What the Lady Wants (5 page)

D
elia welcomed the sound of hammers pounding, of saws slicing back and forth, their blades chewing through marble and granite. She took comfort in the workmen shouting from stepladders and rooftops as she made her way down Michigan Boulevard with Abby and her mother. It was December and the ground was a solid mass of frozen ash, covered in snow. And yet, over the past two months, even as winter set in, Delia watched with wonder as the city started to come back.

“Oh look,” her mother said now, pointing to the construction on a snowy lot, the site of their future home. “They've started on the chimneys.”

The three of them paused to look at the progress the builders had made. Stacks of masonry blocks and brick were scattered about, as the city had outlawed wooden construction right after the fire. The Spencers were rebuilding at Michigan and Sixteenth, near where they were staying with their relatives. It was to be a twelve-thousand-square-foot Romanesque-style home designed by an up-and-coming architect, Henry Hobson Richardson.

“I can't wait until we're back in a home of our own,” said Abby.

“And just think, now you'll live even closer to Augustus,” said Delia.

As it turned out, Augustus's family home on Wabash and
Twenty-second Street had been spared in the fire. It had taken him about ten days but eventually he had located Abby. Delia could tell that the temporary separation and fear of losing each other had only intensified their budding love.

“Come along, girls,” said Mrs. Spencer. “We mustn't be late.”

In an effort to return to some semblance of normalcy, Delia's mother had been taking her daughters to the dressmaker for weekly consultations so that the Spencer girls could replace their lost wardrobes. The dressmaker, like so many other small businesses, had set up shop in a makeshift shack. When they arrived, she hustled Delia behind a flimsy drape that served as a changing room.

“Of course this is just temporary,” the dressmaker apologized for the umpteenth time while pinning the flouncing to Delia's dress.

Delia looked in the mirror and frowned. “I'd prefer the trim a little higher on the hip,” she said.

Delia always involved herself in the dressmaking process. Weeks ago she had presented the seamstress with sketches illustrating how she wanted her evening, afternoon and even walking dresses to look. She'd even given her a design for a new skating outfit. As much as she had carefully chosen her designs and as talented as the dressmaker was, Delia knew that none of these new dresses would compare with the work of the Paris designers.
But the Spencer girls' annual autumn trip to Europe had been postponed because of the fire. Mrs. Spencer did not want to leave her husband, who had started running Hibbard & Spencer from William Hibbard's home.

“And remember,” said Delia, “use the silver floss embroidery, not gold.” She caught herself in the mirror and felt a stab of regret. She didn't like what she saw and it wasn't the dress that she was unhappy with. It was her own image. How could she be concerned about things like embroidery and flounce when so many others had nothing at all?

Immediately after their visit to the dressmaker, Delia went to the First Presbyterian Church and signed up to help distribute warm clothing and food to those who had been left homeless.

“Are you certain you're up to this?” asked the petite woman in the vestibule, folding blankets, rising on tiptoes, straining to reach the top. “You're one of the Spencer girls, aren't you?”

“But I want to help. I'll do anything.” Delia stepped in, took the blanket from her and placed it on the pile.

The woman looked at her and smiled. “Very well, then,” she said with a nod. “You can fold those over there,” she said, pointing to a heap of dull, rough blankets the color of olives. “And when you're done, we just got a new donation of shoes. They need to be sorted and arranged according to size.”

After that, Delia reported to the church seven days a week to help the fire victims. And oh, the things she saw! Children without warm clothing, the soles of their blistered feet bleeding and peeking out of their torn, tattered shoes. Men and women so beaten down and frail, their eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. Delia would stay at the church as long as she could, reading one last story to a child or rubbing an old woman's tired shoulders with liniment.

Despite her efforts, Delia still felt guilty when she returned
to her relatives' home, knowing her aunt's cook prepared their supper, the footman chopped wood for the fireplaces, and the maids made sure they had warm beds. How could Delia enjoy these comforts? Instead she lay awake at night, unable to escape the forlorn faces that haunted her memory come sunset.

