What the Lady Wants (31 page)

A
fter the funeral, the Caton mansion felt unbearably empty to Delia, even though Abby, Augustus and Catherine still lived there. Delia wandered through the hallways and in and out of rooms as if in a trance. Just like when Nannie passed away, Delia felt the house was haunted with Arthur's spirit. While sitting in the library, she was certain she heard his voice, or saw his shadow move across the room, smelled his shaving soap. It got to be too upsetting for her in the house and she retreated back to the Field mansion.

Delia's grief was deep and unrelenting. As she expected, Marsh's only way of dealing with his pain was to throw himself into his work. But Delia had no such distractions. Bertha and Abby tried to take her mind off things, insisting she join them for lunch and shopping or a walk through the Art Institute. But it was no good. Delia couldn't shake her sorrow, couldn't let any joy inside her life.

Every day she asked herself the same question: What was she to do now? Go about her life as if her husband hadn't killed himself? How could one's pain be so great as to think it would be better to not exist? Why, oh why, hadn't he talked to her about it? She felt guilty for every breath she could still take, for every bit of this earth that she still inhabited. Something as simple as a cup of coffee felt like an undue pleasure. Nothing was untouched by the loss. How was she supposed to be all right with this world, let alone be happy about anything now? The minute she'd catch herself laughing, or not dwelling on poor Arthur, she would rein herself back in, reminding herself that she didn't deserve to feel any semblance of joy.

She confessed all this to Marsh one night when he found her crying out in the garden, looking across the way at her house.

“That's ridiculous,” said Marsh. “Arthur wouldn't want you to punish yourself like this.”

It was ten o'clock at night, just three weeks after Arthur's suicide. The August night air was still, motionless. Fireflies flickered around the rosebushes while crickets chirped in the dark. The moon was just a sliver, a toenail of light suspended overhead. Marsh pulled a lawn chair up close to where Delia was sitting.

“Life goes on. It simply has to,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing a failed sales event.

She tried to let the comment pass, but for Arthur's sake she couldn't. “How dare you be so callous. We're not talking about Nannie here. This is about Arthur! He's dead! Don't you understand that?”

“Oh, Delia.” He leaned back and let out an exasperated sigh as he looked up at the stars. “Of course I understand that Arthur is dead. He was my friend. But you can't torture yourself like this. It isn't fair to you. Or to me.”

“To you!” She bolted up straight. “Who gives a damn about
what's fair to you? You're still alive. You have everything you want now.”

She started to get up, but he reached for her arm and stopped her. “For God's sake, woman! I don't have you. I've waited a long, long time to make you my wife. I'm tired of waiting. I say we get married and we do it now.”

She struggled to pull away from him. “How can you even think about that now?”

“He gave you his blessing.” Marsh was on his feet then, too, standing in front of her, holding her still. “He wants us to be together.”

“But it's too soon.” She could feel the grief mounting beneath her rage as she twisted herself free from his hold, dropped to her knees and let her tears flow.

He knelt down beside her. “Don't do this to us, Delia. Don't sabotage us. For the first time there's no one standing in our way.”

“What is the big rush? Why so soon?”

He brought his hands to the top of his head as if to keep it from exploding. “So soon? Good God, woman. I've been waiting thirty years for you.”

She looked at him and in spite of herself she was struck by the absurdity of it all. She began to laugh. At first he stared at her in shock, but then gradually he began to laugh as well. They stayed there in the garden laughing until the tears poured from their eyes.

•   •   •

T
hey agreed to marry right away, in Europe, where they could escape the scrutiny of the press. Delia and Marsh set sail for London on August 25. Delia still grieved, but she had come to see her marrying Marsh as a tribute to Arthur, as if she was carrying out his final wish for her.

