PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF RENÉE ROSEN
What the Lady Wants
“What the Lady Wants has everything I love in a historical novel: impeccably researched details, a mix of real and imagined characters that are vividly and sensitively drawn, and a heroine who is true to her time yet feels utterly familiar. With Dollface, Renée Rosen crafted an unforgettable portrait of Prohibition-era Chicago; in What the Lady Wants she does the same for the city during its Gilded Age.”
—Jennifer Robson, international and USA Today bestselling author of Somewhere in France
“Rosen skillfully charms, fascinates, frustrates, and moves her readers in this turn-of-the-century tale. Set on an epic historical stage, What the Lady Wants contains all of the hedonism, decadence, success, and tragedy of the great American novel.”
—Erika Robuck, national bestselling author of Fallen Beauty
“What the Lady Wants is a story that opens with the Great Chicago Fire and keeps on smoldering to the end. Rosen’s characters are finely drawn, and her love triangles are full of subtlety and sincerity. What the lady indeed wants may not be what you assume it to be!”
—Suzanne Rindell, author of The Other Typist
“Once again, Renée Rosen brings Chicago history alive in this fascinating story of Delia Spencer, trapped in a sexless marriage while desperately desired by a man she can’t have—the arrogant, powerful department store mogul Marshall Field. A tale of tangled relationships and dubious morality, What the Lady Wants is captivating with a surprisingly contemporary twist.”
—Stephanie Lehmann, author of Astor Place Vintage
“What the Lady Wants is as fun and addictive and Chicago-licious as a box of Marshall Field’s Frango Mints. And, sadly, you’ll finish it almost as fast. A delight.”
—Rebecca Makkai, author of The Hundred-Year House
Dollface
“Rosen’s Chicago gangsters are vividly rendered, and the gun molls stir up at least as much trouble as their infamous men.”
—Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of Water for Elephants
“Renée Rosen has combined her daring and vivid imagination with the rich history of Prohibition-era Chicago. Dollface is a lively, gutsy romp of a novel that will keep you turning pages.”
—Karen Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of Sin in the Second City
“Pour yourself a glass of gin, turn up the jazz, and prepare to lose yourself in the unforgettable story of a quintessential flapper.”
—Tasha Alexander, New York Times bestselling author of Death in the Floating City
“Dollface sheds a new light on Prohibition-era gangsters when we see them through the eyes of the women who kept their secrets and shared their beds. Rosen’s Chicago is bursting with booze, glamour, sex, and power.”
—Kelly O’Connor McNees, author of In Need of a Good Wife
PRAISE FOR THE OTHER WORKS OF RENÉE ROSEN
“Quirky and heartfelt.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Beautifully written, and with larger-than-life characters, this book will remain in readers’ hearts for a long time to come.”
—School Library Journal
“A heartfelt coming-of-age story, told with the perfect combination of humor and drama.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Absorbing. . . . As Rosen evokes her setting with a wealth of details . . . [readers] will empathize with the narrator’s unique situation as a concentrated form of universal worries about finding acceptance, dealing with loss, and leaving home.”
—Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY RENÉE ROSEN
Dollface
Every Crooked Pot
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014
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First published by New American Library,
Copyright © Renée Rosen, 2014
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Rosen, Renée
What the lady wants: a novel of Marshall Field and the Gilded Age/Renée Rosen.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-13756-1
1. Young women—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 2. Capitalists and financiers— Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 3. Great Fire, Chicago, Ill., 1871—Fiction. 4. Chicago (Ill.)—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O83156W47 2014
813'.6—dc23 2014017729
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Also by RENÉE ROSEN
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
BOOK ONE: 1871–1886
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
BOOK TWO: 1890–1899
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
BOOK THREE: 1900–1906
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FO
RTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
Readers Guide
To Debbie Rosen, my mother, my best friend and the first person to take me to Marshall Field’s.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for their expertise and assistance with the writing of this book: Craig Alton, John Hancock, Sally Sexton Kalmbach and the research staff at the Chicago History Museum and the Newberry Library.
