, unable to finish her thought.

“Because I know my wife.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I know what you need right now.”

And that was the beginning of Delia's relationship with Flossie, her faithful companion. From that day on, wherever Delia went, Flossie went with her.