•   •   •

A
fter volunteering for two weeks straight, Delia took a day off and accompanied Abby and Augustus to the Palmers' country home in Hyde Park. It was a lovely estate on a large plot of land with a fine stable and sprawling gardens out back. Inside, the house was beautifully decorated with a Mathieu Criaerd commode and several gilded wood fauteuils, which Delia recognized as the work of Jean-Jacques Pothier. Delia's eye for design wasn't limited to just fashion. No, she was equally interested in home furnishings. From the time she was a young girl, she had pored over her father's back issues of
Godey's Magazine and Lady's Book
and devoured every issue of
Harper's
, studying up on the latest designers.

That Sunday afternoon in December, Bertha hosted a small gathering that included her neighbor Paxton Lowry and his friend Arthur Caton.

“Well, if it isn't the Spencer girls,” said Arthur as soon as Delia and Abby entered the drawing room.

They had both known Arthur since childhood, but this was the first time Delia had seen him in years. He came from an extremely wealthy family; his father was one of the most powerful judges in Chicago. Like his father, Arthur had gone to law school out east and he had recently been admitted to the bar. He had moved back to Chicago just three days before the fire.

Paxton explained all this before saying, “Arthur comes back to Chicago and the whole town falls apart.”

Delia and the others watched Paxton in silence as he moved
to the bar. No one could think of anything to say in response. “Oh, come now,” he said, plucking a bottle by its neck, letting it swing like a pendulum. “It was a joke.”

“Not a very funny one,” said Bertha.

“Forgive me.” Paxton hung his head in mock shame.

Delia found Paxton to be an unusually pretty man with long lashes, smooth, almost whiskerless skin and a tender smile. She watched as he refilled Potter's glass and then Arthur's. Augustus adjusted his monocle and waved his hand, saying he'd had enough. Delia and Abby were drinking tea along with Bertha.

While the men talked about the vigorous rebuilding of the city, Bertha and Abby summoned Delia into the hallway. “Well, what do you think of Arthur?” Bertha asked.

Delia peered back into the drawing room. Arthur was sitting casually in a cane-backed chair with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He was very stylish with sandy blond hair combed back off his forehead and rugged-looking muttonchops.

“I don't remember him being so handsome,” Delia admitted.

“And don't forget, he is a Caton, after all.” Abby said this as if no further explanation was needed. Of the two girls, Delia knew her sister was the one more concerned with appearances.

As they started back toward the drawing room, the butler appeared in the hallway announcing the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Field.

Mr. and Mrs.?
Delia turned abruptly. She felt an unexpected burst of disappointment, as if an unspoken promise had been broken. She'd had no idea he was married. Even after all she'd read about him in the newspapers, she'd never seen even a single mention of his wife.

Mr. Field smiled generously when he saw her. “And so we meet again, Miss Spencer.”

“Very nice to see you, Mr. Field.”

“Please, call me Marshall. Or better yet, Marsh.”

“But only if you'll call me Delia. Or better yet, Dell.”

They laughed in agreement. She couldn't help but notice how easy and comfortable she felt talking to him. It was that way every time she saw him, like they were old friends rather than recent acquaintances.

Delia felt his wife's eyes on her even before Bertha introduced them.

“This is Marshall's wife, Nannie. She's from Kentucky,” said Bertha. “Like my people.”

Nannie patted her hair in place as she said hello, her voice carrying a hint of Kentucky drawl. “Well, isn't it nice to meet you.”

Delia found that she was every bit as intrigued by Nannie as she was with Marshall. Or maybe it was because she'd been so intrigued with Marshall that she took an interest in Nannie. She couldn't help it. Delia was fascinated by the woman who had captured Marshall Field's heart. She noticed every detail from Nannie's brown hair, fastened in a Gordian knot, to her slender figure and the Japanese silk day dress with gathered flounces. She was very stylish, befitting the wife of the city's most successful merchant. She was older, closer to Marshall's age, probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Whereas Marshall moved about with ease, shaking hands with the men, Nannie held back. She appeared self-conscious one minute and then, as if to overcompensate for her insecurity, she would make bold gestures. She would interrupt conversations with non sequiturs or suddenly sit down at the piano to play a song that she clearly hadn't mastered. Delia suspected that Nannie was who she was by virtue of marrying Marshall Field. It appeared that she'd been thrust into a world she'd hadn't been groomed for.

“Nannie's starting a new club for women,” said Bertha.

“Yes, you must come join us,” said Nannie. “We're going to be discussing books and plays, and the opera. We're going to recapture the culture that was lost in the fire. We've already received a shipment of books from England for the city's library.”

