Chapter 52 Iris
Iris
Dolores was a capable girl and not one to be easily intimidated.
She had three older brothers and a mother who might as well have vinegar flowing through her veins, if her lack of sweetness was any indication.
Geraldine Putnam could be a handful, but she was rarely rude to the staff.
Iris would not have expected her to accept the services of a different maid without complaint, but she had not anticipated that it would prod her to fury.
She sent Dolores to the staff house for a fifteen-minute break to recover from her ordeal and forced herself to head up the stairs to the second floor where the older woman awaited her.
Mrs. Putnam opened the door to her room before Iris could land a second knock on the sturdy wooden surface. She flung the door wide and stepped back, sweeping her arm out from her side as if to hurry Iris into the room. She had barely closed it before she spoke.
“She hasn’t done something dreadful to herself, has she?” Mrs. Putnam asked.
Iris had not even considered that Mrs. Putnam might be worried for Cynthia’s state of mind because of the attack the previous evening.
She had been so caught up worrying about what she knew to be true that she had not even considered the sorts of things someone else might imagine.
Particularly someone as imaginative as Mrs. Putnam. She shook her head emphatically.
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
Mrs. Putnam threw a hand up towards her throat and patted the base of it as if to calm herself.
Truly, the woman did look wild. While Iris had understood that Mrs. Putnam valued Cynthia as a maid, she had not expected that she would take news of her dismissal quite so much to heart.
Artists were peculiar, to be sure, and Mrs. Putnam, with her remarkable level of success, certainly fit into that mold.
Even now she was dressed nothing like the other ladies who frequented the Maine Chance.
With her worn cotton skirt and oversize men’s button-down shirt, she looked more like someone who had come to do a bit of wallpapering than an honored guest.
Mrs. Putnam pointed at the pair of chairs at the far end of the room and strode across, taking one of them for herself.
“Well, what is it like, then? I woke up this morning, as I’m sure you can see,” she said, pointing towards her outfit, “prepared for a day spent in the studio, and I am informed that Cynthia is nowhere to be had. How will I finish my paintings now?”
Even Iris, with her limited understanding of the art world, knew that a model or a muse was difficult to replace. Still, there was nothing to be done.
“I’m afraid that Cynthia has been dismissed from her post,” Iris said. She noticed her mouth drying out as the phrase slid past her lips.
Mrs. Putnam shook her head as if to rid herself of ringing in her ears. “Dismissed from her post? Preposterous. I did not dismiss her.”
“Still, she has been removed.”
“Why on earth would you do such a thing? You know how happy I was with Cynthia. Does this have anything to do with last night? I wouldn’t have thought so ill of you, Iris.”
She was relieved to know that Mrs. Putnam would not naturally have suspected her of being so shallow as to dismiss a girl because of some spoiled rich boy’s behavior.
Still, she felt torn between her loyalty to Miss Arden and her desire to set the record straight.
But Miss Arden was not seated there in the fuming presence of Mrs. Putnam.
Besides, she did not agree with the dismissal herself.
“It wasn’t my decision. Cynthia has turned out to be a surprisingly good employee, and one who will be sorely missed,” she said. “Miss Arden asked me to fire her.”
“Elizabeth requested her dismissal? Whatever for?”
It was a moment Iris had been dreading. This type of accusation leveled at Cynthia could only harm the girl when seeking employment elsewhere.
If she were to have any hope of earning her tuition, it would be quashed by the reason for her dismissal.
She hadn’t even told Cynthia the whole truth.
But she couldn’t very well lie to Mrs. Putnam.
She would be sure to ferret out the details one way or another, and then it would have all been for naught.
Besides, after everything Mrs. Putnam had done to help with Orla, she owed her more than vague excuses.
“Miss Arden received a telephone call informing her that Cynthia had been caught stealing. She was also accused of assaulting a young man, although I happen to know that she was only defending herself.”
“I thought it was something like that. She wasn’t interfered with, was she?”
“No, but only because she hit the man over the head with a gin bottle before diving into the lake to escape him.”
“And someone called Elizabeth to blame her for being attacked?”
“The concerned party wished to do her the favor of warning her that she had a staff member who could not be trusted.”
Mrs. Putnam sat back against her chair, her mouth fallen open slightly.
“Cynthia, stealing? What utter nonsense. The girl has been in and out of my rooms and painting studio ceaselessly since she became my maid. I can attest to the fact that not a single bobby pin has been filched, let alone anything of value.” She lurched forward and propped her bony elbows on her knees.
“Who, may I ask, made this spurious telephone call to Miss Arden?”
“I am not sure it would do any good to say. I can tell you that I don’t know her personally, but she is someone who held enough sway with Miss Arden that I had no choice but to dismiss the girl.
I was extraordinarily sorry to do so. Miss Arden said that if I did not fire her, I would lose not only my chance at the job in Arizona, but my position here as well. ”
Mrs. Putnam made a harrumphing noise deep in her throat.
“Preposterous. Elizabeth is lucky to have the pair of you. Your job, here or there, won’t be in jeopardy if I have anything to say about it.” She straightened and drummed her paint-stained fingers on the arms of her chair. “What is the name of the person who leveled the accusation?”
Mrs. Putnam raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. Even maintaining a thunderous silence, the woman was persuasive.
“Louise Bradford,” Iris said.
Mrs. Putnam began to sputter. She launched up and out of her chair and headed straight for the telephone. “Louise. You’re sure it was Louise?”
“Yes. I distinctly remember Miss Arden telling me the rumor had come straight from Louise Bradford, and so she felt it must be true. Anyhow, what reason would the woman have to make up such a story?”
“What reason, indeed? I shall set Elizabeth straight immediately.” Mrs. Putnam lifted the receiver on the telephone and pointed at the door. “You had best not be here for this. I wouldn’t want to put you in the middle of something that likely will turn a bit ugly.”