by Renée Rosen
• • •
All that spring and into the summer, the city police hauled more people off to jail. Delia picked up the newspaper each morning and cheered on more arrests. The more anarchists and socialists that were in jail, the safer she and the rest of Chicago felt. Like everyone else, she experienced an enormous sigh of relief when the men responsible were condemned for the bombings and stood trial. At last there was a face to the violence.
Delia followed the trial closely. When they announced the jury selection, she noted that it was comprised of businessmen, all capitalists themselves. There wasn’t one laborer included. It was obvious that every juror had the prosecution’s best interest at heart. Indeed, it would be advantageous for each juror to convict the anarchists. But as the summer stretched on, she couldn’t help noticing that there didn’t seem to be any actual evidence that the men on trial were involved with the bombing. Two of the men hadn’t even been at Haymarket Square when the bomb went off. How could that possibly be? It seemed as though they were holding those few men responsible for the entire socialist and anarchist movement, and that they had been chosen almost arbitrarily to be the sacrificial lambs.
That August when the verdict came back, Marsh rushed into the Catons’ drawing room and announced the news to Delia and Arthur. “Guilty! Death by hanging!”
“Guilty? The jury found them guilty? Death by hanging!” Delia repeated his words back to him in disbelief.
“Thank God,” said Marsh, slapping Arthur on the shoulder, as if congratulations were in order, as if they were in this together.
“But they don’t even know who threw the bomb,” said Delia. “How can they say those men are guilty when they have no proof?”
“Somebody’s got to pay for what happened,” Marsh said as he reached for the evening edition of the Tribune lying on the table and snapped it open.
As news of the verdict spread, Delia realized she wasn’t alone in her thinking. At first it was just a handful of journalists and scholars calling for leniency. But then more and more people began to see the trial as a sham.
One morning after reading another article calling for clemency, Delia watched as Marsh took the paper from her and ripped it in two. “They’re the organizers,” Marsh said. “They’re going to be held responsible.”
“I’m not so sure,” challenged Delia, and she was right.
In the days and weeks ahead more and more people declared the trial a travesty. Governor Oglesby was beginning to buckle under the pressure.
“Come back to bed,” Delia called to Marsh, propping herself up against the pillows. They had been spending the late morning in bed when the telephone call came, disrupting their mood, summoning Marsh down to city hall.
“The governor is looking for a consensus from the business leaders,” said Marsh, turning up his collar and looping his silk tie around his neck. “Mark my words, he’s going to ask us to back down from our position. His argument is going to be that setting those men free will resolve the labor dispute. I suspect that if we agree, he’ll grant clemency to those bastards.” Marsh scowled in the mirror while knotting his tie.
“But the trial wasn’t just.”
“Not just!” His eyes flashed wide. “Those men had their followers threaten my life, for God’s sake. The lives of others. They deserve to die.” He released a heavy sigh as he reached for his hat. “Don’t look at me like I’m some heartless beast.”
Delia spent the rest of the afternoon with her stomach upset, twisted in a bundle of nerves. She understood why Marsh felt so strongly. But there was no evidence tying the accused men to the bomb, and now the fate of the reformers was in the hands of the very capitalists they had been fighting all along.
After the meeting with Governor Oglesby, Marsh was in a foul mood, practically throwing his hat and overcoat at Williams, then brushing past Flossie, ignoring her when she jumped up to greet him.
“Dare I ask how the meeting went?” Delia followed him into the library and was standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
“It was a farce. The whole thing was a sham. A complete waste of time. I sat there listening to a bunch of rationalizations just so Oglesby can get reelected.” He went over to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. “By the end of the meeting Palmer and Pullman were starting to side with Oglesby.” He took a long pull from his glass, wincing as he swallowed. “You wait and see, Swift and Armour are going to fold. They’re going to agree to release those men and I won’t have it. It’s a matter of principle. We have to hold our ground. If we back down now, after the trial, after the jury already reached a verdict, then we’re undermining our entire justice system. Someone has to be held up as an example. It’s up to us to send a message loud and clear to those revolutionaries. If we turn a blind eye, the anarchists win and we lose. And if that happens, progress in this city and across the country will come to a halt. It’s the capitalists that took us from a trading post to a metropolis. If we let those men walk, we’re leaving ourselves open for more violence, more attacks farther down the road. They’re going to be the ones in charge. Is that what you want?”
Delia held her tongue. She understood what Marsh was saying but disagreed that executing innocent men was the way to punish the anarchists and quell the labor movement.
As the days passed it became evident that Marsh was the only man standing in the way of letting the men go free. What’s more, Nannie had recently returned to Chicago with the children, and Delia desperately wanted to protect Junior and Ethel from the dreadful things being written about their father in the newspapers.
Ethel was fourteen and much less interested in the news than in going shopping and attending matinees with her aunt Dell—something that must have infuriated Nannie. Nineteen-year-old Junior, however, was very much aware of the fact that his father was the only industrialist not willing to grant the men clemency. And no one, not even the governor, was willing to go up against Marsh. Instead, people came to Delia, urging her to speak with him.
