What the Lady Wants (32 page)

“Mrs. Caton”—Delia stepped in front of her—“this is still my house.”

“And thanks to you, my son is dead. He would have rather killed himself than stay in this house with you. This is all we have left of him and we're taking it.”

Delia faltered as if she'd been struck. All the wind had been knocked out of her. “Fine,” she said, trying to recover. She wasn't about to argue this point with Arthur's mother. She knew the truth and that had to be enough. “Fine. Take it. Take it all.”

“What!” Abby was alarmed. “But we won't have any furniture left. We'll be here in an empty—”

Delia raised her hand to stop her sister and then turned back to Mrs. Caton. “Take everything. And once you're done, do me a kindness and never step foot inside this home again.”

She went to the drawing room on the other side of the house with Abby and Catherine trailing after her.

“But, Aunt Dell, they
will
take it all. They will.”

“You should see what they've already done to the upstairs,” said Abby.

Delia was cool and collected. “Let them take it all. I'll redecorate the house. It's worth it for me just to have them out of my life once and for all.”

A
month after Delia and Marsh returned from their honeymoon, they went to New York for a gallery opening. It was Delia's first time back in New York since Arthur's suicide.

They stayed at the opulent Holland House on Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street. From the moment they stepped through the front doors until they reached their suite, they were surrounded by Siena marble, bronze and stained-glass accents. Only the Palmer House could rival the Holland House's amenities.

Their first night in the city, they went with the Astors to see
Oliver Twist
at the New York Theater on Forty-fifth Street and afterward the four of them dined at Delmonico's. The next day, despite the brisk November air, Delia and Marsh strolled through Central Park, where the bare trees were already bracing for the coming winter.

“It's getting cold out here. What do you say we get in a cab and go down to Thirty-second Street. There's a couple of new
merchants over there. A fellow named Herman Bergdorf and his partner, Edwin Goodman. I'd like to get a look at their store.”

Delia found the store to be rather cramped and poorly lit. It was nothing like the bright spacious Marshall Field & Company, but even Marsh had to admit their merchandise was first-rate.

“If they can figure out a way to better display their goods,” said Marsh, “I think they might be able to make a go of it.”

After Bergdorf Goodman's Marsh wanted to see Macy's new location at Herald Square. As they approached Broadway and Thirty-fourth Street, Delia saw the red awning first, and as they drew closer, she paused to admire the neoclassical facade. Inside it was pure luxury. Marsh kept pulling a notebook from his breast pocket to jot down thoughts to discuss with John Shedd when he got back to Chicago.

Delia and Marsh returned to their suite at the Holland House around three that afternoon, wanting to rest and have time to freshen up before dinner with the Vanderbilts that evening. While Delia waited for the maid to draw her bath, the telephone rang. It was Spencer calling.

“Aunt Dell—” His voice was quaking.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Delia pinched her wrapper closed and gripped onto the armchair. All she could think was that something had happened to Abby or Augustus. Or Catherine.

“It's Junior,” Spencer said, throwing a punch to her stomach. “There's been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” She looked over at Marsh, who rushed to her side.

“He's been shot.”

“What!” Delia shrieked. “Who shot him? Is he alive?”

“He's in the hospital.”

By then Marsh had grabbed the telephone from Delia while she watched the color drain from his face.

Delia and Marsh were on the train at ten o'clock that night. The New York Central would arrive at Chicago's Thirty-first Street Station early the next afternoon. Though it was an express train, the journey seemed to take forever. There were other passengers on board, business travelers and families bound for Chicago, too, but Delia and Marsh kept to themselves in their private compartment.

Marsh tried to distract himself with newspapers, but Delia saw that he hadn't moved off the front page in over half an hour. Delia herself stared out the window as their train barreled through the Pennsylvania mountains. It was a cold, harsh-looking landscape and it gave her the chills.

“I still can't understand how he could have shot himself,” Marsh said, folding his newspaper in half. “Junior's been handling guns all his life.”

Delia didn't have an explanation. They were both frustrated, not having any details. They didn't even know how serious his injury was. All they knew was that Junior had accidentally shot himself. The bullet was lodged in his abdomen and they were going to operate. Albertine had already been told. She'd been away with the children visiting relatives in New Jersey and was on her way back to Chicago, too.

