Chapter 26 Cynthia
Cynthia
Despite being much younger than her supervisor, Cynthia had to admit that Iris was running rings around her.
She took the steps of the servants’ stairs two at a time, usually weighted down by a stack of freshly laundered towels.
How she managed it, Cynthia simply did not understand.
She wondered if she would be half as fast or as strong by the end of the summer.
From the way Iris kept scowling back over her shoulder, she didn’t think her boss would be willing to give her that long to improve.
Despite her show of conviction during her interview, she was beginning to have doubts as to whether or not she could manage to keep the job.
After only a couple of hours, every muscle in her slim body howled from the unaccustomed exertion.
She hurried along the second-floor hallway as quickly as her aching muscles would allow, following Iris to a discreetly placed supply closet at its end.
Iris yanked open the wooden door, which looked just like the ones separating the guest rooms to the eyes of passersby, and pulled a small rolling cart out from its depths.
She shoved it towards Cynthia and nodded wordlessly before striding on ahead, running her fingers along the surface of mahogany tables, checking for dust.
The cart was neatly stacked with all manner of cleaning products, although none of them seemed to be the ones her mother favored.
Judith Proctor was as eager to be in the know about modern innovations, and whatever happened to be considered the latest thing, as she was for her daughter to marry a man with excellent financial prospects.
Not for her were boxes of borax or bars of Fels-Naptha soap like what Cynthia had worked into stain after stain, marring the tablecloths and napkins destined to return to the dining room in a pristine state.
She squinted between the bottles of concentrated Lysol and the canisters of Ajax cleanser, hoping to spot a pair of rubber gloves.
Her hands stung as she gripped the handle of the cart just firmly enough to keep control of it as it rumbled across the plush carpet.
Even over the slight squeak of the cart’s wheels, Cynthia could hear Iris cluck her tongue as she came abreast of a table supporting an enormous urn of flowers.
Iris stopped dead in her tracks and plucked two yellowing petals from an ivory-colored rose and secreted them away into a pocket of her inky black uniform dress with its severe, old-fashioned collar.
“It is the duty of all staff to notice details like that one. If you see even the slightest little thing that is less than perfect, I expect you to pull your weight by taking care of it. Don’t come to me and ask; just fix it before any of the guests should happen to see it. Do you understand?”
Cynthia nodded, and before she could make any other sort of reply, Iris was on the move again, heading for the end of the hall as if the devil himself might be looking for her.
Although, remembering the remarks made by Calvin, Cynthia thought that maybe the housekeeper was trying her best to keep ahead of Miss Arden.
Iris stopped in front of a door once again and fitted a key from a ring attached to a sash tied about her waist into its lock.
Cynthia was put in mind of a course she had taken on European history, and she was suddenly struck by how much Iris had in common with a medieval chatelaine.
She stifled a giggle. It would never do for a peasant girl to get above herself.
Iris flung open the door and stepped across the threshold.
Long windows flanked by heavy brocade drapes looked out over a deep-green lawn that ended at a sandy beach hugging the edge of the lake.
Between the building and the water’s edge, wooden deck chairs with jauntily striped umbrellas placed behind them for shade sat in a tidy row.
Cynthia could see women of all shapes, sizes, and ages lounging in them.
Gardens overflowing with radiant blooms dotted the lawn and perfumed the breeze that floated in through the open windows.
The view of Long Pond itself from the second story was breathtaking. Towering spruce trees ringed the shoreline, and several small islands dotted the lake. It was even more beautiful than the aspect afforded by the Mayhews’ spacious porch.
She turned her attention to the room as Iris began to move about it.
The walls were papered in pale blue printed with golden vines climbing up and down in undulating columns.
A high bed with a satin coverlet and a flotilla of plump pillows encased in snowy-white linens lay against one wall.
Small bedside tables flanked it on either side, each holding a reading lamp with a pleated shade in soft pink.
The opposite side of the room featured a fireplace surrounded by delicately painted tiles, an overstuffed chair, and an ottoman upholstered to match the draperies, as well as a table supporting another large vase of flowers.
But the showpiece of the room, if one did not count the view, was the dressing table—or rather, the myriad of pots, tubes, and brushes placed upon it.
Cynthia had never seen anything quite like it in all her life.
A tufted stool covered in deep-blue velvet was placed in front of it, and a large gold-framed mirror hung above it, reflecting light from the long windows opposite.
“This room is to be occupied by one of our most important guests and, as you can see, is in need of a rigorous cleaning,” Iris said, sweeping her arm out in front of her to indicate the extent of the problem.
