What the Lady Wants by Renée Rosen Page A

The fall winds blew in from the west, whirling a pile of dead leaves in a circle above the sidewalk. Chisels and hammers pounded all around her as more buildings—theaters and restaurants and shops—went up. Delia joined the wash of pedestrians weaving in and out of the jammed crosswalks. Pushcarts lined both sides of the street, tended by men in soft caps waving to her and the other passersby, peddling their wares, everything from caramels and sweetmeats to cabbages and tomatoes.
    The city’s resilience struck Delia each time she visited State Street. It had been five years since the Great Fire and in that time the heart of Chicago had been rebuilt, and then some. All the buildings that Delia remembered being charred to the ground had been resurrected, and in grander style than ever before.
    As promised, Potter had rebuilt the Palmer House to even greater splendor. With silver dollars tiled into the floor, marble soap dishes and fresh-cut flowers in the guest rooms, Potter Palmer had created the most luxurious hotel in the country.
    Field, Leiter & Company was back stronger than ever, too. Having left the horse barn on Twentieth, they’d moved to the Singer Sewing Company Building at their old Washington and State Street location.
    Delia stepped inside, leaving the chill behind her. It was a large building with two elevators and a wide staircase that led to the upper four floors. All was very sleek and elegant inside with long maple display counters that ran the length of the main floor. There was a flurry of activity as clerks feather dusted their merchandise while cashboys made their rounds to the counters, picking up bills and dropping off change. The customers were mostly women, all of them elegantly dressed. They wore fashionable riding habits, street suits with formfitting bodices, stylish hats with clusters of plumes sprouting out the tops.
    Delia spotted Annie Swift’s white blond ringlets. She stood with Harriet Pullman and Sybil Perkins before a satchel display. Delia was disappointed to see Sybil there, but with no women’s meetings scheduled that day, where else would Sybil be on a free afternoon other than at Field, Leiter & Company?
    As Delia greeted the women, she admired the needlepointedevening bags from Vienna and beaded faille styles from France. Annie was commenting on a velvet swag design from Italy when they all heard someone shouting, “Out! Out! Get out of my store!” Delia turned and saw Levi Leiter flailing his arms at a bewildered man. “I don’t care how much money you have,” Levi was saying. “Put those sleeve garters down this instant.” The women watched as Levi chased the man out of the front door.
    It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. Levi was known for chastising customers he didn’t like, so Delia and the others simply pushed onward through the store as if the outburst had never happened. They stopped at a counter of tonics and salves, including magnolia balms and remedies that promised to remove warts and unsightly blemishes, while others guaranteed to restore men’s hair or make a woman’s wrinkles vanish. Delia breathed in the scent of lilac, rose and lily toilet waters wafting from a nearby display.
    While the others stood around discussing an upcoming charity ball, Delia drifted down the center aisle, pausing over a display of delicate lace handkerchiefs from France. At the next counter, she picked up a bar of tonquin musk soap and inhaled deeply, relishing the subtle spicy fragrance. As she set the soap down, another display captured her attention, an array of beautiful silk shawls with crystal beading.
    She was running her hands along the fine fabric when a deep voice from behind said, “I don’t think orange is your color.”
    Delia turned and nearly dropped the shawl. “Marshall!” She felt an unexpected rush course through her body. “Aren’t you supposed to talk