by Renée Rosen
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Delia looked at the calendar in her engagement book. It was April 18, 1891. Junior’s wedding day. Marsh had already departed for France on the Majestic over a week ago. From France he was going on to England and Italy to meet with more heads of state on behalf of the world’s fair. Had it not been for Arthur’s accident, Delia would have joined Marsh in Europe. But she was determined to stay by Arthur’s side for as long as he needed her.
She closed her engagement book, smoothing her hand over the leather-bound cover, remembering the days when there was scarcely a blank space left to jot down even the briefest of comments. She’d been ostracized by society for so long now she had to admit she hardly missed the endless chatter at the luncheons and teas, the petty scrutinizing over everyone’s gowns at the galas and balls. No, she didn’t miss that at all. And besides, caring for Arthur kept her so busy now, she wouldn’t have had time for her old schedule anyway. She sat back in her chair watching as Arthur made his way into the library. Four months after the accident he had finally graduated from the wheelchair to crutches.
“You’re doing much better on those,” she said.
“I’m getting the hang of it.”
She helped him get situated in his chair.
“I still wish you would have gone to France for the wedding,” he said.
“And leave you behind? You know I wouldn’t do that. Besides, can you imagine what Nannie would do if I showed up? Not to mention Ethel.”
“Ethel will come around. She loves you.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “But seriously, Dell, you’ve got to get on with things. You can’t just sit around the house and look after me.”
“Maybe I like looking after you. Did you ever consider that?”
Arthur gave her a skeptical look. “I know better than to believe that.”
Delia smiled. “Right now you need me and that’s all there is to it.”
Williams came into the library and announced that Mr. Caton had a visitor.
Delia turned to Arthur. “You know it’s him. Won’t you please just speak to him? He comes by nearly every day. It’s breaking his heart.”
Arthur went silent. He pursed his lips and looked out the window.
“Please? Just say hello to him.”
“I can’t. I can’t have him see me like this. Like a cripple.”
“Oh, Arthur, this is temporary. He knows that. It won’t matter. I promise you that. Please say hello to him. Please? Do it for me.”
He sighed, keeping his gaze focused on the window.
“Arthur, please?” She tried again.
He turned back around and she could tell he was beginning to give in.
“Please? For me?”
At last he offered a barely perceptible nod.
Before he had a chance to change his mind, Delia followed Williams out to get Paxton. When she told him Arthur would see him, Paxton’s face came to life.
“Now I’m nervous,” he said to Delia. “I don’t even know what to say to him.”
“It’ll be fine. I promise.” Delia took his hand in hers. It was clammy.
In a moment of vanity, Arthur must have been trying to hide his crutches because when they came back into the room, the one crutch was stuck under the chair. He was leaning on the chair, frantically tugging on it, hoping to free it. The frustration and humiliation on his face was heartbreaking. It was Paxton who walked over, helped Arthur back into his chair before he bent down and pulled the crutch free, setting it out of the way, behind the door.
“Thank you,” Arthur said, unable to look at Paxton.
Delia could see his eyes turning glassy. She excused herself and went to send a telegram to Marsh. As she was closing the French doors behind her she heard whispering: “God, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you.” She couldn’t tell if it was Paxton or Arthur who’d said it, and it didn’t matter. They both needed to say that and they both needed to hear it, too.
• • •
A few weeks later, on a lovely spring morning Delia and Bertha were wheeling through Lincoln Park. Bertha with all her baubles was on a Swift safety bicycle and Delia in her new bloomers was on a Rover safety model with Flossie riding up front in the basket. The sunlight glinted off the diamonds on Flossie’s collar, sending prisms of light across the handlebars.
There were dozens of other riders out that day, some still pedaling the old-fashioned three-wheelers. Delia adored cycling, but because Arthur was still recuperating, she went either alone or with Bertha, who also needed a companion since Potter insisted he was too old. Delia thought that was nonsense. Marsh was a fan of wheeling and at fifty-seven he wasn’t much younger than Potter.
That day Bertha wanted to ride by the location of her future home up north. It was still just a stretch of barren swampland that butted up against the lakeshore. Delia couldn’t imagine how they were going to make this section of town inhabitable.
“What are you going to do with all the frogs?” Delia asked, noting the green, slimy frog ponds collecting in the swampy land.
“Potter assured me that they will be relocated to a lovely new swamp,” she said with a confident nod.
The whole move to this no-man’s-land reminded Delia of how her father had been a Chicago pioneer in the 1850s. And my, what a different city it was today. Delia looked off in the distance and saw the skyline that seemed to change month by month. The new Rookery Building on LaSalle Street soared eleven stories high and construction was visible on the Monadnock Building on Dearborn. Every day in the papers she read about the ongoing battle with New York to claim the tallest skyscraper in the country.
Delia and Bertha continued cycling and made their way back toward the city. On the way, Bertha shared a bit of gossip that nearly made Delia ride off the sidewalk.
“Surely you’re joking,” Delia said as she slowed her bike and looked at Bertha. “They really think I have a tunnel? A tunnel in my backyard that connects my house to Marsh’s! And they think I meet Marsh inside this so-called tunnel? That’s ridiculous!”
