What the Lady Wants (11 page)

Finally Delia slipped her arm across the bed and stroked Arthur's cheek. “I'm sorry,” she said.

He murmured and put his arm around her, pulling her head onto his chest, “You're infatuated with him, aren't you?”

She could hear his heart beating against her ear. “I don't want to be.”

“But you are.”

She went silent.

“People were talking about you and Marsh tonight. They were watching you.”

“But you were the one who told me to dance with him—”

“Don't insult me. This isn't about the dance, Dell. It isn't about what people say, either. Dammit. Don't you see? It used to be the three of us, but lately it just seems more like it's all about you and Marsh. I saw the way he looked at you while you were dancing. And then again later, when we went for a nightcap. I might as well not have even been there. He adores you and I'm just in the way. I'm on the outside looking in. I feel like I'm losing you. And him. I'm losing you both to each other.”

“You're never going to lose me.” She breathed in deeply, taking in a mixture of his sweat, the brandy and that familiar scent that was uniquely his. “I don't want you to feel left out. Neither does Marsh.”

“So you've discussed this with him?” Arthur slapped the side of the mattress.

“No. Never.” She leaned up on one elbow. “I'd never do something like that to you. I'm just saying that I can tell how much your friendship means to Marsh. He'd never want you to feel excluded.”

He didn't answer. She slouched back down onto his chest and fiddled with a button on his nightshirt.

“It's hard with three,” she said. “Someone always feels left out. It's unavoidable. Don't you think I feel like the outsider whenever you and Marsh are so engrossed in one of your chess games? Neither one of you even notices when I leave the room. Or what about the times when you and Marsh go to the Chicago Club? I can't step foot in there and you both know it.”

“He's my friend, Dell. He's my friend and he wants you. Even when he's with me, you're the one he wants. I can tell.”

She sat up abruptly and looked at him, a splinter to her heart. She was just then realizing that this was more about his losing Marsh than her.

“And you want him, too,” he said. “I can tell—just admit it.”

Delia squeezed her eyes shut. There was that trace of jealousy, of possessiveness; the words she needed to hear. She clung to them, relieved. “You need to know that I'm fighting this, Arthur. I'm fighting it with everything I have.”

1877

D
elia stood on the top deck of the
Baltic
with Arthur, Marsh and Nannie. A steady breeze moved clouds across the sky as a February chill swept over their shoulders. The trip had been Marsh's idea. He had business to tend to overseas, and even though Nannie had recently returned from London with the children, he had persuaded her to leave the children in the care of their governess and arranged for the four of them to make a vacation of it in France.

Originally Bertha and Potter, along with Robert Todd Lincoln and his wife, Mary, were going to join them. But at the last minute, Potter had business in New York and the Lincolns were called away to Springfield for a family matter dealing with his mother, the wife of the late president. Delia expected the trip to be canceled, but Marsh insisted they still go. And so, Nannie, Marsh, Delia and Arthur and their servants had traveled by train to New York before boarding the
Baltic
bound for Cherbourg.

Delia held on to the railing, waving to the crowd below, as the giant steam engine let out a roar followed by the fierce rumblings from below. Its force broke through the thin sheet of ice and churned the water like champagne bubbles. The gun of departure sounded as the cheers grew louder, the good-bye waves grew longer and more strident. They were on their way.

Delia was certain that this trip was exactly what she and Arthur needed. Arthur needed to know that he wasn't being left out, and Delia needed to get away from Chicago and give the gossip about her and Marsh a chance to die down. She hoped that traveling
with
Nannie would help in that regard.

As the steamer picked up speed, Delia looked out toward the stern. The winds shifted sharply and they all moved to the opposite side of the ship to avoid the steady plume of thick black smoke blowing from the engines.

Marsh, for all his frugality in business, was true to his word: he knew how to spend “like the devil” when he wanted to. He had reserved their own stateroom on board the White Star line with plush green velvet seats that had brass nailhead trim. Above the cherrywood wainscoting was a series of large paintings housed in enormous gilt frames. There were two stewards at their beck and call. They dined on roast beef and lobster, served on Royal Worcester china with Duhme sterling silver, and drank fine wine and champagne from Richards & Hartley crystal goblets. They joked the first night, saying that the
Baltic
was like the Palmer House on water.

The first night at sea Nannie dominated the conversation with stories about her recent stay in Europe. She spoke ad nauseam about her London friends whom no one had met and about the various dinner parties and balls she'd been invited to.