Their porter managed to find one newspaper with a brief paragraph stating: “Marshall Field, Jr., son of Chicago's mercantile magnate Marshall Field, has been shot and rushed to Mercy Hospital. No family members were available for comment.”

When their train pulled into Chicago, the station was filled with reporters awaiting their arrival. Spencer was waiting for them, too, with his Oldsmobile idling at the curb. The November air was raw and punishing with the winds kicking up off the lake. The photographers pushed and shoved, trying to get closer to the couple, asking for a statement. It was a frenzy and Delia was
frightened. When one of the photographers reached for her arm, Marsh grabbed hold of his camera and smashed it on the platform before rushing Delia toward Spencer's motorcar.

Marsh and Delia went directly to Mercy Hospital, where another swarm of reporters and photographers were gathered outside, their collars turned up, hats held down in place while they bombarded Delia and Marsh with questions as their flash bags popped off.

“Do you know who shot your son, Mr. Field?”

“What have the doctors told you about Marshall Field Jr.'s condition?”

“How severe is his injury, Mr. Field?”

“No comment,” was all Marsh said as he and Delia climbed the stairs trying to get away from the cameras.

Once inside the corridor they were met by the head of the hospital, who ushered them down the hall to a waiting area just outside the sickroom. Albertine sat with Gwendolin on her lap, Marshall III and Henry at her side. Albertine was pale and Delia felt her tremble in her arms when she embraced her.

All Albertine knew was that three doctors were operating on Junior at that very moment. While Delia sat and waited with Albertine, Marsh paced up and down the corridor and then sat, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together.

It was an hour later when the head doctor came out and pulled down his surgical mask, letting it hang beneath his chin. “Mr. Field's a very lucky young man,” he said. “I'm pleased to report that the wound was not fatal.”

There was a gasp of relief as Albertine hugged Delia and then Marsh, tears collecting in their eyes.

Marsh leaned forward, fingers pressed together. “Does that mean he'll be okay?” he asked.

The doctor nodded. “As I said, he's a very lucky man. I think we can expect him to make a full recovery.”

Delia looked around the waiting room, feeling the tension leaving her neck and shoulders. Even the air seemed thinner now that they knew Junior would be all right. Still, Albertine insisted on staying at the hospital in the room next door. She wanted to be there when he woke up.

In the meantime, Marsh and Delia took the grandchildren home and got them into bed before they returned to the Field mansion next door. A cluster of reporters was huddled together out front, standing beneath a streetlamp. It had started to snow and a white dusting was collecting on their hats and overcoats. Still they didn't budge. They were waiting for a statement, but Marsh waved them off, asking for privacy.

About an hour after they'd returned home from the hospital, the doorbell rang, and a few moments later, the butler escorted Spencer into the drawing room. He looked like he'd been drinking. His dark hair was ruffled, his necktie loosened about his collar. It was cold and snowing outside, but he was perspiring.

“This is a bit indelicate,” he began, pacing back and forth in the drawing room. “I didn't want to say anything over the telephone when I called you in New York, or at the hospital in front of Albertine.”

“For God's sake what is it?” Marsh got up and blocked Spencer's pacing.

“Well—” He stopped, his eyes shifting from Marsh to Delia and then back to Marsh. “Junior didn't exactly shoot himself. It was an accident, but he didn't do it.”

Delia and Marsh both stared at Spencer. “What in God's name happened?”

“It all started when Junior and I met up with a friend of ours from New York. Miss Scott. Vera Scott. We started out at a
dinner and then we decided to go to a party—some friends of hers. Junior and I didn't know any of them. It was getting late and we were all ready to call it a night, but then Vera—Miss Scott—suggested we go to the Everleigh Club.”

“The Everleigh Club! What in the devil was my son doing in a place like that?”

The Everleigh Club was Chicago's most exclusive bordello and Delia had heard that it cost fifty dollars just to get in the front door. People said that night after night the two sisters, Minna and Ada Everleigh, entertained celebrities and dignitaries, princes and kings from around the world.

