What the Lady Wants (26 page)

D
elia 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.

As they were leaving the tearoom that day, Bertha draped her arm about Delia's waist and walked her down the street to where her landau carriage was waiting.

“I do have something that might help,” said Bertha.

“Please, tell me,” said Delia. “I need to do something. I can't go on like this.”

“Well.” Bertha placed her hands on her lap, lacing her fingers together. “I just attended a meeting yesterday for the Columbian Exposition. I've been named the chairman of the Board of Lady Managers.”

“Oh, Bertha, what a wonderful honor.”

“Thank you. It is an honor. And it's also a great deal of work. I can't possibly handle all the responsibilities myself. So, I wonder, Mrs. Caton, if you would be my assistant?”

O
ne week later Delia found herself in the boardroom at the mayor's office. Portraits of Carter Harrison and the mayors that came before him lined the walls in heavy gilt frames. She counted twelve sweating silver water pitchers stationed about the long boardroom table along with twenty crystal goblets. At each place there was also a pad of paper with the World's Columbian Exposition Fair logo embossed on the top.

This would be Delia and Bertha's first meeting with the executive committee for the world's fair, composed of the top city officials and the men who were helping to finance the event. Delia liked the idea of being in a meeting with Marsh. It gave her a sense of equality to be sitting right across from him at an oversize table along with men like Potter Palmer, Gustavus Swift, Cyrus McCormick and Philip Armour.

Once the meeting started, the mayor asked for a report on
the main attraction. “It's got to be something spectacular,” he said. “Something that will rival France's Eiffel Tower.”

“We did get a proposal from a railroad engineer,” said Marsh.

“Oh, you mean the gentleman working on the giant Pleasure Wheel,” said Potter.

“Yes. That's the one.”

“You're talking about George Ferris,” said Gustavus Swift.

“Is it worth us having a meeting with him?” asked the mayor.

Potter and Marsh exchanged glances and both nodded.

The mayor scratched down his name and then moved on to Cyrus McCormick. “And what about the faulty sewer system near the park? We're going to have to deal with a host of sanitation issues down there and I won't have a cholera outbreak in the midst of this fair. . . .”

When it was finally their turn, Bertha announced that the Board of Lady Managers had selected the architect who would design the Women's Building. “We've decided to award it to a very bright, very talented twenty-one-year-old graduate of MIT named Sophia Hayden.”

“Did you say
Sophia
?” Daniel Burnham, the head architect for the fair, leaned back in his chair and cupped his ear.

Delia had known Burnham for years, as she and Arthur had commissioned him to build their home on Calumet Avenue. He hadn't changed much at all, still full and round-faced with a scraggly handlebar mustache.

“Indeed I did,” said Bertha.

Burnham folded his arms across his chest. “Do you think she's up for the task?”

“Why do you ask?” Delia said, turning to him. “Because she's so young? Or because she's a
she
?”

There was a ripple of commotion before Gustavus Swift
spoke up. “Mrs. Caton, Mrs. Palmer, please let's be reasonable here.”

“Exactly.” Burnham wrinkled his brow and leaned forward. “Need I remind you that we have less than two years to build this exposition? This is a monumental task. Do you have any idea what it's going to take to transform Jackson Park into the White City?”

The mayor straightened his tie and spoke up. “And just what is this White City that you keep referring to? I've heard you use that term countless times and I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about.”

Burnham jotted something down on his notepad before he looked up and began to speak. “The White City is my theme for the fair. It's no secret that our greatest challenge is convincing the Europeans to come to Chicago. All they've ever heard is that our city is dirty. It smells. It's dangerous. They realize that Chicago is a modern city—a glimpse into the future—but let's face it, Chicago frightens them. We need to dispel the belief that Chicago is a dark and dangerous place. We're going to construct more than two hundred buildings—all in white—along the perimeter of the basin. We're literally going to construct a pristine, white, gleaming paradise—the White City. Right now Jackson Park is nothing but swampland. We have to dig a basin and drain the water and transform the whole place. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before and in such a short time period. That's why I'm questioning the women's choice of architect. We need the very best people on these assignments.”

Marsh planted one elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Then we'll continue to look for a new architect for the Women's Building. I say we move on with the business at hand and—”

“The business at hand,” said Delia, giving Marsh a glaring
look, “is to award the design to the most qualified architect—be it a man or woman.”

“And I believe, Mrs. Caton,” said Marsh, “that we've already determined that your candidate is not the best architect for this project.”

“But you haven't even looked at her proposal.” Delia felt Bertha's hand on her arm, trying to calm her down. Delia reached into her file and pulled out Sophia Hayden's sketches and blueprints. For the next thirty minutes the group pored over them.

Finally Potter spoke up. “If the Board of Lady Managers think this Sophia woman is the best person for the project, then I say we proceed.”

“But with caution—” Philip Armour raised a finger. “Daniel, if you need to step in and assist—”

“I assure you that won't be necessary,” said Delia. “You worry about the men. We'll worry about the women.”

•   •   •

W
ithin a month of that initial meeting with the executive committee, Delia and Bertha had set up an office next door to the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts on Michigan and Van Buren. Together they wasted no time decorating their work space. Some may have considered this a silly extravagance, but Delia and Bertha couldn't help themselves. They were both so accustomed to being surrounded by luxury and beautiful things. Besides, they believed that an aesthetically pleasing environment was conducive to their success. They purchased a Persian Mahal carpet and two hand-carved De Morgan walnut partners desks that faced each other with matching marbleized stained-glass desk lamps. Off to the side they had a little seating area with a pair of exquisite mahogany scrolling armchairs, a matching settee and a table with an enormous Mont Joye glass vase of lilies on top.

One morning Delia and Bertha were having their coffee while going through the invites for the Women's Pavilion planning meeting.

“Well,” said Delia, looking over the updated list, “we just heard back from Arizona and Nebraska, so we now have our two representatives needed from each state.”

“And would you look at all these entries we've already received?” said Bertha. She was surrounded by piles of envelopes and boxes.

As word spread that they would showcase women's achievements throughout the world, applications flooded their office. Each day they received paintings, poetry and short stories, needlepoint and embroidered pieces, fashion designs and inventions all created by women.

“Did you see this?” said Bertha, holding up a sketch they'd just received. It was a sofa built into a bathtub.

They had a good laugh over that as they continued sorting through the letters and cables touting the accomplishments of suffragettes, women in law school, women doctors and women who worked in the man's world.

“Isn't it amazing?” said Bertha. “Just think of all the capabilities these women display.”

“Yes, and just think of how many bright, talented women are overlooked in this world, simply because they're females.” Delia was just getting a taste of what it meant to work side by side with men. Stubborn, arrogant, pushy men. If there was one thing she hoped the Women's Pavilion would prove, it was that women deserved a chance to excel every bit as much as a man.