Cynthia nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. To her inexperienced eyes, the room looked guest-ready, no matter their importance.
The bedspread lay smoothly tucked around the bed.
No dust appeared to have spread over any of the dark wooden surfaces.
The crystals in the chandelier dangling from the center of the ceiling sparkled with such brilliance it made her eyes water to look at them directly.
Still, if Iris wished for her to clean the room again, clean it she would.
“May I ask who is expected to stay in this room?” she asked.
Perhaps she would recognize the name and Iris’s insistence on a second round of cleaning would make more sense. After all, she had heard the rumors of all the famous names that were known to visit.
Iris pursed her lips. “Her name is Vivian Shaw, if you must know, and she is expected to arrive this evening. I hope that you can be counted on to be discreet concerning her stay. We do not bandy about our guests’ names under any circumstances.
” Iris pushed past her and opened yet another door at the end of the room opposite the fireplace.
Vivian Shaw! Pauline had mentioned that Rita Hayworth was a frequent visitor, but Cynthia hadn’t expected to see her, let alone a starlet who was even more famous.
No wonder Iris was so eager to not be caught shorthanded.
Cynthia followed her and found herself in the largest bathroom she had ever seen.
Another crystal chandelier—albeit a slightly smaller one—hung from the ceiling.
An oversize porcelain tub in pale blue with gold-toned taps sat tucked into an alcove.
The toilet and sink were constructed of matching porcelain.
Fluffy white towels were draped over ornate bars.
A set of French doors with frosted panes took up one whole wall.
“Surely you will agree that the bathroom is not fit for use. I will expect you to go over it as though your job depends upon it—which, in fact, it does. Start with the fixtures and finish up with the floor. The bucket and brush are on the cart.”
Cynthia nodded again and stepped into the main bedroom to retrieve the cart. That was when she noticed something was missing.
“Will I find a mop in the supply closet?” she asked, returning to the bathroom.
“Mops are vile, filthy things that simply push dirt about and spread germs as they do so,” Iris said, one eyebrow cocked in the air, like Cynthia had suggested wiping the floor with a dead raccoon.
“What am I to clean the floor with instead?” she asked.
“If a bucket and brush are the tools trusted by my late predecessor, Alice Merrick, then they are good enough for the likes of you,” Iris said. “But you’d best be quick about it. Vivian Shaw will surely not appreciate arriving to discover that her room is not ready and that you are in it.”
The telephone in the room rang, and Iris turned away to answer it.
Based on Iris’s side of the conversation, the call was not an entirely pleasant one.
Cynthia stepped as far from her supervisor as the confines of the room would allow in an attempt to provide her with some semblance of privacy.
She ran her finger along the top of the chair rail.
Just as she suspected, not a speck of dust clung to her finger.
She peered out one of the tall windows once again to take in the view.
The lake sparkled in the sun, and boats whizzed by with water-skiers in tow.
She noticed once again the women of varying ages and modesty of swimming costumes dotted along the private beach.
While most sat at their ease, apparently unoccupied by anything more than chatting with their neighbors, one woman stood out.
She was by no means the oldest of the assembled guests, but one would not call her young.
That said, she was striking, with her broad-brimmed cobalt hat and a long, flowing set of beach pajamas that looked like they would have been the height of fashion on the French Riviera in the 1930s.
She wore an intricately patterned scarf draped over her shoulders and knotted around her neck.
But most interesting of all was the sketchbook propped on her knees.
She held her hand above the paper, but she did not appear to be holding any sort of drawing implement.
She appeared utterly absorbed in the scene in front of her rather than in her fellow guests.
The telephone rattled down into its cradle, and Cynthia felt Iris’s gaze boring into her back. She turned away from the window, worried that she appeared to be slacking.
“As soon as you are done here, you are to report to the salon manager, Erma, to prepare for the fashion show,” Iris said. “It doesn’t start until this evening, but it seems that there is much to be done to prepare the models, so you will need to make quick work of this job.”
Without awaiting an answer, Iris swept out of the room, her dark braid streaming out behind her as she sped away.
Cynthia plucked an ancient-looking brush that surely had provided inspiration for Disney’s film Cinderella.
She could not believe that she had been asked to scrub a floor on her hands and knees with a stiff brush.
Even her mother, as fussy and house-proud as she was, had the good sense to use a mop and wringer.
Still, if Iris insisted that was how it was to be done, then so be it.
It would not matter one bit when she was back at Barlow.