“Talk some sense into him,” was what Augustus said to her.
“Even my mother thinks you’re the only one who can reach him,” said Junior.
Delia tried again and again to reason with Marsh. One Sunday afternoon at the end of October she and Marsh found themselves in a standoff. They were in the sitting room at the Caton mansion, locked into a silent battle they couldn’t seem to escape. Delia knew she would be the first to break, just as he was the first to break their embraces.
She had called him impossible and foolish just a few minutes before. But now, his face was set in obstinate lines as he turned his attention to a carriage passing by outside the window.
She felt herself weakening. “I wish you’d reconsider,” she said at last.
Nothing.
“Marsh,” she pleaded, “these are human beings we’re talking about.”
“And they organized a violent revolution against me and everything I stand for. Everything this city stands for. Why can’t you understand that?”
She looked into those blue gray eyes and realized that the very things she’d initially fallen in love with—his drive, his ambition, his power and determination—were the very things affecting his stance—a stance that she found so distasteful. Through all the years and all the obstacles they’d faced, if something was going to make her turn and walk away from him, she never thought it would come down to his politics. And yet, she found she couldn’t understand or respect what he was doing.
“Well,” he said, “whose side are you on?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
BOOK TWO
1890–1899
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
1890
Delia and Abby had just come out of a year’s mourning following the death of their father and then the passing of their mother a few weeks later. It was now November 11, the three-year anniversary of
the execution of the four men found guilty for the Haymarket bombing.
Delia was dressing in her room, preparing to go check on Marsh, though she knew this would be a more painful day for her than it would be for him. For the past three years this date had spawned a flurry of newspaper articles rehashing the trial of the accused men and their ultimate execution—and vilifying Marshall Field.
Despite how she’d felt at the time, Delia stood by Marsh, who seemed impervious to his critics. Though she was relieved that the outcome of the Haymarket Affair didn’t incite more rioting among the labor organizers, she knew they weren’t done pointing fingers. After the hangings, as their movement unraveled and they temporarily gave up their fight for the eight-hour workday, people continued to condemn Marsh. It pained her to know that everyone blamed him for the hanging of those men. She was accustomed to being the subject of nasty gossip herself, but she found it harder to watch people attack the man she loved. She couldn’t dispute the truth, though: it was because of him that those men were hanged.
Delia was beside herself when she went downstairs and Arthur handed her the newspaper. “Why must they dredge this up every year?” he said. “They’ve already crucified Marsh enough. Can’t they leave well enough alone?”
She couldn’t read the article and opted instead to focus on the piece about bringing the World’s Columbian Exposition to Chicago. They were still in the very early planning stages—the fair was three years off and Chicago was competing with New York, St. Louis and a slew of other cities to host the event. It was all anyone was talking about. Marsh, Potter, Cyrus McCormick and the other men who helped rebuild the city after the Great Fire were determined to be awarded the host city and shine a spotlight on what they had built in Chicago. This was especially important to Marsh given the outcome of what everyone was now referring to as the Haymarket Affair.
She handed the paper back to Arthur, reached for her hat and headed for State Street. Walking along, she passed by a string of dry goods stores: Chas Grossage and Mandel’s, Schlesinger & Mayer’s, Siegel & Cooper’s. But none of them could measure up to Marshall Field’s. His store dominated them all, but collectively these merchants had taken over State Street and nicknamed it the Ladies’ Half Mile.
When Delia approached Marshall Field’s, Eddie Anderson, the head doorman, greeted her at the curb and led her to the door. “Good day, Mrs. Caton. Welcome to Marshall Field & Company.”
“Good day, Eddie.”
Shoppers filled the store. Women ogled the latest arrivals of bumbershoots and Chantilly lace parasols, folding fans with ivory and gold handles, and satchels made of silk and beading. The clerks were impeccably dressed, the women in black dresses, the men in suits. They were all hard at work, assisting customers, tidying up the displays and setting out new merchandise. Sunlight streamed in from the well light above, and as Delia made her way down the center aisle, she was spotted by Harry Selfridge. Over the years Harry had worked his way up from a clerk to the general retail manager. He adored mingling with the customers, especially the women customers.
“Why, Mrs. Caton,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand. “So very good to see you.”
Delia couldn’t help but smile. Harry Selfridge was a charmer with a merchant’s spark. And a good-looking man, too, with dark hair parted down the center and a captivating smile. He was quite flirtatious with Delia and the other women at the store, married or single, young or old. He was very presumptuous, thinking that everyone welcomed his attention.
And yet, despite his overbearing manner, Delia had to admit that he’d made many fine contributions to the store. Because of Harry Selfridge, if Delia had so desired, she could check her coat and packages when she entered the store. She could have her jewelry cleaned or her gloves and other garments repaired while she shopped. She could drop off her shoes to be shined, her letters to be mailed, too. People purchased their theater tickets through Marshall Field & Company. They made their travel arrangements there, reserving train tickets and steamer fares. There was a nursery where young mothers deposited their children while they shopped. There was even talk about creating a library on the top floor where women could read magazines and novels in a room with plush seats and good lighting. With Harry’s influence, Marshall Field & Company had become the center of the city and a destination, where a lady need never leave the store.