“But we don't have a city library,” said Delia.

“Well, we certainly have the start of one now,” said Nannie with a cunning smile.

The more they talked, the more Delia liked her. Nannie, for all her quirks, had spirit. She realized that must be what had attracted Marshall Field to her; she seemed to be a woman whose energy could match his.

Delia sipped tea from Bertha's delicate jeweled cups while Potter told everybody of his plans for the new Palmer House Hotel.

“Construction is already well under way,” he said. “And this time, by golly, that hotel will be fireproof.”

“I no longer believe there is such a thing as a fireproof building,” said Augustus.

“Mark my words,” said Potter. “The Palmer House will be one hundred percent fireproof. In fact, I challenge any man who thinks he can set fire to one of my new guest rooms.”

“Let's not encourage the guests to set fire to the rooms, dear,” said Bertha.

“You just better hope Mrs. O'Leary doesn't check in,” said Nannie with a cackle.

“Oh, that poor woman,” said Abby. “Did you see the horrible things they wrote about her in the newspapers?”

“Poor woman?” Marshall sat up straighter. “Her cow nearly destroyed the entire city.”

“They don't know for certain that her cow started it,” said Delia.

“If Marshall said her cow started it,” said Nannie, “then the cow started it. He's never wrong. About anything.” She smiled, but Delia noticed that Marshall did not.

“Oh please,” said Arthur. “Is anyone besides me tired of talking about this fire? What on earth did we talk about before the fire? Can anyone remember?”

As the day wore on, the ladies exchanged their teacups for glasses of sherry and Delia found that while Marshall and Augustus were engrossed in conversation with Potter, Arthur and Paxton were quite attentive to her. Arthur was explaining that he'd just sold his telegraph company to an outfit called Western Union.

“It all sounds very exciting,” said Delia.

“Actually it's rather boring,” said Arthur. “A lot of paper signing and handshaking.”

“Will you stay on with this Western Company?”

“Western Union,” Paxton corrected her.

“Western Union, then.” She smiled at Paxton and turned back to Arthur. “Will you be tending to their legal matters now as well?”

“Hopefully not. Really, Delia,” Arthur added with an inebriated grin, “I only did it for the money. I never have to work another day in my life because, you see, now I'm very rich.”

“You've always been very rich,” Paxton pointed out.

“Well, then, now I'm very,
very
rich.” Arthur looked at Delia and raised his glass.

Arthur and Paxton were laughing, but Delia felt a bit dismissed, as if he thought she wasn't intelligent enough to follow the workings of a business deal when truly she wanted to hear more about it. That was the sort of thing she found interesting, but she wouldn't ask again. She wouldn't beg to be taken seriously.

Before the afternoon was over, Arthur had asked if he might
call on Delia. She hesitated, still miffed over the way he'd disregarded her interest in his business affairs earlier. Yet she couldn't ignore the fluttering in her body each time she looked at him. He was a very handsome man and he was certainly charming and educated.

“Oh please,” Paxton said finally. “Say yes or he'll only keep asking.”

“Well, in that case,” said Delia, “I'd be delighted.”

1876

D
elia Spencer married Arthur Caton five years later. Arthur had courted her for nearly four of those five years before proposing. Delia hadn't hesitated to say yes. No one made her laugh like Arthur and no one tried harder to make her happy. Whether they were sailing or horseback riding with Paxton or picnicking with Abby and Augustus, Arthur made her feel like the luckiest girl alive. He had become her favorite person to do
anything
with—it didn't matter what as long as they were together. She couldn't imagine finding a better man to spend her life with, to raise a family with and fulfill her role as a wife and mother.

Delia knew her wedding was the most anticipated social event of the season. And while Abby's wedding to Augustus Eddy two years earlier had certainly been elaborate, it paled in comparison with Delia and Arthur's.

When Delia arrived at the First Presbyterian Church, the paved sidewalks were lined with newspapermen and onlookers hoping for a glimpse of the fashionable bride. She wore a tulle and white satin gown by Worth and velvet ball slippers with jeweled embroidery. Her white Marseilles kid gloves were embellished with jewels as well. The press would later write that “she
sparkled,” which pleased Delia and many others. She knew that her wedding was as much for the city as it was for her. Even before the fire, people in the East had looked down on Chicago
as a filthy, backward prairie town; and the fire hadn't made the situation any better. The people who lived in Chicago longed to be seen as residents of a refined and sophisticated city, and because of her position in society, Delia knew she had the ability to help enhance their reputation. And she did it with grace and pride.

