An original short story: Lessons by Patty Panni

 Matilda pasted on a smile as she rang the bell of the stately Boston brownstone. She’d taken care with her appearance, and she nervously tucked a stray hair into place as she surveyed her reflection in the glass side panel. There was an identical panel on the opposite side of the carved mahogany door.

She gripped her suitcase a bit tighter. It was taking a long time for someone to come to the door. Could she have the wrong address? She fished out a paper from her bag and compared it to the numbers mounted above the door. No, this was the right place. She was about to ring again when the door slowly opened and a petite elderly woman peered out.

“Mrs. Englebright?”

The woman nodded.

“I’m Matilda Byrne. The agency sent me?” Matilda had a bad habit of ending her sentences with questions, especially when she was uncomfortable.

“Oh yes, of course. Come in, please.”

As Matilda entered the home, she looked up. The ceiling was fifteen feet if it was an inch. To the right, a curved staircase led to a gallery on the second floor. The black and white tiles of the foyer extended into a parlor and, beyond it, she could see a conservatory with glass doors leading to the back garden.

Mrs. Englebright, who’d been silent as Matilda had taken in the house, said, “Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor where we can talk?” She led the way into the room, furnished in lovely shades of green and gold. They sat in matching wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Englebright reached up inside a fringed lampshade to switch on a light.

“There, that’s better. Now, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” Mrs. Englebright spoke with a decidedly Boston cadence, which made Matilda conscious of her own Irish accent.

Talking about herself was something Matilda particularly disliked, but it couldn’t be helped, so she plunged right in. “Well, I was born in Galway and immigrated with my parents in 1919. My mother was Mrs. Charles Reilly’s personal maid. She traveled with her and took care of her until my mother’s death in 1930. By then I was old enough to begin domestic service, and I worked for Mrs. Reilly until her death last year. After that I signed on with the agency to look for a new placement.” She took a deep breath and shifted in the chair. “I can do almost everything around the house: laundry, ironing, cleaning, serving. Even plain cooking in a pinch. I am a good seamstress and can tat lace – as long as the light is good.” Feeling she’d surely talked about herself enough, she abruptly stopped and waited for a reply.

“Can you read?”

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“Can you read?”

Matilda dropped her head. “No ma’am, I cannot read.”

“You’re hired,” Mrs. Englebright said, taking Matilda by surprise. “I’ll show you to your room. You can get settled in and then you’ll go down to the kitchen and meet Mrs. Doyle. She’s our cook. She’ll feed you supper, then you can get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start in the morning.” She rose to her feet and Matilda did the same.

Later that evening, Matilda sat in the kitchen with the chatty Mrs. Doyle as they ate stew and brown bread with butter. The modern gas stove warmed the kitchen even after the meal was finished.

“Mr. Doyle takes care of things around here – the gardening and the repairs and such. He was Mr. Englebright’s valet before his death, bless him. He’d like to still be doing that, but we couldn’t leave Mrs. Englebright. She’s a wonderful lady. Mr. Doyle has his supper early and then straight to bed, because he’s up well before dawn laying the fires and tryin’ to keep the poxy furnace from going out.” She arched an eyebrow toward Matilda and continued. “Before you, there was Mary Margaret. She was a fierce good worker, that girl. Kept things spotless. I hope you’ll do the same.”

“Where did she go?”

“She married a boy beyond in Waltham. Once she learned to read, she wanted to leave the life of service behind. She’s startin’ her training for clerical work and ‘tis only a stepmother would blame ‘er.”

Matilda didn’t have time to respond as Mrs. Doyle barely took a breath before continuing.

“That girl definitely has a grá for learnin’. It’s a nice boy she married, too. He’s a mechanic. Wants to own his own garage one day.”

“Mrs. Doyle,” Matilda said quickly, before she was off again.

“Yes, dearie?”

“You said Mary Margaret learned to read. How did she learn?”

“Why, Mrs. Englebright taught her. It’s something she does with all the help. She tried to teach me, bless her, but I just don’t have the time to spend on it. I know me numbers and can read a few words from the Bible, and tha’s plenty fer me.” She stood and began clearing the table. “She’ll be teachin’ you too; don’t ever doubt it.”

Mrs. Doyle’s heavy brogue and sprinkling of Irish words reminded Matilda of her mother, and it was all she could do not to hug the woman. Over protests, she helped Mrs. Doyle clear and wash, before heading to bed. She was exhausted and her head was spinning. She’d always dreamed of being able to read. Was it actually possible that Mrs. Englebright would open that door for her?