Delia caught Marsh's eye, just shy of a roll. No one spoke of it directly, but Delia knew that Arthur and Marsh realized, too, that
things were different now with Nannie back. She wasn't part of them. She was out of step, oblivious to the rhythms of their friendship. Clearly she sensed something was amiss and was desperately trying to ingratiate herself with their circle. But despite the polite attention Delia extended to her, Nannie's efforts were falling flat. After exhausting the topic of her travels Nannie launched into an awkward string of tales about her early courtship with Marsh.

“Do you know that he chased after a moving train and jumped on board at the last minute just to propose to me?”

“Now, Nannie.” Marsh tried to stop her. “Let's not—”

“Oh, but it's true. He did that. He thought he'd never see me again if he didn't. Can you imagine Marshall here making such a gallant effort?”

Marsh's cheeks went from pink to red.

He looked at Delia but she turned away. Picturing young Marsh in love tied a knot in the pit of her stomach. She hated being jealous of Nannie. She had no right to that emotion. It was ludicrous and yet she couldn't help herself. She reminded herself that he was Nannie's husband, not hers, but still the jealousy persisted. She tried to tell herself that Nannie wasn't happy in her marriage anyway, but there was no way to justify her desire for Marsh.

Trying to quash her guilt, Delia began overcompensating, laughing too hard at Nannie's jokes, listening too intently and agreeing too emphatically with everything she said. It was absurd to think those gestures could make up for the fact that she was falling in love with the woman's husband.

•   •   •

A
fter the eight-day crossing they docked in Cherbourg. One long train ride later they arrived in Paris. As she stepped off the platform, she drew a deep breath and was instantly reminded of how old Europe was. The air smelled of centuries gone
past. It was late morning and the cobbled streets were damp from a light snowfall the night before. At the far end of the Champs-Élysées Delia saw women holding wicker baskets and men with fancy walking sticks going about their business. Delia had been to Paris several times but never before in the wintertime. She was taken with how quiet and quaint it seemed, how charming it was this time of year. Not to mention how very different it was from Chicago. The pacing was different, more languid, less chaotic. The lack of noise and bustle was calming, and yet somehow the city was invigorating. She breathed in deeply again, appreciating the air free of soot and dust.

The Hôtel Le Meurice, where they were staying, was magnificent with a granite entablature and sculpted stone detailing. They had a floor of suites to themselves and in addition to their personal maids and valets the two couples had a staff of eight hotel servants to tend to their every need. Delia's four steamer trunks had set sail days before they did and were already waiting for Therese to unpack when they arrived.

Tired from travel, they had dinner their first night at the hotel. Not that doing so meant they were deprived. They feasted on Caviar Russe, Potage Tortue Claire, Turbot à la Hollandaise and Salade Lapérouse. During dinner they discussed their plans for their trip. Marsh had suggested the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres, or the Palace of Fontainebleau, perhaps the Notre-Dame Church in Melun. “Or we could visit the stained-glass windows at the Saint-Aspais Church and stay over—”

“Oh, for God's sake, Marshall,” said Nannie. “I'm exhausted just thinking about all that. Can't you just once—just for once in your life, relax! Just
relax,
dammit.”

“Nannie, please,” he said in a low voice, “you're embarrassing yourself.”

“I am not! Am I embarrassing myself?” She looked to Delia
and Arthur for agreement but turned away again before either could think of how to respond. “See, they don't think I'm embarrassing myself.”

“All right, then you're embarrassing
me
.”

“Oh,” said Nannie with a taunting laugh, “the great Merchant Prince has spoken. Well, too bad. Too damn bad. You're always going, going, going.”

“I think you've made your point,” said Marsh.

“That's all you ever do”—Nannie whipped her head from side to side—“is go, go—”

“Nannie, dammit, that's enough!” Marsh thumped his fist to the table, making the wineglasses jump.

The table went quiet. Nannie drew a deep breath while Delia held hers. Were the Fields done arguing or was there more to come? Delia didn't know what to expect, but for the first time she realized that Marsh and Nannie didn't actually like each other.

Later that night, Arthur followed Delia back to her suite.

“I think it's all the laudanum she takes for her migraines,” said Delia. “Poor Marsh. I don't know how he puts up with her when she's like this. Did you hear the way she talks to him? And if she speaks to him like that in public, can you imagine what happens when they're alone? He must be miserable with her.”

Delia had been brushing her hair when she stopped midstroke, realizing in shame that she'd been taking pleasure in discussing Nannie's troubled marriage. She set the brush down and looked at herself in the mirror. What was she doing? Nannie was her friend.
My God, what is happening to me?