Following the ceremony, the new Mr. and Mrs. Caton boarded Arthur's elegant coach drawn by four black stallions and made their way through streets packed with cheering, waving admirers. Delia had never been happier. Her handsome, wealthy groom was every girl's envy. He was taking her to Europe for their honeymoon and the two were eager to start a family right away. Everything seemed perfect.

Their reception was held at the Spencers' home on Sixteenth and Michigan, a house filled with multiple archways and elaborate stonework. Delia and Arthur took their places in the receiving line along with the other Spencers and the Catons. Delia knew her father-in-law had prominence with local politicians and she realized that by virtue of this marriage, her own social status had been raised, but it was overwhelming. She had already greeted Congressman Wentworth and a group of city officials and was relieved when she saw Bertha and Potter making their way through the line. At last people she knew.

While she was chatting with Bertha, Delia's new mother-in-law appeared at her side.

“Delia, darling,” she said in a discreet whisper, “you can talk with Bertha later. General Sheridan and his wife are waiting.”

Delia felt her shoulders tense up the way they always did whenever Mrs. Caton spoke to her. “Of course, Mrs. Caton. I was just—”

“Delia—” Mrs. Caton raised her voice along with an eyebrow. “The Sheridans. Please.”

From the very beginning Delia had tried to ingratiate herself to Arthur's mother, but her efforts had proved fruitless. She remembered the first time Arthur introduced the two of them. Mrs. Caton had asked so many questions that day Delia would have thought she was the judge in the family:
How many languages do you speak? What is your favorite opera? Your favorite play?
With each answer, Mrs. Caton pursed her lips and nodded. But as soon as Delia and Arthur became engaged, the competition began. Delia quickly realized that Mrs. John D. Caton was the most important woman in her son's life and she planned to remain so. If Delia suggested a show, Mrs. Caton was quick to say that it had received unfavorable reviews and would make another recommendation. Everything from Delia's tastes in music and restaurants to the charitable organizations she supported was challenged.

It was while Delia was speaking with General Sheridan and his wife that she looked up and saw Marshall and Nannie Field working their way through the receiving line. She found she couldn't concentrate on General Sheridan's words because she was so eager to receive the Fields. She noticed that Nannie looked a bit disheveled, as if the wind had gotten hold of her. She wore a peach basque with a matching scarf that wasn't draped quite right and her squared train looked as if it had been stepped upon.
And yet, Delia was grateful to see her, as she was ever so fond of Nannie. After all, it was because of Nannie that Delia had become a member of the Fortnightly Club and the Chicago Women's Club, two very prestigious organizations that hosted some of the city's most impressive social events. Already that year they'd invited Henry James to a speaking engagement that had people lined up out the door and around the block. Mark Twain had also drawn an equally large crowd.

When the Fields finally reached her, Nannie kissed her cheek and whispered, “We wish you well, my dear.” She then moved on to Arthur while Marshall approached Delia.

“Best wishes with your marriage,” said Marshall. “Arthur is certainly a lucky man.”

Delia could think of nothing to say in response because she was so distracted by how distinguished Marshall looked. His once dark hair and mustache had turned snow-white. It seemed to have happened almost overnight. She remembered Nannie telling her about it and saying that he looked like an old man now. Delia couldn't have disagreed more.

“Again,” he said, kissing the back of Delia's hand, “best wishes to you.” His eyes locked on to hers and for a moment everything around her ceased to exist; the music, the guests, the fanfare, all blurred into a soft focus. As soon as she caught herself, heat began filling her cheeks and she forced herself to turn to the next person in line.

•   •   •

A
s the party got under way, Delia and her new husband danced to Handel's “Largo” and the “Danube” waltz. It already felt different to dance as man and wife. It was as if a lifetime of hopes and dreams were embracing her.

“Look at Paxton over there, will you?” Arthur whispered in her ear. “He seems positively bored.”