For their ongoing support and friendship, I wish to thank the following people: Karen Abbott, Tasha Alexander, Jill Bernstein, Katherine Eley, Lisa Fine, Andrew Grant, Nick Hawkins, Rick Kogan, Lisa Kotin, Chris Lee, Julia Liebilch, Marianne Nee, Kelly O’Connor McNees, Amy Sue Nathan, Charles Osgood, Javier Ramirez, Dennis Rosenthal, Beth Treleven, Hollis Turner and the whole Sushi Lunch bunch.
To the hardest-working agent in the business, Kevan Lyon—thank you for your patience, guidance and ongoing support. I couldn’t ask to be in better hands.
To my editor, Claire Zion. You’ve been a wonderful collaborator and have made me a better writer. Thank you for always asking the right questions and pushing me (ever so gently) to the next level. It’s been a joy to work with you!
To the rest of my team at Penguin, especially Jennifer Fisher, Jessica Butler, everyone in marketing and sales and, of course, the extraordinary Brian Wilson, who always goes above and beyond for his authors and his booksellers.
A special thank you to the following: Joe Esselin, my first reader, my mentor and friend. Mindy Mailman for being who she is—which is just amazing. Brenda Klem, who no matter how near or far is always there for me. Sara Gruen, who held my little paw on this journey from the very beginning, and John Dul, the man with impeccable timing.
I couldn’t follow my dream without the love and support of my wonderful family—Debbie Rosen, Pam Jaffe, Jerry Rosen, Andy Jaffe, Andrea Rosen, Joey Perilman and Devon Rosen.
“Give the lady what she wants.”
—Marshall Field
BOOK ONE
1871–1886
CHAPTER ONE
1871
She supposed she fell in love with him at the same time the rest of Chicago did. The Great Fire had raged on for two days, and the flames didn’t discriminate: they devoured businesses and residences, mansions and shanties alike. In the end, miles of streets and buildings were ravaged. But from this smoldering ash, a handful of men came forward to rebuild the city. Marshall Field was one of them.
The day before the fire started, seventeen-year-old Delia Spencer was walking down State Street in search of hair combs needed to complete an outfit for a party the following evening. She was strolling along when her heel got caught in a loose plank on the wooden sidewalk. Oblivious to the throng of horse-drawn cars, wagons and coaches rumbling by, she worked to free her boot. It was only the train whistle, from several blocks over, that seized her attention. She could feel the ground juddering as the locomotive barreled through town, coughing clouds of black, oily smoke. The soot remained after the train passed, clinging to the facades of the restaurants, tearooms and dime museums. Even the Nicholson paved roads were covered in a thin coating of locomotive residue.
She was moving again, and in the time it took her to walk less than a city block, half a dozen peddlers selling everything from chicken feet to slabs of lard tallow soap approached her. She crossed the street to get away from them, lifting her hem and watching her step to avoid the road apples left behind by the horses.
The whirl of chaos surrounding her reminded Delia of the time her relatives from Boston had come to visit, telling their friends and neighbors that they were going to a trading post out west. They’d been appalled by the fetid smells of the Chicago River and said that the city was a noisy, vile, dangerous place. But Delia argued that no other city could boast a three-tiered fountain like the one in Courthouse Square or the marble and limestone buildings along State Street that stood four and five stories high. She couldn’t imagine a more vibrant place to call home. The city was barely thirty years old and it was changing all the time, maturing, ripening with each new day. Her father was fond of saying that Chicago was coming into its own in 1871.
“The clover is upon us now,” he’d said to her just days before the fire as Delia had stood with him on their velvet green lawn that their gardener faithfully watered each day to combat the months of drought. “Yes, indeed,” her father had said again, “we’re in the clover now.”
Mr. Spencer was a proud Chicagoan and one of the men who’d built up the city in the very beginning, long before the boom began.
“When we moved here back in ’54, we were pioneers,” he’d told her. “You weren’t even a year old. There was a cholera outbreak that year and everyone—including your mother—thought I’d lost my mind, moving my family to this desolate place. They said Chicago was uninhabitable. And they weren’t entirely wrong,” he’d chuckled. “The roads were nothing but dirt and mud. Thickets of weeds were everywhere. The city was full of nothing but cottages and shacks. There were miles of marshland all around, and if people think it smells bad now, they should have been here back then. Hard as you tried, you couldn’t get away from the stench of sewer water.”
