What the Lady Wants (19 page)

She brushed past the attendant and went straight up to Delia, forcing her back against the wall. “What do you think you're doing here?”

Delia was so caught off guard she couldn't speak. Her composure was beginning to unravel.

“You have no business being here.” Nannie grabbed hold of her and Delia shrieked as she shook her hard, banging her shoulders against the marble wall.

Nannie's fingers felt like claws clamping down on her shoulders, just like her cockatiel's talons. Delia looked to the attendant for help, but she only stood back with a panicked expression on her face. Delia squirmed and twisted until at last she managed to push Nannie off.

“I'm not finished with you yet.” Nannie grabbed onto Delia's shoulder and spun her around. “You're nothing to him, you hear me? You're nothing! Nothing but a used-up little tart! He didn't even want that baby.”

Delia's hatred suddenly exploded inside her. She didn't even remember slapping Nannie across the face. Her fingers and palm stung before she even realized what she'd done. She looked at her gloved hand and then up at Nannie. A red welt had already come up on her cheek.

Nannie looked stunned and ran out the door calling, “Guard! Guard!”

With the help of the attendant, Delia salvaged what was left of her appearance. As soon as she stepped out of the lavatory, Nannie thrust her finger at her. “That's her!” Two uniformed security guards were standing at her side. “She's the one. That's the woman who assaulted me.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Delia.

Turning to the security guards, Nannie said, “I'm Mrs. Marshall Field and I demand that you arrest this woman.”

Delia was speechless as the guards grabbed hold of her by either arm, cuffing her in their bare hands. She froze in a state of disbelief as they tugged her along, escorting her down the long staircase. She'd never been handled like that before, treated with such disrespect. Her hair had come undone and she realized how disheveled she must appear. The guards were walking so fast she tripped on the stairs as the entire party watched her being led down to the first floor. Her sister and Augustus, Bertha and Potter, Sybil and Annie were looking at her aghast.

Arthur rushed up, meeting them at the foot of the stairs. “What happened? Are you all right? What's going on here?”

Marsh cut in front of him. “What's the meaning of this?”

“I'm afraid this woman caused an incident with your wife upstairs in the lavatory, Mr. Field.”

“Incident? What sort of incident?” Marsh shifted his gaze from Delia to Nannie and back to Delia.

“This woman assaulted Mrs. Field.”

There was a gasp from the onlookers. Delia was too overwhelmed to speak up and defend herself.

“That's absurd.” Marsh reached over and pulled the guard's hand off Delia's wrist. “Do you know who this woman is?”

As soon as her arms were freed, Delia hugged herself about the middle. She felt as though she heard the whole room inhale while she inched her way down the rest of the stairs, keeping her eyes low. She was battling against breaking down in tears, but on top of everything else, she didn't want to give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

When she reached the bottom step, Marsh caught up with her. “I'm so sorry this—”

Delia looked up and shook her head to stop him. She grabbed hold of Arthur's arm and said, “Get me out of here. Please, just get me out of here.”

T
hree months later, Delia found herself amid a group of men standing outside Field & Leiter dressed in bib overalls, scuffed-up boots and unkempt beards. They were chanting, calling for the workingman to rise up. She'd heard about this group of socialists, but this was the first time she'd ever encountered them. They were all part of the growing labor union movement, a schism that was widening between the workers and the capitalists.

Marsh was keeping a close eye on the situation, as were Potter Palmer and George Pullman. She recalled them discussing it quite passionately at a dinner party she hosted a few weeks back.

“I tell you,” Marsh had said at they sat around the Catons' dining room table, “we'd better quash them before they get out of hand. If we're not careful, the labor organizers will be our undoing.”

“It's the capitalists who have built this city—this country,” Potter said. “Where would the workingman be without us?”

“Exactly!” George Pullman had practically leaped out of his
chair. “How dare these socialists try to tell us how to run the very businesses we created. And now they're asking for an eight-hour workday. Eight hours for the same pay they're getting now for working ten hours.”

“That Albert Parsons is nothing but trouble.” Marsh had pounded the table with his fist. “He's the one organizing all this. He and those Germans need to be stopped.”

“We don't need labor unions,” said Pullman. “Labor unions will destroy everything we've established.”

“We're in the midst of a depression, so they're bound to blame us,” Potter had added.

“Did you see that they've taken to calling themselves ‘wage slaves'?” said Marsh, shaking his head as if it were absurd. “They're making themselves out to be victims and turning us into monsters.”

Delia remembered how she had glanced over at Arthur, who sat mildly detached, brushing crumbs off the tablecloth. She wasn't surprised that he wouldn't join in. After all, he was neither a worker nor a capitalist. But what about Abby's husband? Augustus hadn't said a word and she found his silence puzzling.

The protestors interrupted her thoughts as she stood at the street corner, listening to them chanting, “Down with capitalists! Let the workingman rise!” She hurried past them. All their talk made her nervous.

