What the Lady Wants (34 page)

Delia pulled over the ottoman and sat across from him. He seemed to have aged so after losing Junior. “You were only doing what you thought was best for him.”

“For him. Or for me?” He shook his head. “I squandered all that time. And for what?”

Delia sat with him the rest of the afternoon. The daylight
streaming in through the windows threw changing shadows about the room as she tried everything she could to console Marsh. No matter what she said, what she did, he'd just shake his head. The man who had rebuilt Chicago after the Great Fire now could not rebuild himself. Part of him had died right along with his son.

1906

S
ix weeks after Junior's death, the day after New Year's, Marsh was talked into going golfing with his good friend Robert Todd Lincoln and Spencer. Marsh was actually just starting to come out of his darkness and told Delia he thought this was just the thing he needed.

“But it's the middle of winter. No one golfs in the wintertime.” Delia stood in the hallway with all of them, protesting. “And besides, you said you were getting a sore throat.”

“It's a sore throat, woman, not pneumonia,” he said, adjusting his cap.

“I don't want you getting sick, we're leaving for New York tomorrow.”

“Delia,” he said with a grin, “you're beginning to sound like a wife.”

“Well, I am a wife—your wife—so get used to it. And I think
this is foolish. There's snow on the course. You won't even be able to see the ball when you're out there.”

Spencer reached in his pocket and pulled out a red golf ball.

She set her hands on her hips. “Well, I see you boys have thought of everything, haven't you?”

“You're just jealous that you're not coming along,” joked Marsh.

“Not a chance. Go. Go.” She kissed her husband good-bye and shooed him out the door.

When Marsh came home later that afternoon, his nose was red, and his fingers and toes were stiff and numb from the cold. Delia delivered a big
I told you so
and ordered him upstairs to take a hot bath.

When he appeared in his robe and slippers, she said, “That was a silly thing you did today.”

“It was,” he admitted, still chilled to the bone. “But I have to say, it's the first time I've laughed in weeks.”

Delia smiled, though she felt a pinch inside her heart. She'd been trying everything she knew to get him to smile, to laugh, to feel like himself again. Nothing had worked, but a ridiculous round of golf in the snow with red balls had managed to do what she could not.

The next morning Marsh woke up with swollen glands and a raw sore throat.

Delia placed her hand on his forehead. “You are a little warm. Maybe we should put off the trip to New York.”

Marsh had a meeting with some merchants that had been scheduled six months before. “Nonsense,” he said. “I'll be fine. I'll rest on the train.”

Marsh was running a fever, she was sure of it, but he insisted he was up for the trip. She knew this was his attempt to get back
on with his life, with their life together, and she couldn't fault him for that. After all, he was a survivor and she knew better than to question his will.

As scheduled, they boarded the Pennsylvania Limited at noon on January 3. Marsh ended up sleeping for the first three hours of the journey while Delia alternated reading and watching the landscape pass by outside her window. When he awoke somewhere in Ohio, he was shivering so much his teeth were chattering. Delia ordered him hot tea and extra blankets. She noticed, too, that he was developing a raspy cough that made his lungs give off a rumbling sound.

By the time their train arrived in Pittsburgh, Marsh was coughing up blood. Delia was alarmed and asked for a physician. Before they left the station, a young doctor by the name of Richards came on board and was kind enough to tend to Marsh the rest of the way.

Once they were in New York, they were met with blustery winds and a steady snowfall that accompanied them on their way to the Holland House Hotel. As soon as they arrived they were shown to their usual penthouse suite, where Marsh was immediately put to bed.

Dr. Richards said that despite his high fever, it was little more than a bad cold. There was a slight danger that it might turn into bronchitis, but he doubted it. He recommended bed rest. “A few days and he'll be good as new.”

The next day, Tuesday, Marsh was indeed resting comfortably and Delia began to relax. Marsh's physician, Dr. Billings, had since arrived from Chicago and met with Dr. Richards to discuss Marsh's condition.