Delia glanced over Arthur's shoulder and saw Paxton waltzing with the girl he was currently courting, Muriel Brownville. She was talking, her mouth moving as quickly as her feet. Paxton wasn't even looking at her.

“She won't last another week,” said Arthur.

“That poor girl. She's obviously very fond of him.”

“Aren't they all?”

“I'm afraid Paxton's running out of young girls' hearts to break,” said Delia.

“What a pity,” said Arthur with a roll of his eyes as he whisked Delia across the room, to where Paxton and Muriel were waltzing. As the two couples danced side by side, Arthur and Paxton carried on, the two of them talking about an upcoming polo match.

At the end of that dance, Delia shared an incredibly awkward waltz with her new father-in-law. Judge Caton was an older, but crankier, version of his son, muttonchops and all. But he wasn't half the dancer.

“We're pleased that he's finally settled down,” said the judge as he clumsily swept her along the dance floor. “It certainly took him long enough to get around to it, didn't it?”

“I assure you he was well worth the wait. I'm a lucky girl.”

The judge paused for a moment in the middle of their waltz and looked at her. “Ah, yes, spoken as a new bride,” he said with a jeering laugh. “We'll see what you have to say a year from now.”

Delia was grateful when the dance ended and she could retreat to the safety of Bertha and Abby. As the hour grew later, the crowd in her parents' ballroom thinned out. Delia was able to watch from across the room as Arthur, Paxton and some of the other remaining young men raised their glasses in toast after toast. Muriel Brownville was sitting by herself at one of the
round tables, waiting on Paxton, her chin cradled in the heel of her hand.

When it was time to say their good-byes, the new couple headed to the Palmer House, where they would spend their wedding night. Delia felt nervous but excited. Abby had prepared her, explaining things that her mother never would have addressed. Delia wondered if she would be as lucky as her friend Annie Swift, who had become pregnant on her wedding night.

The bridal suite was adorned with tufted chairs, a settee and a marble-topped commode with gold escutcheons. Enormous vases of roses and calla lilies were placed about the room and on either side of the canopy bed. Her maid, Therese, helped Delia prepare for her husband, then retired to her own staff room down the hall. Delia waited nervously for her husband, standing in the bedroom wearing her nightgown and a matching wrapper made of satin with a lace jabot.

“There you are,” said Arthur when he entered from the other dressing room. He struggled his way out of his bathrobe and dropped it over the back of a chair. “And here we are.”

Delia's heart was pounding as he crossed the room toward her. The smell of whiskey reached her before he did. Her mind raced as he led her over to the bed and ran his fingers through her hair. Arthur had been reserved when it came to displays of affection and passion, but she knew he was merely being chivalrous and respectful. Now they were man and wife and there was nothing that couldn't be expressed, couldn't be shared or shown. This one night would crown their marriage, seal their love and complete them as a couple.

She was expecting something tender, something slow and filled with emotion. According to Abby, the marriage act was so beautiful it could move her to tears. But instead she found Arthur's gestures clumsy, his kisses hurried and sloppy with
whiskey. She longed to feel his skin on hers, but he kept his union suit on the whole time. His body was crushing her as he fumbled with his buttons and hastily hiked up her satin gown. He struggled to find his way to her beneath the bedsheets. Delia didn't know whether she should have helped. And then she felt him. Suspended above her, he rested the weight of his hips against her and pressed his legs into hers as the tip of him pushed against her most private opening. All at once, he forced his way inside her, and she felt a sharp tearing sensation. From what Abby had told her, she knew that meant her husband had taken her virginity, as he should. But Abby had not mentioned that the pain would continue, would grow even more intense as his body moved inside of hers. She stared at the bedpost shaking back and forth, back and forth as he pushed his way into her again and again. She might as well have been an ewer, for not once did he look at her, speak to her, kiss her. She gritted her teeth to keep from telling him to stop. She was his wife now and she wanted children. This was her duty. So she stayed silent until he finally stopped, suddenly stilling over top of her.

Arthur sighed.

She didn't move, wondering whether that was it.

He sighed again, deeper this time. “I knew I shouldn't have had that last brandy with Paxton.” He rolled off her and pulled her head onto his chest.

Delia paused, wondering what to say, how to respond. She certainly didn't feel the elation her sister had promised. Instead she felt strangely lonely. Confused and left cold.

Before long, she heard Arthur begin to snore.