She tried to clear her mind as she set Flossie on the sidewalk and closed her parasol, letting the sunlight radiate on her face and the crown of her head. It was July, not a cloud to be seen. Clearly, she needed a new sunbonnet. All the more reason why she needed to be down there. She drew a deep breath, scooped up Flossie and smiled at the doorman as she entered Field & Leiter. It was the first time she'd stepped foot inside the store since the incident at the party.

The main floor bustled with women standing at the counters, sampling toilet waters, trying on earrings, inspecting lace and embroidered fabrics. Delia realized how much she'd missed being among pretty new things. Seeing something in
Vogue
or
Harper's Bazaar
wasn't the same as being here to feel the different textures, smell the latest fragrances and take into her possession anything she desired.

Delia felt self-conscious as she walked down the center aisle, wondering whom she'd run into that day. Thankfully she hadn't seen Nannie since the night of the party, though she knew she was still in town. That in and of itself was unsettling. Nannie had succeeded in humiliating Delia in front of Chicago high society and there wasn't a thing she could do to redeem herself. Time was her only defense and she hoped that in the past three months people had forgotten and moved on to some more salacious piece of gossip, like Mr. Samuels running off with a chambermaid or even all this talk of social revolution.

Delia kept her eyes straight ahead as she approached the millinery counter. With Flossie resting in the crook of her arm she looked at the new summer hats by Caroline Reboux from Paris in beautiful teal blues, buttercup yellows and mint greens. Just as she was about to try on one of the latest three-story flowerpot styles, Delia heard the familiar voices of Frances Glessner, Harriet Pullman and Malvina Armour standing just a few feet away. Aside from Abby and Bertha, the three of them were the only ones from her old group that would still socialize with her. Delia hadn't seen any of them since the incident with Nannie and was about to go over and say hello when Malvina looked up. The queer expression on her face caught Delia by surprise.

“Just looking at the new hats,” Delia offered clumsily, aware that the others were staring at her as well.

“You have some nerve showing your face back here,” said Harriet. “We thought you had the decency to know better.”

A rush of angry heat filled Delia's chest. “And I thought you'd know better than to believe Nannie's lies about me.”

Frances gasped. “Nannie should have banned you from this store.”

“Come now.” Malvina turned to the others. “Let's move on.”

“You don't have to leave on my account,” said Delia, willing her voice not to crack. “I was just on my way out.” She didn't wait to see their reaction. She dropped the hat she'd been looking at and headed for the doorway with Flossie in tow.

It was a blistering hot day outside, but Delia's face was hotter still from humiliation. She rushed away from the store, and at the corner of State and Washington, she came upon the same group of protestors. She noticed that more men had joined their gathering. A man at the center of them all stood atop a wooden crate shouting with his hands cupped about his mouth, calling: “Death to the plutocrats. War on the capitalists. Workingmen, put down your tools and join the labor movement. We will fight these capitalists to the bitter end. . . .”

Normally the socialists' tirades upset Delia, knowing they aimed their hatred at men like Marshall Field, but on that day she was so distraught, she hardly gave them a second thought. Instead, all she could think was that she had been snubbed by the last of her friends. Not that snubbing was anything new to Delia. So many of the society women had looked down on her for a long time now. But thanks to Nannie, their scorn seemed to have intensified. Going by the reaction of Harriet, Frances and Malvina, she'd clearly lost the support of the last few people willing to claim her as a friend. Thankfully she still had Bertha and Abby. And of course, Arthur.

She and Arthur continued to socialize with Marsh.
Sometimes Abby and Augustus or the Palmers would join them and they'd all go to plays or the opera. Delia managed to keep busy, but she dearly missed her meetings with the Fortnightly Club and the Chicago Women's Club. But those were organizations that Nannie had brought her into and Delia knew better than to attend one of those gatherings now.

Delia's driver wasn't supposed to pick her up for at least another hour, so she decided to walk, thinking it might clear her head. She opened her parasol to block the sun, but oh, what she wouldn't have given for a little shade. But all the lush trees that had once lined State Street had been lost to the Great Fire and to the ways of progress. Every time Delia turned around, there was another building going up. There seemed no end to the masonry fortress or the influx of immigrants who'd flocked to Chicago to build it. Marsh told her there were entire neighborhoods where no one spoke English, and all the stores filled their windows with signs written in only German or Polish, Yiddish or Hebrew. Once again, she marveled at how much the city had changed since the fire.

When she arrived back home, Williams took her parasol and Flossie's leash. Delia heard voices coming from the library and when she entered the room, Arthur smiled and said, “Look who's back.”

“Delia, my darling. It's been far too long.” Paxton Lowry, handsome as ever, rose from the sofa and gave her a tight embrace as the sweet scent of his shaving soap circled around her. No sooner had Paxton released her than Arthur came and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“It's wonderful to see you again,” she said to Paxton. And it was. She'd always been fond of him, amused by his cynical view of the world. She was feeling down and Paxton was the perfect person to lift her spirits. “What a lovely surprise. What brings you back to Chicago?”

“I grew bored with New York.”

