What the Lady Wants (6 page)

D
elia and Arthur honeymooned in Europe for six months. They visited Paris and London, Italy and Spain. He took her to Germany and Switzerland, too. The judge had arranged for them to dine with princes and dukes, duchesses and earls. Delia had the time of her life, attending elaborate parties and balls, drinking and laughing into the early hours of the morning. She felt as if she had waltzed her way across the continent.

It was the second week of their honeymoon, after their evening with the infante of Spain, that Arthur returned to Delia's bed. Hurried and intrusive, it was no better for her than their wedding night. Apparently Arthur felt the same, for he did not visit their marriage bed again the entire time they were abroad. Honestly, if it weren't for wanting children, she would have been content to forgo the act altogether. Yet she loved Arthur so completely and adored their time together.

Once they returned to Chicago, Delia and Arthur moved into a twenty-two-thousand-square-foot mansion at 1910 Calumet Avenue designed by the architects Burnham and Root. It was a grand home with a terra-cotta brick exterior and striped awnings along all the top-story windows. They had three master bedrooms, seven guest rooms, thirteen fireplaces and eleven servants, who had their own quarters off the kitchen.

Their house was just a few doors down the street from where
the judge and Mrs. Caton lived. Arthur's middle sister, Laura, and her husband lived next door to the judge, and the mansion directly across the street belonged to the eldest daughter, Matilda, and her husband, completing what they affectionately referred to as “the Caton Colony.” Delia had wanted to live elsewhere, away from the Colony, but at the judge's insistence, the newlyweds moved to the Calumet Avenue address.

She didn't like being under her mother-in-law's eye, but nonetheless she threw herself into making her new house one of the city's most elegant homes. She spent her first three months outfitting each room in the highest fashion. Her dining room table seated twenty and was designed especially for her by Charles Coolidge. The Herter Brothers did all her millwork and cabinets. The luster tile treatment in the drawing room was created by De Morgan and the wallpaper throughout the main floor was William Morris. She was eagerly awaiting the arrival of two settees, her sideboard, an armoire and several other pieces from Georges Jacob and Charles Cressant of France. Once everything was in place she could begin entertaining. Although the truth of it was that she and Arthur had enough social engagements on their calendar to carry them through the next two years. Just that evening, in fact, Delia and Arthur were attending a celebration at the Field mansion in honor of Marshall's forty-second birthday.

The Fields lived just one block over on Prairie Avenue, directly behind Delia and Arthur. Delia could look out her windows and see their mansion. Their backyards faced each other and were separated only by their coach houses, the stables and a narrow alleyway. Perhaps it was due to their close proximity, but since they'd been home from their honeymoon, Delia and Arthur had become especially friendly with the Fields.

Her maid, Therese, was helping Delia dress for the party in a
grenat
satin gown trimmed in velvet. Delia stood still, arms held out to her sides, while Therese fastened the fifteen buttons on the kid gloves that stopped above her elbows.

Arthur appeared in the doorway of her dressing room in a white silk waistcoat and a red cravat. “My, aren't we going to be the most natty couple there tonight.” He caught a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror and smiled approvingly.

“Would you expect anything less?” She smiled, too, and stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the slope of his shoulders.

On the night of Marshall Field's birthday, August 18, 1876, Delia strolled around the corner arm in arm with her husband. While Calumet Avenue was home to the Caton Colony, one block east, Prairie Avenue was home to the rest of Chicago's elite. They had already gone past the Second Empire–style mansion belonging to Philip Armour, the meatpacking tycoon, and were coming up alongside George Pullman's stone-carved house with its glassed-in court and ornate terraces. George was best known for his invention of the Pullman luxury sleeper train cars and was a firm believer in the importance of opulence. A few doors down was the home of Levi Leiter, Marshall's business partner and part owner of Field, Leiter & Company. Everywhere Delia looked she saw houses with glorious terraces and Athenian marble facings, covered carriageways and decorative stonework. And while
Delia's home was certainly on a par with the houses that lined the neighboring streets, Prairie Avenue had its own cachet and had earned the sobriquet “Millionaires' Row.”