Delia got up and went to Arthur's side, looping her arms around his waist as if that would return her to her senses and stop the bad thoughts from poisoning her mind. “I love you,” she said. “I really do love you.”

He had been silent until now. “I love you, too. You are my treasure.”

She kissed him, wanting him to pull her closer and remind her of where she belonged.

Arthur ran his hands over her back in a slow easy circle. When she went to kiss him again, he brought her hands to his lips and said, “I think I'd best turn in. Don't forget we have a full day tomorrow.”

She stood at the doorway long after he'd left her hotel room. She looked down at her open hands, wondering what she had to hold on to. How many more times could she be turned away, how many more times could she reach out for Arthur and get nothing in return?

Yes, she yearned for a child, but she also wanted to feel like a woman. She needed him to want her. But suddenly she saw it so clearly. Just as she had realized Nannie and Marsh disliked each other, she understood that while her husband might love her, he did not desire her.

And she needed to be desired. That much she knew. And she also knew the man that wanted her was Marsh and she couldn't deny that she ached for him, too.

T
he next morning the four of them had breakfast at Café de la Paix. The moment she stepped inside, Delia took in the lovely frescoes that played along the walls, the plush interior of greens and burgundy and the heavenly scents of buttered pastries and rich, strong coffee.

Everyone was pleasant, acting as if nothing had happened the night before—especially Nannie, who was cheerful and full of energy, despite complaining that she'd been running a fever before bed. It wasn't until she excused herself and went to the lavatory that Marsh leaned across the table and apologized for her behavior.

“I'm sorry if she made you uncomfortable last night.”

Arthur placed his hand over Marsh's. “This is us, remember? You don't have to apologize for a thing.”

“Of course not,” said Delia, still looking at Arthur's hand resting over top of Marsh's. “There's no need to apologize to us.”

“Well, now,” said Nannie in a cheerful voice when she returned to the table, “we're so close to the Opéra Garnier. Should that be our first stop?”

When they were done with breakfast the four of them went to the Salle des Capucines, which had been completed the year before, specifically to establish a home for the Opéra. They could see the cupola from the café. A golden figurine topped the dome, a crowned goddess with servants at her feet.

Inside the opera house Delia stood before the grand staircase, absorbing the breathtaking opulence surrounding her. Her eyes traveled from the frieze along the ceiling to the gold and red marble archways and columns that led to the balconies. Statues of Gluck, Lully, Handel and Rameau looked on from their golden pedestals. When they entered the hall, Marsh planted his hands on his hips and stared up at the bronze-and-crystal chandelier flickering from above.

“Come, take a look,” said Marsh, ushering them all into the center of the room.

“It's magnificent,” said Delia.

“Isn't it, though.” Marsh leaned in over Delia's shoulder, pointing out the detail work of the bronze. But she couldn't focus with him standing so close to her like that. Her head filled with the intoxicating scent of his shaving soap. She felt his chest press against her back as his breath brushed over her neck, filling her body with a rush of heat. Reluctantly she stepped away from him and went to Arthur's side, slipping her arm through his.

Delia still felt flushed from the feel of Marsh an hour later when they left the Opéra and hired a carriage to take them to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. Once they arrived, they strolled around the interior of the church.

“Oh, isn't it stunning,” Delia said as she nuzzled up to Arthur's shoulder.

“We didn't see this on our last visit,” he explained to Marsh and Nannie. “It truly is amazing.”

“Oh please.” Nannie looked all around and threw up her hands. “It's a church. We have plenty of them back home.”

The rest of the day, Delia found herself walking with Marsh on her left and Arthur on her right. Nannie seemed to always be lagging behind, complaining that it was too cold, or her feet hurt, she was hungry, or tired. It seemed that nothing could please her.

•   •   •

T
he second week of their trip, Arthur accompanied Marsh by train to Milan for business. Delia had wanted to go along, eager to see the textiles Marsh was purchasing, but out of duty she remained in Paris with Nannie, who suffered from another migraine.

After saying good-bye to the men, Delia went to Nannie's suite and gently rapped on the door. Nannie's maid, Sheila, showed her inside. She was a young girl, no more than seventeen or eighteen. She was quite pale with red hair and a spray of freckles across her nose. As Delia stepped into the light she noticed the girl had a bruise on her cheek, a palette of purples, yellows and reds.

“My goodness, Sheila, what happened?”