“Of course it’s ridiculous.” Bertha veered to the left and pedaled up a slight incline. “I wasn’t even sure if I should say anything to you about it.”
“No, no, I’m glad you did,” Delia reassured her as she waved to another cyclist coming up the path. “I just can’t believe people actually think I built a tunnel in my backyard.”
“They say you supposedly built it at the same time you built the solarium. They say that was just a distraction for the construction of the tunnel.”
“I know who started this rumor,” said Delia as they came to a fork in the pathway. “It was Sybil Perkins, wasn’t it?”
Bertha didn’t comment one way or the other and instead tried to change the subject. “Mary Leiter says you’re not to be trusted. She called you ‘a wolf in cheap clothing.’” Bertha burst into peals of laughter.
“So they think we have a love nest, do they?” Delia started to pedal faster with Bertha following. “And what else?”
“Well, they say you’ve decorated this tunnel in the finest Italian marble. They say it’s nicer than your house. There’s also been talk about a gold bed frame that Marsh bought for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh, yes, because isn’t that just like him. He’s just the type to throw ten thousand dollars away on a bed.” Delia tried to laugh as she steered over a bump in the path.
“Supposedly you two meet in the tunnel every evening. They say Nannie discovered the tunnel and that’s why she left Marshall. Supposedly, supposedly, supposedly . . .” Bertha looked over her shoulder and saw that Delia had brought her cycle to a stop, her one foot on the ground, keeping her balance. “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes. I’m—I’m fine.” She looked across the way and did a double take.
“Dell, are you all right?” Bertha aske
d again.
Delia looked at Bertha and pointed to a man sitting on a park bench beneath a giant elm tree. “Isn’t that Augustus over there?”
Bertha shaded her eyes. “Why, yes. It is. Let’s go say hello.”
As they drew closer, Delia saw that Augustus was carving an apple with a pocketknife, meticulously skinning the peel into long ruby strips that dropped onto a crumpled brown paper sack on the bench beside him. Some of the juice had dribbled onto the newspaper in his lap, making the ink run. He was so engrossed in his apple that he didn’t notice when Delia and Bertha pedaled up beside him. It wasn’t until Flossie yelped that he looked up, nearly dropping his pocketknife.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to startle you,” said Delia with a laugh, reaching over to pet Flossie, who was stirring about in her basket.
“Oh, Delia. Mrs. Palmer. My goodness. What a surprise.” He set the apple down on the paper sack and grappled with his coat pocket, searching for his handkerchief. His fingers were shiny with apple juice.
“I’ll say. What are you doing all the way up here? Don’t you have work today?”
“Yes, yes, I do have work today. Lots of work, in fact. Just taking advantage of this beautiful morning.” He wiped his hands dry and straightened his spectacles. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, reaching for his pocket watch. “Oh my, look at the time. I had no idea. I am late, aren’t I? I have to run. I have a big meeting down at the office.”
“We’ll have to all get together soon,” said Bertha.
“Of course. Of course. Wonderful to see you ladies,” he said as he packed up his newspaper, haphazardly stuffing it inside his valise, leaving edges of newsprint jutting out of the top. “I’d best run along now. I have that meeting. Down at the office.”
Delia glanced down at the apple resting on the juice-stained paper sack. “Oh wait, you forgot—” But it was too late. Augustus was already hurrying down the pathway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Delia had all but forgotten about seeing Augustus in the park that day. A whole season had come and gone since then. And in September of 1891, Delia and Abby were planning a trip to Paris to meet with the famed fashion designer Charles Frederick Worth. Bertha was already in Paris, securing her wardrobe for the upcoming season, along with several other women Delia knew. While she was there, Delia hoped to make it to London to see Junior and Albertine. It had been nearly six months since their wedding and she missed them both. Of course she wanted to see Ethel, too, but she knew better than to hope for that. According to Marsh, Ethel was pregnant and miserable, barely speaking to her husband, let alone anyone else.
Abby came by the house while Delia was in her dressing closet, deciding what gowns to have Therese pack in her steamer trunks. “Which do you prefer?” she asked, holding out two blue satin dresses. “The one with the velvet trim or the one with the lace?”
Abby sat in the tufted chair in the corner, looking at the dresses as if she were seeing through them.
“Well?” Delia gave both hangers a slight shake. “Abby? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.” Abby folded her arms across her chest. “I’m just thinking that perhaps I won’t go abroad with you after all.”
Delia laughed as she hung up the velvet-trimmed dress. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious. I think it may be best if I don’t go.”
“But you need to get outfitted properly for the season.” Delia held out the other dress at arm’s length and gave it a closer inspection.
“Perhaps not this time.”
“Nonsense. Why wouldn’t you go?”
“I’m so busy with the children and with . . .” Her voice trailed off and she turned her face away.
“With what?” Delia challenged. “We can’t have you gallivanting around town in last year’s fashions, now, can we?” Delia looked in the mirror and saw Abby’s chin began to crumple. “What is it? Tell me what’s wrong?”
“It’s just that it’s an awfully expensive trip.”
“But so worth it. You know your dressmaker here can’t match the quality of Worth.”
