by Renée Rosen
“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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The 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.
• • •
The 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.
• • •
The 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 Ar
thur 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.”