The next morning she was dressed and downstairs early. She had breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, then went into the parlor and began dusting. Mrs. Englebright descended the stairs and entered the room.

“Oh, good morning, ma’am. I’ll get out of your way.”

“Oh no, Matilda. We’ll do lessons from nine until ten-thirty every day. After that, you can attend to the housework.”

Matilda could scarcely believe her good fortune. She followed Mrs. Englebright into the conservatory, where a book and slate were on the table. They sat side by side.

“Now, we’ll begin with the alphabet. Once you’ve mastered that, we’ll progress to some easy stories. After that, we’ll enjoy those.” She indicated a short stack of books on a side table. “We’ll read ‘Emily of New Moon,’ ‘The Story of Dr. Dolittle,’ and my personal favorite, ‘The Magical Land of Noom.’” Her eyes twinkled as she took the piece of chalk and began making an A on the slate.

Matilda resolved to do her very best for Mrs. Englebright – both in schooling and housework – and she was a quick study. Evenings would find her bent over the slate, practicing her letters. She worked diligently on her penmanship, and she was soon able to take pen to paper. Sadly, she didn’t know anyone to write a letter to, but she continued her studies in earnest.

Then one morning Matilda waited for Mrs. Englebright to descend the curved staircase and join her in the conservatory, but she didn’t come. Matilda went to the kitchen to see Mrs. Doyle.

“Is Mrs. Englebright all right?”

“No, child, she is not. She was quite ill during the night. I was just about to take a tray to her.”

“Oh, please allow me.” Matilda stretched out her hands for the tray, which held a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, some cream, and a plate of dry toast.

“That’s fine. Now take care you don’t spill.”

Matilda knocked twice on Mrs. Englebright’s door and heard a faint “Come in.” She entered the dim room.

“Oh, Matilda. Thank you, my dear. Please set the tray here,” she waved her hand at the side table, “and sit with me for a while.”

“Of course, ma’am.” She poured a cup of tea and added a splash of cream, and offered it to Mrs. Englebright.

“Not just now, dear. I mainly just want a bit of company.” Mrs. Englebright smiled faintly at Matilda, but it was clear to see she wasn’t feeling well. “I wonder…”

“Ma’am?”

“I wonder if you might read to me a bit, Matilda. I think that might help me feel better.”

“With pleasure, ma’am. Shall I go downstairs for a book?”

“No. Look over there.” Mrs. Englebright pointed to a table across the room.

Matilda sat down with the book. “Gone With the Wind,” she read.

“Yes. It just came out last month. Please begin at the beginning,” she instructed.

Matilda opened to the first page and began reading. “It'll come to you, this love of the land. There's no getting away from it if you're Irish.”

From the first page, she was captivated as she read about the O’Hara family and the fine plantation they owned. She read page after page, until she looked up and saw Mrs. Englebright had fallen asleep. She tiptoed out of the room, leaving the book behind. As she completed her tasks around the house, the story stayed with her, and she wondered what would happen to the family, and especially to Scarlett, the headstrong daughter.

The doctor came the next morning. Before he left, he spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, Matilda standing nearby.

“She has a high fever and aching head. Her joints and muscles are stiff. You can give cold compresses for her head, and it may help to rub her legs. Keep her as comfortable as possible. Nothing heavy to eat. Tea and broth are best.”

“But what’s the matter with ‘er, Doctor?”

The doctor removed his wire glasses and sighed. “It could be several things, but it’s probably sleeping sickness.”

“Oh no! Me dear sister died from the sleeping sickness last year. Surely it’s not that.”

The doctor shook his head. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

After the doctor left, Mrs. Doyle and Matilda shared a cup of tea.

“We’ll take turns seeing to her,” Mrs. Doyle tearfully said. “And you can read to her; she enjoys that more than anything.”

Summer turned to fall, then winter, but Mrs. Englebright never left her bed. Matilda read to her every afternoon. Every evening, she and Mrs. Doyle fretted over what could be done to help their dear employer. The doctor still came, but only twice a week.

One day, Mrs. Englebright didn’t seem to recognize Matilda; then she smiled and said, “My dear Matilda. Promise me you’ll keep reading after I’m gone.”

Swallowing hard, Matilda said, “I promise, dear ma’am. And I thank you for teaching me. It’s meant the world.” Brushing away a tear, she said, “Would you like me to read now?”

“No, not just now. I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep a while.”

Mrs. Englebright passed away in the night. Matilda heard Mrs. Doyle’s scream early that morning and she knew. She said a quick prayer as she made the sign of the cross.