“Nothing, ma'am.” She covered her cheek with her palm and shook her head, her eyes pleading for silence. “Nothing happened. My clumsiness is all.”

“Delia?” She heard Nannie calling for her. “Dell, is that you?”

Delia peered around the corner into the sitting room.

“There you are,” said Nannie with a flick of her wrist. “Come here.”

Delia went over and perched on the chair opposite Nannie, who was lounging on the settee with her legs up, crossed at the
ankles. “I received a letter today from Sybil. She had quite a bit to say.”

Delia was taken aback by Nannie's tone but tried to keep the mood light. “Doesn't she always have a lot to say?”

“Oh, this time she was especially informative.”

“Anything I should know about?” Delia asked warily.

“I haven't decided yet,” said Nannie.

“That's very mysterious.”

Nannie propped a cocarette between her teeth. “Would you care to join me in a smoke?”

“Thank you, no.” Bertha had told Delia that the cocarettes were laced with cocaine. She knew a number of women enjoyed them in private, but they held no appeal for Delia.

Sheila stepped in and produced a light for Nannie, who lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, releasing a stream of smoke through her nose and mouth. Nannie drew another puff, and when Sheila stepped forward, holding an ashtray, Nannie flicked her ash and then shooed the maid away with a wave of her hand. “Never around when you need her and then you can't get rid of her when you don't.”

Delia offered Nannie's maid a thin smile.

After Nannie finished her smoke, she suggested they visit the antiquity shops nearby.

“Are you certain that you feel up to that? With your migraines and all . . .”

Nannie was already on her feet, motioning for Sheila to fetch her coat and muff.

With Therese and Sheila accompanying them, Delia and Nannie went about their shopping. For someone who claimed to be suffering from a migraine, Nannie managed to weave in and out of stores with great ease, barking instructions to her maid while snapping her fingers. “Pack this. Ship that. Put this back.”
Sheila trailed behind, her arms loaded down with parcels. Yet in the midst of this whirlwind of shopping, Nannie turned to Delia and said, “She's absolutely useless. Can't do anything right. I'm going to fire her as soon as we get back to the States.”

Delia didn't say a word, but she thought about the bruise on Sheila's cheek. She wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Nannie had something to do with it.

•   •   •

T
he rest of the week passed more quietly, and four days later Arthur and Marsh returned from their trip to Milan. That night the four of them dined at the elegant Tour d'Argent. It was one of Delia's favorite restaurants. With a corner table by the windows overlooking the scenes of Paris, and tapered candles all about, Arthur and Marsh talked about their visit to Milan.

“The Madonna statue is something to see . . . And the architecture in general . . .”

Delia noticed that Nannie turned her back to Marsh ever so slightly each time he spoke. Right in the middle of Marsh telling them about their visit to Piazza della Scala, Nannie excused herself from the table to powder her nose. Marsh continued on with his story.

The following afternoon they all bid Paris good-bye and started their journey back to the States. Everyone seemed in a good humor until their last night on the ship.

The four of them were dining in the Fields' stateroom when Nannie took hold of the conversation. Without warning she turned to Delia and said, “Sybil Perkins wrote to me again. I received her letter just before we left Paris.”

Delia couldn't imagine why Nannie was bringing up Sybil's letter, but she saw that it upset Marsh. He frowned and turned a stern eye to Nannie. “Not now,” he said.

Nannie ignored him. “She told me you spent a great deal of
time with my husband while I was away in Europe with the children.”

“Oh, Nannie.” Marsh shook his head. “This is ridiculous. You promised.”

Delia felt cornered, her face and neck growing hot. She set her glass down, careful not to spill her wine. Her hands trembled. Nannie had obviously been stewing over this for days.

While she took a moment to gather her thoughts, Arthur spoke up. “Both Delia and I saw a great deal of Marsh while you were away. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do, seeing as he was all alone during the holidays.” Arthur gave Delia a conspiratorial nod and she had never been so grateful to him in all her life.

“I apologize for my wife's outburst,” Marsh said.

But Nannie pushed on, her Southern accent suddenly more exaggerated. “I did hear that you and Marshall were dancing at the Swifts' holiday pageant.”

“Indeed they were,” said Arthur. “In fact, I suggested that Marsh stand in for me. It was completely innocent.”

Delia looked at Arthur, who was holding her hand. She realized that he was defending his friendship with Marsh as much as he was defending her honor. Now that Paxton was gone, Marsh had become Arthur's closest friend and confidant. Arthur needed to see himself as a vital cog in their tidy little circle and Nannie had just given him the opportunity to be indispensable, especially to Marsh. The whole thing put a lump in Delia's throat.