Standing next to him on their lawn, she’d followed the line of her father’s gaze toward the downtown horizon. “Didn’t you tell me once that you found fish in your drinking water?”
He’d smiled, giving her a nod. “You’d fill up your basin and there’d be fish this big”—he held his fingers an inch apart—“flipping and flopping right before your eyes.”
Delia had laughed. “Why did you want us to live here back then?”
“Because I saw promise in Chicago. I knew this swampland in the middle of the country was going to be the key to prosperity. This city has waterways and railroads, and we’re smack in the center of everything. I knew if anything worthwhile was going to happen in this country, it was going to have to go through Chicago.”
Her father had been right. Delia found it hard to believe that just twenty years before the Spencers arrived, Chicago had been a fur trading post, home to the Indians and just four thousand brave pioneers. Since then the Potawatomi had been replaced by more than ninety thousand intruders, come to seek their fortunes.
When Delia arrived at Lake Street and Wabash Avenue, a horse-drawn streetcar let dozens of riders off in front of a group of dry goods stores—one of which belonged to Delia’s father. Hibbard, Spencer & Company stood three stories proud, dwarfing the blacksmith, the umbrella repair shop, the cordage shop and the other merchants surrounding it.
Delia went inside and wandered up and down the aisles, letting her fingertips graze the different bolts of brocades, chambrays and gossamers piled one on top of the other. She lost herself among the white and yellow beeswax candles and spiced soaps when her father called to her.
“What a surprise. What are you looking for, Dell?” He removed his spectacles and gave them a polish on the bottom of his waistcoat.
“Hair combs.”
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “you won’t find them in this aisle.”
“I know, I know. I can’t help it, I got distracted.”
As a young girl, before her mother taught her to know a woman’s place, Delia had spent many an afternoon down at Hibbard, Spencer, hoisted up on the counter, watching her father ring up all the sales. Oh, how she loved the sound of the till each time the cash drawer sprang open. She had wanted to become a merchant like her father. She wasn’t afraid of hard work, or put off by the responsibility. She wanted the satisfaction of making her own way and had even thought of taking over her father’s business someday. But she was a girl and a Spencer girl at that. She grew up on the exclusive Terrace Row, in a rusticated stone block home with a majestic mansard roof and dozens of servants. She’d studied piano and dance and had attended the city’s finest
finishing school. Her mother wouldn’t even allow her to take painting classes at the Academy of Design, let alone work in a dry goods store. No, her only job was to find a suitable husband and raise his children.
• • •
The night the fire started, on October 8, 1871, Delia was getting ready for Bertha and Potter Palmers’ party in celebration of the opening of their new hotel, the Palmer House. Sitting at her vanity, she gazed into the looking glass while her maid pinned her long brown hair and fastened it with the sterling hair comb she’d purchased the day before. This was the first party Delia would attend after having been formally introduced to society in September, and she wanted to make a good impression. She chose an emerald gown with forest green velvet ruches and beading along the bodice. It had been designed for her by Emile Pingat on her last trip to Paris the summer before.
“Quit your dillydallying,” Abby said, standing in the doorway.
“Don’t you worry, Augustus will still be at the party when you get there.”
Delia saw her sister’s cheeks flush at the mention of her beau. “It’s not Augustus I’m worried about. It’s Mother.”
“Oh, she must be seething down there,” Delia said as the maid gathered her long train and fastened it to the hook at her waistline.
“You know how she is about being prompt.” Abby stepped closer to the looking glass and adjusted the bow atop her curls, which their maid had styled for her before reporting to Delia’s room.
Abby was four years older than Delia. Her piercing blue eyes and light blond hair came from her mother, whereas Delia’s dark coloring belonged to the Spencer side of the family. After studying themselves in the cheval mirror one last time, the girls went downstairs to join their mother at the foot of the staircase. Her mother’s hand was gripping the banister and Delia just knew her fingertips must have long since turned white inside her gloves.