Since he appeared to be improving, Delia decided to leave the hotel for a bit of shopping along Fifth Avenue. She knew that
Marsh would love hearing all about the displays in Macy's and Bergdorf's.

New York had come to represent the darkest of times for her and Marsh. On their last visit, they'd heard about Junior's shooting. The time before that, Arthur had taken his life in the Waldorf Astoria. She and Marsh had talked about needing to reclaim Manhattan and replace the bad memories with happy new ones.

And so in that spirit, Delia walked through Macy's, taking note of the merchandise, of how they'd displayed their wares. She found a lovely necktie for Marsh, and when she went to purchase it, she caught a reflection of herself in the mirror. Her hair was streaked with strands of gray and lines had crept into her face around her mouth and eyes. It was as if she'd never noticed herself aging, but now she looked every day of her fifty-one years. It sent a chill through her body.

She couldn't explain it, but she saw herself alone and suddenly she had the premonition that Marsh would never have the chance to wear the tie. She was going to lose him, she could feel it. Fear gripped her body as she leaned into the counter for support. She dropped the necktie and fled back to the hotel. She was praying silently to herself, hoping she made it back to the hotel in time. When she arrived back at the Holland House she was nearly in tears.

Dr. Billings was leaving the suite as she stepped off the elevator. She rushed toward him, frantically asking, “How is he, Doctor? Is everything okay? I was out and I had this horrible feeling that . . .”

The doctor smiled. “Delia, he's fine. Better in fact. His fever is down. He just woke up from a nap and had a good hearty lunch. He was asking for you.”

Delia was flooded with relief. Her shoulders settled down
where they belonged and the knot in her stomach began to untie. She went in the hotel room and sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his white hair back off his forehead.

His eyes flickered open at her touch. “Oh, there you are.”

“I love you,” she said. “I've always loved you.” She leaned forward and pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. “Thank God you're going to be all right because I simply forbid you to leave me this early on in our marriage.”

•   •   •

T
hree days later, everything had changed.

Delia telephoned Abby right away. She could hear the doctors in the background, muttering among themselves, while she waited for the long-distance operator to connect her call.

“It's pneumonia,” she said when Abby came on the line. Her voice was tight, strained. Each word felt thick and foreign in her mouth. “And they tell me it's spread to both lungs. They're going to try and keep him comfortable.” The sound of that last statement turned her bones to ice. “Will you contact Albertine for me? And Ethel, too?”

“Of course. Ethel's still stateside with David. I'll find her and tell her what's happened. And Dell,” said Abby, “Augustus and I will be on the next train.”

For the next two days Delia sat at Marsh's side. She could hear him wheezing as he breathed. He was weak and hadn't been able to walk on his own since they'd arrived in New York.

“Why isn't Marshall in the hospital?” Augustus asked after they arrived at the Holland House.

“I'm afraid there's nothing more that can be done for him there,” said the doctor. “We felt he'd be more comfortable here and didn't want to risk moving him. We have a full staff of nurses and doctors here—we've been with him round the clock, ever since he took this turn.”

The next day there was little change in Marsh's condition. Delia excused herself and went into the outer room of their suite. As soon as she was alone, Delia hugged herself about her waist and doubled over as the tears tumbled out. How could they be at the end of their road so quickly and after they'd only just started their journey together? How could she say good-bye to him so soon? She didn't care what the doctors were telling her. He couldn't be leaving her, not yet. He had to beat this illness and recover. He just had to.

Augustus came into her room and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Delia, we're going to have to give a statement to the press soon.”

Delia looked straight ahead. “I can't. I'm sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “but I just can't face them now.”

“I'll take care of it. I'll talk to them.”

Delia's back was still turned to the door when the next person entered the room. She heard the faint footsteps first, then the timid voice. “Aunt Dell?”

Delia turned around and there was Ethel.

“Oh, Aunt Dell.” She ran into Delia's arms, sobbing on her shoulder. “He can't be dying. He just can't be.”

She held the girl tightly in her arms and began to cry herself, too overwhelmed to speak.