The crossing was peaceful and Marsh and Delia stayed in
the Fields' stateroom on board the
Baltic
. Everything from the furnishings to the silver and china was of the finest quality. The seas were calm and the gentle breeze upon the deck was refreshing. They made love in the middle of the afternoon and lingered in bed until dinnertime. There was no pressing business, no meetings, just time for each other, and for once the quiet, the stillness of it all, was enough for Marsh.

They arrived in London on Saturday, September 2, three days before they were to be married. They stayed at Claridge's with Junior and Albertine, who arrived the next day, along with Abby, Augustus, Spencer and Catherine.

Ethel did not take the news of her father's marriage very well. The day before the wedding they went to Ethel's home on Eaton Square. After being introduced to her new husband, David Beatty, Marsh slipped his arm about Delia's waist and announced their wedding plans.

Ethel stared at her father. “What do you expect me to say?”

“A simple congratulations would do,” he said, tightening his hold about Delia's waist.

“How can you do this to Mother and to poor Uncle Arthur?” Ethel theatrically covered her face in her hands and began weeping. Her husband tried to calm her down, but she just sobbed into his chest.

Delia had hoped that Ethel would understand—especially since she herself had had an affair and was now married to that man. Surely she wouldn't stand back in judgment any longer. But Ethel's stubborn streak wasn't about to give.

When Ethel pulled away from David she addressed Delia for the first time. “Uncle Arthur hasn't even been gone a month! You drove him and Mother to their graves.”

Delia felt the sting of her words, but she didn't say anything.
She wouldn't dare betray Arthur's secret. If Ethel wanted to blame it on her, then so be it.

Later that night they all dined at Forman's and the evening was a disaster. Delia burned her tongue on the bisque and then Marsh spilled a glass of red wine down the front of his suit. Ethel pouted the whole time. On their way back to the hotel, their motorcar got into an accident—no one was hurt—but an accident just the same. Ethel's words haunted Delia, and images of Nannie rose up unbidden. Delia couldn't help but think Nannie was sabotaging them from the grave.

The next day, Tuesday morning, September 5, 1905, was their wedding day and by ten o'clock Delia had experienced even more mishaps. While Therese helped her into her dress, the clasp on her bracelet caught on her cuff and tore a section of the lace trim. She stuck herself with her brooch, sending a droplet of blood onto her cream-colored shoe. The snag in her stocking seemed minor in comparison. Delia couldn't help but think their union was cursed.

Of course she didn't dare share her fears with Marsh. He always pooh-poohed her superstitions. But still she worried that the ghost of Nannie would see to it that they didn't have a moment's peace. Delia was waiting for something—something bad—to catch up with them. If only she'd known that stain on her shoe and a snag in her stocking would be the least of it.

Three hours later, Delia, at fifty-one, married her seventy-one-year-old groom. They said their vows at London's St. Margaret's Church in a private ceremony for just their family. Ethel reluctantly attended and cried during the ceremony. Delia and everyone else knew they were not tears of joy.

Word of the nuptials had somehow leaked to the press, and immediately following the ceremony, newspapermen swarmed
Delia and Marsh with a host of questions while camera flashed, releasing a smokeless powder in the air. Spencer and Junior held the reporters and photographers at bay while the newlyweds made their escape and began their honeymoon.

They took the train from London to Chur and then on to St. Moritz. En route they traveled through Paris, Dijon and Zurich and other cities that charmed them with their breathtaking scenery. At stops along the way they shopped for clothes, for furniture and antiquities.

St. Moritz was everything they'd hoped it would be. Though they had missed the height of the season, they were thrilled by the privacy. No reporters, no obligations to attend luncheons and balls. They had just each other and the Alps.

One afternoon they went to see the Leaning Tower of St. Moritz. Standing on the stone walkway they were surrounded by evergreens and the Alps. It was breathtaking. As the funiculars in the distance strained their way up the mountainside, Marsh pointed to the peak of Corviglia and said to his new wife, “Mrs. Field, when I look at that mountaintop, I think of you and me.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Because we've climbed and crawled our way up just as steep a mountain to get to where we are now.”