“Well, we ended up there,” said Spencer, slicking back his hair with both hands. “Everyone was clowning around and having a good time, when all of a sudden Vera and Junior got into an argument. It was a friendly argument, though—mostly they were just teasing each other. But then, out of nowhere, Vera pulled a pistol out of her handbag. She was still joking around. I swear, it was just in fun. But then Vera kept taunting Junior with the gun, waving it in his face. We both kept telling her enough was enough and to put the gun away. And when she wouldn't listen, Junior tried to take it from her and that's when it accidentally went off and shot Junior right in the stomach.”

“This happened inside the Everleigh Club?” Marsh pressed his hands to his forehead. “My son was shot inside a brothel!”

“That's why we moved him.”

“What?” Delia and Marsh were both astonished. “What do you mean, you
moved
him?”

“We knew we couldn't leave him there in the club. Minna and Ada didn't want him there, either. I don't need to tell you that the press would have had a heyday with that. So we moved him. It was his idea. Junior was talking the whole time, telling us to take
him home. So Vera and I got him into a cab and brought him back to his place. We didn't think he was hurt all that bad. We knew Albertine was out of town with the children and we thought we'd get him fixed up before she got back. Anyway, we took him up to his dressing room and we realized how bad off he was. He lost consciousness shortly after we got him upstairs and that's when we telephoned for the ambulance.”

“Now what? You've tampered with everything. How are we going to explain all this!”

Delia had never seen Marsh so rattled. Seeing him—her rock—lose his composure shook her at first. But then it made her tap a reserve of strength that she'd almost forgotten she had. It was the core of strength she'd found the night of the Great Fire nearly thirty-five years before. Marsh needed her now in a way he never had before. Suddenly her mind was cycling, looking for angles, looking for solutions.

“Now wait a minute,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on Marsh's arm. “I think they did the right thing.”

Marsh and Spencer looked at her, both of them surprised.

“We can figure this out,” she told them. “We just need to think it through. Now, did anyone else see her shoot him?”

“It was just the three of us in there. In one of the rooms in the back of the house.”

“And did anyone else hear the gun go off?”

“I don't know. It was really noisy in there that night. They had a couple big parties going on and the place was packed. Loud music was playing in all the rooms. I'm the one who went and got the sisters. They hadn't heard a thing.”

“This is absurd,” said Marsh. “Of course someone had to have heard something, seen something. And what about this Vera Scott woman? What the devil are we supposed to do about her?”

“I took her to a hotel up north,” said Spencer. “She's waiting there to hear from me.”

“Do you think she'll talk to the reporters? Do you think she'll talk to
anyone
?” Delia asked.

“I told her not to say a word. Not to anyone.”

“And you trust her?” Marsh was horrified.

“She's scared to death,” said Spencer. “She thinks she's going to jail. Trust me, she's not going to talk.”

“This will work,” said Delia.

Marsh stood up, stuffed his hands inside his pockets and walked around the room. Finally he stopped and looked at Delia. “Just tell me exactly what you're suggesting.”

“I'm suggesting that we stick with Spencer's original story and tell the press that Junior accidentally shot himself.”

“Actually,” said Spencer, “that was Junior's idea, too. He said he'd just bought a new gun. It's still up in his room. He said to tell you he'd shot himself by accident while he was cleaning it.”

“Then that's our story,” said Delia, slapping her hands to her lap. “We'll come up with a statement for the press and we'll stick to it. And don't look at me like that, Marshall. We can't have this in the papers. We can't do that to Albertine or to the children.”

“And what about the taxi driver and the servants?” asked Marsh. “Surely they must have seen that Junior was shot when you brought him back home.”

“We told them he was drunk. Even we didn't notice
that
much blood until we got him upstairs, so I highly doubt they did,” said Spencer.

“And what about that Vera Scott woman?” asked Marsh. “I don't trust her.”

“Then we get rid of her. We send her away—overseas somewhere.” Delia said this as if she were disposing trash in a bin. She was shocked that she was so coolheaded and so was Marsh.
Again, he shot her a mortified look. “Well?” she said. “Can you think of a better way to handle her?”

“We'll never get away with this. I've never lied to the press before,” said Marsh. “They have ways of finding things out.”

“You've also never been put in this kind of predicament before,” Delia reminded him. “This is more about protecting your family than lying to the press.”