“Oh, come now, Arthur,” said Nannie. “Don't you see it? Don't you see how they look at each other?”

Marsh plucked the napkin from his lap and threw it onto the table. “That's it,” he said, reaching for her arm. “I'm taking you to your room.”

“I'm not ready to go back,” Nannie protested.

“Oh, yes you are. I'm not going to subject our friends to any more of your rude behavior.” He yanked her out of her chair and escorted her by the wrist through the stateroom.

As Delia watched them leave, Arthur turned to her and said, “And you worry that
I
drink too much.” He poured himself another glass of wine, filling it nearly to the rim.

After dinner they went into the lounge on deck and found Marsh sitting by himself on a settee in the corner.

“I'm terribly sorry about tonight,” he said, dragging a hand over his face and letting it drop to his lap. “Nannie can be very hurtful. Very cruel.”

Arthur slouched down in his chair and ordered a drink despite the warning look Delia had given him. “I hope she'll be feeling better tomorrow when we arrive in New York.”

Marsh pressed his lips into a thin smile. “That's awfully polite of you to put it that way—especially after her little performance tonight. I used to think it was the laudanum. But there's something about Nannie. Something that can be so hateful, so spiteful.”

“Is there nothing you can do for her?” asked Delia, perched on the arm of Arthur's chair.

“Nothing but take away the laudanum those damn doctors keep feeding her. And even then, what good would it do? She's a hypochondriac, you know. Always imagining she's plagued by fever, certain that she's dying.”

Arthur patted Marsh on the back and said, “No need to worry, old man. Not with us.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. “Not with us,” he repeated, his words slurring together.

While Marsh and Delia made small talk about their expected
arrival in New York the next day, Arthur let his eyes close, his glass tilting in his hand. Delia retrieved it from his lax grip before it spilled, and set it on the table. Within a matter of minutes Arthur passed out and Delia fetched his valet to take him to his room before someone saw him like that.

Afterward Delia walked back over to Marsh. “Now it's my turn to apologize for my spouse's behavior.”

“No apologies needed.” He checked his timepiece. “It's still early,” he said. “There's no reason why the two of us can't have a nightcap, is there?” He looked at her and patted the seat cushion next to him.

The corners of his eyes crinkled up as he studied her face. A smile came upon his lips and then hers. Something unspoken yet understood was happening between them. It made Delia nervous and apparently it affected Marsh the same way, for he cleared his throat and looked away at something over her shoulder.

“So,” he said, turning his eyes back toward hers. “Shall we stay and have a drink, then?”

Delia joined him on the settee and ordered a glass of sherry.

“Poor Arthur is going to have an awful hangover tomorrow, isn't he?” said Marsh.

She shook her head and tossed her hands in the air. “He drinks too much. He just never knows when to stop and I can't make him stop. God knows I've tried.”

“So much for the four of us getting away together. Seems we brought our troubles with us. We would have been better off leaving Nannie and Arthur back in Chicago.”

She turned to him, surprised by his candor.

He gave his wine a swirl. “Sometimes I think Nannie and I were doomed from the very start. Did you know her sister died on our wedding day?”

“Oh, my goodness—how awful. No, I didn't know.”

“We were supposed to be married in June of '62—you were just a child then.”

Delia smiled. Until he'd said that, she'd forgotten the difference in their ages, but she was in fact twenty-three and Marsh forty-three. By the time she was born, he'd already been through school, had arrived in Chicago and was working as a top salesman at one of the city's biggest dry goods stores. Marsh had practically lived a whole life before Delia could even walk.

“So there we were in the parlor about to take our vows and there was a terrible explosion. Shook the whole house. One of the kerosene lamps blew and Jennie's hair caught fire. She died later that day.”

“That's horrible. I had no idea.”

“Nannie was inconsolable. Jennie was her best friend. She was even going to move to Chicago with us. Months later, when we did finally get married, Nannie still couldn't get past her grief and I didn't know what to do for her. So I made a lot of money and bought her one big house after another. Nannie's all about appearances, you know. Has to have the right address, the right clothes, the right circle of friends. She doesn't mind spending my money. She just resents my working in order to make it. If Jennie hadn't died, we might have had a chance. But after that, I didn't know how to make her happy. I still don't. I've tried everything I can think of.” He thought for a minute and stroked his mustache. “She certainly knows how to make a man feel like a failure.”