“Why, that's almost poetic, Mr. Field.” She laughed as she settled into his arms, loving the feel of his lips and mustache on her cool cheek as he kissed her. This was contentment. This was pure happiness. All she'd ever wanted. It was as if after thirty years, she could at last breathe freely. She'd finally left the ghosts of Nannie and Arthur behind.

She realized that she and Marsh were the opposite of most newly married couples. Most newlyweds were excited about sharing their lives together, whereas Delia and Marsh were
excited about finally sharing the life they'd been living with the rest of the world. She was so proud that they had stuck it out together, that they were now free to be man and wife and that their love for each other was even stronger now than it had been thirty years ago.

“I want to climb that mountain,” he said, his arms still wrapped around her.

“I can't picture you as a mountaineer,” she said.

“Do I detect a challenge?” He laughed. “I'll tell you what, next year—on our anniversary—I shall climb that very mountain. And if you're so inclined, Mrs. Field, you may join me.”

Marsh stood behind her, their bodies pressed together, his arms about her waist. She looked down at his wedding band and smiled. “I'm glad you're wearing that,” she said, running her thumb over the gold band. “You never wore your wedding ring when you were married to Nannie.”

“Oh, I did in the beginning, but something happened early on and I took it off and never wore it again.”

“What happened?”

Marsh held up his right hand, extending his crooked index finger. “That's what happened.”

“Nannie did that to your finger?”

“We'd been married about six months and we were in the midst of our first truly grand argument. I'd never heard her raise her voice before. It was shocking, I tell you.”

“What were you arguing about?”

He laughed. “Can't for the life of me remember. But I do remember that it was hot as the devil that night. All the windows were open, but it didn't help much. We were living in a dump of a place with poor ventilation. Anyway, Nannie was having a fit. And I do mean a genuine fit. I'd never seen her like that before. The
soft-spoken Southern girl I married had turned into a ranting lunatic. At one point, I told her to go to hell or something equally as endearing. I got up and went over to the window to get some air. I had my hands on the ledge and Nannie came charging up behind me and slammed the window shut. I got all my fingers out of the way in time but this one. Later she swore up and down that it was an accident, but she did it with malice. That's when I knew I'd married an evil woman. I took off my wedding band and never put it back on.”

Something about what he said struck Delia and struck her hard. Nannie did have an evil streak. No doubt about that. Delia remembered how she'd set the birds loose, terrifying her, and of course Delia would never forget that look of smug satisfaction on her face the day she fell down the stairs and lost her baby. All these years Delia questioned whether Nannie could have really pushed her. Could she have possibly done something that wicked, that malicious? Because she had no proof, she never said anything to Marsh, but now she knew that Nannie was to blame. Now she had her answer.

•   •   •

S
ix weeks later when they returned to Chicago, Delia wanted all traces of Nannie removed from their life. She walked through the Field mansion with the head housekeeper, who took copious notes as Delia made her comments.

“Please see to it that all the King Louis XVI pieces in the parlor are removed,” she said. “And I want those birds out of this house, too.”

“Right away, Mrs. Field.”

Mrs. Field.
It still sounded foreign to her, but she was the new Mrs. Field and she had every right to make this house into a real home for Marsh and her.

After finishing up with the head housekeeper, Delia returned
to the house on Calumet, where she planned to divvy up the staff with Abby, deciding which servants would follow Delia to Prairie Avenue and which ones would remain on Calumet.

As soon as she stepped inside, Abby and Catherine rushed to her side.

“We tried to stop them,” said Abby.

“They're just helping themselves to all your things, Aunt Dell.” Catherine pointed toward the library.

Both Abby and Catherine followed Delia inside, where she came face-to-face with Mrs. Caton and Arthur's sisters along with several members of the Caton Colony staff.

“All the books,” said Mrs. Caton. “And that sculpture on the desk. In fact, take the desk, too.”

“Excuse me,” said Delia. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Oh, and the Tiffany lamp.”