Ethel's face shone with tears as she pulled herself back. “I've been so awful to him,” she said. “Do you think he'll forgive me? I'm scared, Aunt Dell. I'm going to be an orphan now. I'm going to be all alone.”

Delia stroked Ethel's hair and then her cheek as if to reassure her. “You'll never be alone. Not while I'm here.”

“But I've been awful to you, too. I'm so ashamed, Aunt Dell.”

“Shssh.” Delia tried to stop her.

Ethel shook her head. “I'm so sorry for the way I've behaved.
I was just so angry and I needed someone to blame. It wasn't fair of me. I'd never been in love—I didn't understand. And then I met David and I realized . . . But I was too stubborn, too proud to say I was wrong. I know how much he loves you. He's always loved you. He always has. I knew it, but I just—I was just . . . You made him happier than I've ever seen him.”

This bit of recognition went right to Delia's heart as she hugged the girl even tighter. “Come,” she said, wiping Ethel's tears and trying to compose herself. “Let's go see your father. Together.”

When they entered the sickroom, two doctors and three nurses were at his side. Delia had her arm about Ethel's waist and could feel her trembling. Marsh had his eyes closed. White whiskers covered his handsome face and Delia made a note to ask one of the nurses to shave him.

“How is he?” Delia asked Dr. Billings.

Marsh opened one eye and said, “I'm right here. You can ask me. Don't rule me out yet.”

She smiled and went to his side, with Ethel trailing behind her. “I'm sorry, darling, I didn't know you were awake.”

“Awake and feisty,” said Dr. Billings.

“We'll take that as a good sign, then,” said Delia, stepping aside so Marsh could see that Ethel was with her.

“Ah,” he said, a smile rising on his lips. “My girls, together at last.”

Both Delia and Ethel began to weep quietly again. Marsh was tiring quickly and the doctor asked them to wait outside while they finished conducting the examination.

The family was sequestered in the living room area of their suite. The hotel staff had brought them fresh pots of coffee, sandwiches and trays of fruit and cheese that went untouched.

Dr. Billings came out of the sickroom and asked if he could
have a word with Mrs. Field. Delia's stomach dropped. She felt light-headed as she stood up and followed him into the corridor.

“I'm afraid we're in the home stretch,” he said.

Delia clasped a hand over her mouth. “But he was alert just now. You saw him. He was sitting up and talking.”

“He rallied for you, for his daughter. But despite that burst of energy, his condition is rapidly deteriorating.”

“No.” Delia shook her head fiercely. “You don't know how strong he is. He's going to beat this. I know he is.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I'm afraid even Marshall Field is not going to be able to recover from this. I just want to prepare you.”

Delia swallowed past the lump in her throat. “How long do we have?”

Dr. Billings held her hand gently. “My guess is a matter of hours.”

“Hours!” Delia nearly dropped to the ground. She looked into the doctor's eyes, hoping for a different answer.

“Your husband is a strong man, a real fighter. But he is gravely ill. He asked me to tell him when the end is near.”

“Then you must do what he asked,” she said, feeling everything inside her trying to pull together, to keep from unraveling. “But I'm coming with you when you do.”

When the doctor told Marsh the news, he closed his eyes and nodded as he reached for Delia's hand. The two sat like that, quietly together, their hands tightly clasped. As with everything else, they were facing this together. She was scared to death, and couldn't fathom this world without him, but she wouldn't give in to those fears now. There was no choice but to be strong. If ever he needed her, it was now.

She stayed and held his hand while one by one family members came in to say good-bye. Delia didn't move. She and Marsh
always knew that he would be the first to go, but it had come too soon. She wasn't ready. How could she let go of his hand, his love? She couldn't believe that tomorrow morning, when she awoke, he wouldn't be on this earth. What would the world look like without Marshall Field in it? What would her life look like without her Marsh?

Three hours later, she was still with him when he took his final breath and the Merchant Prince closed his brilliant blue gray eyes for the last time.