Soon they arrived at 1905 South Prairie Avenue. The Field mansion was a simple but massive redbrick home, flanked by two giant elms. Delia saw the white sheer curtains billowing in the windows as the silhouettes of partygoers moved about inside. There was only one carriage out front and she recognized it as the white brougham belonging to Bertha and Potter Palmer. The Palmers lived over on Michigan Boulevard. Apparently they, along with Abby and Augustus, who were still living with Delia's parents, were the only guests that evening from outside the immediate neighborhood.

“So sorry we're late,” said Delia, clasping Nannie's hands while kissing her on both cheeks.

“No apologies needed,” Nannie replied, going from Delia to Arthur. “The birthday boy isn't even home yet. He's working late as usual. Go on inside,” she said. “Enjoy yourselves.”

“Well, there you are,” said Abby as soon as Delia entered the main room. It was a small, intimate gathering, just a handful of couples: George and Harriet Pullman, Philip and Malvina Armour, and Levi and Mary Leiter along with a few others.

Bertha was dressed in the height of style, a yellow silk gown stitched with golden embroidery and a delicately draped overskirt. She wore her dark hair in a high knot that supported her signature diamond tiara. Her many bracelets clinked as softly as wind chimes each time she moved.

As usual, Bertha held court surrounded by the other ladies at the party. But Delia noticed that Nannie appeared more interested in straightening a portrait on the wall than she was in what Bertha had to say. Though they were friends, Delia always sensed that Nannie felt threatened by Bertha and it was easy to
understand why. After all, at twenty-six, Bertha was six years younger than Nannie. Bertha was beautiful and bubbly and everyone adored her. Mrs. Potter Palmer was always the first name on everyone's guest list and Delia suspected Nannie felt that as Mrs. Marshall Field, that was an honor she deserved.

Bertha was talking about Charles Frederick Worth, her favorite fashion designer. Delia's and Abby's, too.

“I'm going back to Paris next month to see him for my spring wardrobe,” Bertha said.

“The man is a true artist. A genius,” said Delia.

“I can't wait to see his latest collection,” Abby added.

“Oh, when it comes to fashion, you Spencer girls have such an incriminating
eye,” said Mary Leiter.

Delia was certain she'd meant to say
discriminating
eye. She had only recently gotten to know Mary, but she'd already noticed the woman had a baffling habit of confusing her words.

Mary followed up her gaffe by saying, “You all have such a sense of style. The rest of us can't keep up.”

“That's the whole idea,” Delia teased.

They were having a good laugh over that when Delia noticed eight-year-old Marshall Junior standing in the corner, his eyes wide, watching all the glittering guests. He was a sweet young boy, exceedingly polite, always thanking Delia for the lollipop or chocolate she produced from her pocket whenever she saw him in the neighborhood with his governess. When he noticed Delia looking at him, he scampered out into the hallway and perched himself on the bottom step of the staircase, his nightshirt pulled down over his knees and skimming the tops of his slippers.

Delia went over and crouched down beside him. “Hello, Junior. How are you tonight?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Caton.” He offered his hand and gave hers a firm shake.

“Where's your sister?”

“Oh, she's already in bed. She's just a baby.”

Delia laughed. Ethel was three years old. “Shouldn't you be in bed, too?”

“Please don't tell Mother I'm down here. I'll get a whipping if she sees me.”

“I won't say a word as long as you go back up to bed right now.”

With that, Junior sprang to his feet and Delia watched him scurry up the stairs. Just as she stood and turned around, Marshall came through the front door.

“And there he is,” said Delia. “The guest of honor. Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Oh please.” He winced mockingly, handing his plug hat to the butler. “I've been doing my level best to forget what today is.”

“Not much chance of that happening here tonight,” she said.

He removed his gloves, handing them to his butler as well. “I suppose everyone's arrived already, then?”

“Afraid so.”

Marshall leaned toward Delia and whispered, “My wife's going to have my hide for being late, you know.” He offered a smile just as Nannie came around the corner.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with his company.” Nannie folded her arms across her chest. “Maybe you'd like to greet your guests. They've been waiting over an hour for you.” She gestured with her chin toward the grand hall.