“So it didn't work out with the girl, I gather.”

He shrugged. “I guess you could say I grew homesick. Anyway, I'm back here now for good.” He looked at Arthur and smiled.

“You two can catch up later.” Arthur tossed Paxton his hat. “We have to run.”

“Oh, don't leave yet,” Delia pleaded. “I just got home.”

“Sorry,” said Arthur, “but we're going to meet an old friend for a drink.”

“I'm an old friend. Don't I count?” Delia tried to pass it off as a lighthearted comment, but inside, she was sickened by her own neediness. Her desperation to be included was pathetic.

“We'll be back soon. Come on now,” Arthur said to Paxton. “We don't have all day.”

“We'll catch up later,” Paxton called back to her just before the front door shut.

The sound of the door closing reverberated in her chest as if she were hollowed out inside. Between the ladies snubbing her earlier and now this, Delia had never felt so utterly alone. With Nannie still in Chicago she couldn't go to the Field mansion to see Marsh whenever she pleased anymore. And Marsh coming to the Catons' was nearly impossible. Each time he tried to leave the house, Nannie went on one of her tirades or feigned some near-death sickness. One night she started pulling out her hair in clumps until her fingers were covered in blood. Other times she would drop to the ground in hysterics, barricading herself in front of the doorway. It frightened Ethel and Junior to see her that way, and Delia and Marsh agreed that it was better for the sake of the children not to agitate Nannie. And that meant that she and Marsh were rarely able to be alone together. Now their meetings had to be scheduled and planned. And even though Nannie was well aware of their affair, this new development made
Delia feel cheap and deceitful. Each time Marsh had to leave her side to return to Nannie, Delia lost a piece of herself.

That night Delia wandered through the house trying to distract herself. She wondered where Arthur and Paxton had gone. She wondered why Arthur hadn't told her Paxton was coming back to Chicago—unless of course he hadn't known, which she found doubtful. She thought about Arthur's last visit to New York. He'd said he was going for a horse show, but she now suspected that he'd gone solely to see Paxton. She'd never allowed herself to ponder the nature of Arthur's friendship with Paxton, but now she couldn't help herself. Paxton always had a girl, but then again, Arthur had always had Delia.

She thought back to their early courtship. There was hardly a time when Paxton wasn't with them. How many times had she sat with one of Paxton's dates making small talk while the two men entertained themselves? How could she have been so naive? Of course they hadn't wanted her to come with them tonight—or perhaps they'd never wanted her to come along. Ever. She was the outsider. For the first time, she understood how Arthur must have felt whenever Marsh was around. That made her feel guilty. It was just one more offense to heap onto the pile of mistakes she'd made.

She went into the parlor and sat in her favorite chair with Flossie. She tried reading but couldn't concentrate. The same was true for drawing. All she could think about was how lonely and isolated she felt and how it was different for Marsh. For a man. The other men didn't ostracize him, nor did the women. It was all on Delia. She was the culprit, the one responsible for all the wrongdoing.

She was still feeling glum and abandoned several hours later when Arthur and Paxton returned home. They were drunk and laughing, their arms clasped about each other's shoulders.

“You'll never guess where we ended up tonight,” said Paxton.

“She won't like it,” said Arthur.

“We went to a séance!”

“You did what?” Delia sat back and pressed a hand to her chest.

“I told you,” said Arthur. “Dell hates that sort of thing.”

And it was true. She told herself it was all a bunch of bunk and yet she grew tense at the very notion of ghosts and conjuring up the dead.

“But wait until we tell you—”

“No.” Delia covered her ears. “I don't want to hear it.”

“I told you.”

“Okay, all right,” said Paxton, “we'll drop it. Forget we ever said a word about it. Tell us about your night.”

“Quiet,” she said. “I've been alone all evening.”

“Well, then,” said Paxton, reaching for her hands and pulling her to her feet, “up, up, up!”

“I'm up. I'm up,” she said with a laugh. “What are we doing?”

“We're going to raid the pantry,” said Paxton. “I'm famished.”

“We forgot to eat dinner tonight,” said Arthur.

“Well, don't raid the pantry,” said Delia. “I'll have the kitchen maid—”

“No, no, no,” said Paxton. “It's much more fun this way.”

With each of them taking hold of her hands, they whisked her off to the kitchen. She so rarely stepped foot inside her own kitchen that she had to take a moment to observe the room. Copper pots and kettles lined the shelf above the basins with stacked bowls of every size stashed below. Ladles and spatulas, giant spoons and strainers hung from the tiled wall behind the stove. There was a long wooden worktable in the center, its surface scarred with knife wounds. A meat grinder was fastened to the far end. As the three of them pulled out jars of olives, wedges of
cheese, sausages and loaves of bread, Delia had newfound respect for her kitchen staff, who produced three lavish meals a day in that room, day after day.

The three of them ate standing up with their fingers, laughing between bites. Arthur began pitching olives toward Paxton, who caught them in his mouth. Delia turned giddy and had all but forgotten how lonely she'd been earlier.