Abby worried her fingers, refusing to look at Delia.
“What on earth is going on?”
Abby looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “Please don’t be cross with me, but . . .”
“Oh, Abby.” Delia finally understood. “Did Augustus ask you again for the money?”
Abby began to sob.
Delia set her dress down and went to Abby’s side.
“He needs the money. He’s put everything he has into starting up his mail-sorting business, and if he can’t get that off the ground, he’ll have nothing. I have to give it to him.” Abby lowered her face to her hands and whispered, “He’s my husband. I have to help him.”
“But I don’t understand. His position with the railroad is a very good—”
“He’s lost his job, Dell,” she blurted out. “He’s been out of work for months.”
“Oh my, Abby . . .” She remembered questioning her sister that day after she saw Augustus on the park bench. Abby had dismissed it, saying he’d been feeling under the weather and had gone into the office late that day. “Why didn’t you tell me about his job?”
“He made me promise not to say anything. But now we have nothing. I have to give him the money. He’s got no one else to turn to.”
Delia knew by then that Abby had probably already given Augustus the money and that she had to step in and rescue her sister. She took a moment and cleared her throat. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll pay your way to Paris. And I’ll pay for your clothes for next season. We have our family name to protect. We’re the Spencer girls after all, aren’t we?”
Two weeks later Abby and Delia, along with Therese and Abby’s maid, Gretchen, completed their ocean crossing and arrived in Paris on a crisp September morning. The next day they visited the House of Worth on rue de la Paix. Abby and Delia sat back in his fine upholstered chairs and sipped tea while the live mannequins modeled the latest gowns from his collection for the upcoming season.
“Now, don’t you worry,” Delia whispered to Abby. “You get whatever you need. Whatever you see that you like.”
Delia selected a black and pink taffeta gown with a lace fichu, a salmon-colored chiffon gown with a vertical motif and a burgundy day dress with a plush polonaise. Those were her favorites, but she ordered dozens more, as did Abby.
After selecting their gowns, they discussed fabrics and trim, buttons and clasps with Worth himself. One of his assistants took their measurements so that each item could be tailored to fit perfectly. Delia adored the dressmaking process, especially with Charles Worth. When he was creating a gown, he was creating art.
“No outfit for this one?” He laughed as he patted Flossie’s head where wisps of her fur were collected in a ruby barrette. Her diamond collar was sparkling beneath his chandelier. “Aha, soon she will have as much jewelry as your friend Mrs. Palmer,” he said, giving Delia a playful jab with his finger.
Delia laughed, lifting the dog up just high enough to let Flossie lick her chin.
The day after their visit to the House of Worth Delia and Abby visited several boutiques along rue Saint-Honoré. There they purchased dozens of handkerchiefs from one shop and their fans and hair combs from another. The following day she and Abby shopped for their bloomers and corsets before ending up at Louis Vuitton on rue Neuve des Capucines.
By the end of the week, after their fittings and alterations at Worth, Delia realized they were never going to get everything home in their luggage. So they went to Goyard’s at the corner of rue Saint-Honoré and rue de Castiglione, where they purchased half a dozen new steamer trunks. While they were there, Delia made arrangements for Edmond Goyard himself to pack their new wardrobes after Worth finished with their gowns.
• • •
F
our and a half weeks later when they returned to Chicago, Delia found her new dresses hanging in her closet looking every bit as perfect as they had when Worth presented them. But now, the excitement of Paris was in the past. Delia had returned to the sad news that Ethel had given birth while she was making the crossing back to America and that the child, a boy, had died just three days later. Though she knew she wouldn’t get a response, she wrote Ethel a ten-page letter, front and back.
Delia took the news hard. Almost too hard. She felt the space, the gaping hole in the universe, where Ethel’s child should have been; playing, laughing, growing up. For days she wandered about listlessly, unable to pull herself out of it. Even she didn’t understand why the infant’s death was having such an effect on her until Bertha pointed out what the problem was.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” said Bertha one day, as she plucked a sugar cube from the bowl with a pair of gold tongs, “it’s a tragedy to lose a child. I can’t imagine the heartache that poor girl is going through.” She gave her tea a stir and passed the sugar bowl to Delia. “But it’s been several weeks and look at you, dear.”
“I can’t help it. It’s heartbreaking,” said Delia, glancing around the tearoom at all the other women oblivious to this unspeakable pain.
“Of course it is, and forgive me for saying this, but you’re dwelling on this loss and it makes me wonder if there isn’t something else that you’re really grieving over.”
“Such as?” Delia paused, about to take a sip of tea.
Bertha gave her a knowing look. “Perhaps you have some losses of your own?”
She set her teacup down and contemplated what Bertha said. How could she have not recognized what was really going on? Bertha was right. She was grieving over other losses. Truth was, she was lonely. Marsh was preoccupied, having recently purchased the building next door in order to expand Marshall Field’s in time for the fair. And Arthur was now relying on Paxton more than Delia to help with his recovery. While she was pleased to see him walking with a cane now, she couldn’t help but feel she’d been replaced. After devoting all her free time to caring for him, she was left with a tremendous void in her life. She was restless and blue, and Bertha had picked up on that.