“Hello, dear.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but Nannie pulled back and turned her face away.

“Well, then,” he said, unfazed by Nannie's snub, “if you'll both excuse me.”

It wasn't until Marshall left her side that Delia realized she was flushed and stirred to her core. It seemed like the mere sight of him always did that to her. She reentered the party, watching
as everyone rallied around Marshall. In his quiet, unassuming way, he made a statement wherever he went. Even if it hadn't been his birthday, he would have been the center of attention. He just had one of those magnetic personalities.

The party continued and Delia tried to keep an eye on Arthur, who always seemed to have a fresh drink in his hand. Of course, their life had seemed like one long party, so drinking wasn't unusual, but lately Arthur didn't just keep up with the crowd; he often seemed ahead of it. Depending on the circumstances, he could be either the source of great amusement or the cause of embarrassment. Just the week before, during a party at the home of the meatpacking giant Gustavus Swift, Arthur, after a few too many whiskeys, had taken command of a loud and boisterous game of charades. Delia found herself apologizing to their hostess, Annie Swift, and she and Arthur had a terrible argument about it when they got home. The next morning he didn't remember a thing. Delia glanced over at him now. He sat in the corner talking with Potter, Augustus and Marshall, and he seemed perfectly fine as far as she could tell. But she still worried.

She went back to chatting with Harriet Pullman, George's wife. “Has the rest of your furniture arrived yet from France?” she asked.

“I'm still waiting on a few pieces,” said Delia, finally taking her eyes off Arthur.

“Well, I simply can't wait to see what you've done. I'm certain your home is going to be spectacular.” She smiled warmly, her full round cheeks shining like small, polished globes. From the neck up you'd think she was a heavyset woman, but in fact, Harriet was quite slim.

“We'll be entertaining soon enough, but I'll have you over beforehand for tea and a private viewing.”

“Oh, that would be marvelous.” Her cheeks rose even higher on her face.

“Did I hear something about a private viewing?” Sybil Perkins interrupted, her fingertips fluttering as she pressed her palms together.

Delia gazed at her as if she didn't understand, hoping to dodge the question. Sybil was the neighborhood busybody. She reminded Delia of a little birdlike creature with her pointy nose and chin, her arms always flapping about excitedly, her hands gesticulating energetically each time she spoke.

“Delia here has agreed to give me an advanced showing of her home.”

“Marvelous,” said Sybil. “I'd love to join you.”

“But of course,” said Harriet before Delia could think of a reasonable objection. It was to be expected. Why Harriet and the others tolerated Sybil's nosiness was a mystery to Delia.

“I'm available Thursday afternoon. Or next Tuesday as long as it's before three o'clock . . .” Sybil was saying.

Delia glanced over to check on Arthur and noticed Marshall looking her way. It was just a passing glance, but it grabbed hold of her for a moment. She couldn't look away from him even though she knew she should.

“Well?” Sybil was waiting.

“What? I'm sorry. What?” She hadn't heard a word Sybil said. “You'll have to excuse me now, Sybil. I just remembered there's something I need to tell Arthur.”

Delia had been desperate to get away from the woman. When she reached Arthur's side, she noticed the waiters serving hors d'oeuvres and whispered, “Don't you think you should eat something?”

Arthur didn't seem to hear what she said. He turned to Delia and smiled. “I was just talking with Marshall about a polo match
in New York City.” She noticed his eyes were unfocused, as if he were speaking to the air. “Fascinating. I find him just fascinating. Don't you? Really fascinating.”

“Yes, yes, he is fascinating,” Delia agreed, reaching for Arthur's empty glass, grateful that he didn't resist. When a tray of petite cheese soufflés and quail eggs nestled in puff pastry passed by, Delia insisted that he have some.

She stayed close to Arthur after that, until dinner was called. Her seat at the table was stationed in between Lionel Perkins and Philip Armour. From across the table, she watched as the footman refilled Arthur's wineglass. The dinner was a five-course extravaganza, and thankfully, by the time it was over, Arthur had sobered up.