And thanks to Delia and a clever salesclerk, they didn’t need to leave for lunch anymore, either. It had started with one of the clerks, an astute woman named Mrs. Hering, who worked in the millinery department. One morning she brought a potpie into work with her. When her customers got hungry and were about to leave the store, Mrs. Hering brought them to the back room and served them a helping of her potpie. She promised the women lunch again the next day if they agreed to come back and shop. Word caught on and soon more and more women were stopping by the millinery counter at noon looking for lunch. The demand became too much for one person, so Mrs. Hering recruited other salesclerks to bring in potpies as well. One day, Marsh happened to stumble upon the back room and found nearly two dozen women, seated on crates and boxes, eating potpies. He became enraged and threatened to fire Mrs. Hering and the other clerks, too.
“But why?” Delia had said. “This is what I’ve been saying to you for years now. I’ll bet every one of those women stayed the afternoon and did more shopping after eating those potpies.”
Marsh and Harry checked the sales tallies and Delia’s theory was proved correct. Mrs. Hering was promoted and became the supervisor of the first ever dry goods store tearoom.
Harry stayed on the main floor and chatted with Delia about the latest Persian rugs and china arrivals until one of the clerks called him away. Finally, Delia made her way to the bank of elevators in the rear, eager to see Marsh. The elevator boys, dressed in green and gold uniforms similar to the doorman’s, pulled the brass gates open and waited, stiff as soldiers, while the passengers stepped into the cars. Securing the outer gate, the elevator boy in Delia’s car pulled the lever, letting the car rise before delivering her to the executive offices on the fifth floor.
Though Delia was a regular customer at Marshall Field’s, she rarely visited Marsh upstairs in his office. Usually she ran into him on the lower levels while he conducted his routine floor checks. If he so much as found a fingerprint on the glass display case, or spotted one of the clerks leaning on a counter, there was hell to pay.
Coming to his office now, Delia found him seated behind his desk, eyes fixed on a stack of documents. She was always struck by how humble Marsh’s office was. Just a small room with one window and a modest desk upon which his plug hat sat upside down, collecting mail, messages and other business of the day. Opposite his desk sat two simple straight-back chairs. Certainly a man of his wealth who commanded a business as large as his could have had a more opulent office, but Marsh didn’t want or need one.
His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Delia shook her head. “I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Marsh darted his fountain pen into the stack of papers on his desk. “I haven’t looked at the newspapers yet today, if that’s what you mean. I suppose there’s a story or two about me.”
Before Delia could respond, the office door burst open and in barged Harry Selfridge. “We have news—”
“Harry, how many times do I have to tell you to knock first?” Marsh gestured toward Delia.
“Apologies, Mrs. Caton, but this can’t wait.”
“Nothing can wait according to you,” said Marsh, squaring his elbows on his desk.
“Have you seen this yet?” he asked, waving a copy of the Tribune. “They’ve narrowed it down to two cities. It’s now between New York and Chicago to host the world’s fair.”
“Of course I knew about it. I got the call before the newspapermen did.” Marsh grabbed the Tribune from Harry and scanned the article, p
aying no attention to the other headline: “Breach of Justice, Remembering the Haymarket Hangings.”
“Do you know what this will mean for us if we get it?” Harry said. “Millions of people from all over the world will come to Chicago, and ultimately, they’ll come to Marshall Field & Company.” Harry was so excited he couldn’t stand still.
“Trust me when I say we’ll be awarded the fair,” Marsh said. “Chicago can put on a world’s fair better than New York. Besides,” he added with a sly smile, “we’re putting up more money for it than New York. We’ve already raised over five million dollars.”
After Marsh sent Harry on his way, he closed his office door. “That man exhausts me,” he said, squeezing Delia’s hand. “He makes me a lot of money, but he exhausts me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Six weeks later, seventeen-year-old Ethel Field married Arthur Tree. He was a fine young man from a respectable family. Just like Delia’s Arthur, Ethel’s Arthur was the son of a judge. The Trees were patrons of the arts and Ethel had met Arthur at a gallery opening his parents hosted just three months before.
They had a small wedding, held at noon at the Field mansion. The guest list was quite exclusive; not more than fifty people were in attendance along with a few select members of the press. Ethel wanted something small and private, whereas Nannie had wanted something that would appear on the society pages. Small but lavish was what they settled on.
Delia was certain that if it had been left to Nannie, she and Arthur would have been excluded. But Ethel said her day would not be complete without having Aunt Dell and Uncle Arthur there. Truly it was only because of Ethel and Junior that Delia and Nannie managed to be civil to each other whenever their paths crossed. And there would soon be another such occasion, as Junior had been courting a lovely young lady, Albertine Huck, for nearly a year. She was twenty-one and startlingly beautiful with a flawless complexion and the features of a china doll. Junior had recently turned twenty-two and told his aunt Dell that he was ready to settle down.