One Lamp Stayed Lit Until the Late Roses Bloomed

Chapter 2: The Staff Account

The doctor called two days later with my blood work.

My iron was low. My thyroid was fine. The circulation problem had a name, Raynaud's, and a treatment plan that sounded simple until I looked at my bank account. Warm gloves. Avoiding cold exposure. Medication if the symptoms got worse. A follow-up appointment in six weeks.

I had enough money for the gloves or the appointment, not both.

The estate office occupied a narrow wing behind the kitchen. I went there after lunch with my pay statement and the clinic receipt in my coat pocket. The staff account line showed a deduction for medical coverage, though no one had ever given me a card.

Mrs. Bell sat at the desk, her silver hair pinned into a tidy knot.

"I need to ask about this deduction," I said.

She took the statement from me. "That is part of your benefits package."

"What benefits?"

"Your clinic account."

"I went to the clinic. They had no record of me."

Mrs. Bell slid the paper back across the desk. "You may have used the wrong name."

"My name is printed on the statement."

"I can check with payroll."

"Could you do that today?"

She glanced toward the door behind her. "Mr. Ashcombe is out."

"Julian?"

"Mr. Ashcombe senior."

The senior Ashcombe was Julian's father, who had spent most of the last year at a second house on the coast. I had met him twice. Both times he had spoken to me as though I were a decorative object that had started talking.

"I didn't ask for him," I said. "I asked you."

Mrs. Bell folded her hands. "I can't release payroll records without authorization."

"Can I see the details of my own pay?"

"Not without authorization."

I took my statement and left before my voice could break.

In the kitchen, I found Julian pouring coffee into a travel mug. He had his coat on and his car keys in his hand.

"Did you know the estate is deducting for a medical account I don't have?"

His eyebrows drew together. "What?"

I handed him the statement.

He read it, his jaw tightening as his eyes moved down the page. I looked at his face instead of the paper. "Is it real?"

"I don't know."

"I've been asking you for help for months."

"You asked me for two dollars."

"Because I needed to get to a clinic."

"I gave it to you."

"Yes. A whole five dollars."

He put the statement on the counter. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know what you meant. You thought I was asking because I couldn't manage my money."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to."

He picked up the paper again. "This deduction is wrong. I'll find out what happened."

"How?"

"By asking the people responsible."

"I already did. They said they need your father's authorization."

"Then I'll ask him."

I laughed once, without humor. "He's not here."

"He'll be back tomorrow."

"I've been waiting since October."

"Then keep waiting one more day."

I took the statement back. "I need the money for my follow-up appointment."

"I'll cover it."

"That's not the same as getting paid what I earned."

"No, it isn't. But it gets you to the doctor."

I looked at him, searching for the trap. "If you pay, will I owe you?"

"No."

"Will you tell your father?"

"Yes."

"Then it isn't a gift."

He was quiet. I could hear the coffee machine clicking behind him.

"You're right," he said at last. "It's not a gift. It's a loan from me, and I'll write that down."

The answer surprised me enough that I didn't know what to say.

Julian found a notepad and wrote the amount, the date, and the words no interest, no repayment deadline. He signed it and handed it over.

I put it in my pocket. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet."

I hadn't.

When I returned to the greenhouse, I found a work order clipped to the door. The boiler was marked for inspection the following morning. The form was dated two weeks earlier.

I took a photo of it and added it to my notebook.

A second paper lay beneath it, a printed spreadsheet with the winter garden's maintenance budget. Three thousand dollars had been marked as spent on heating repairs. I had seen no repairs. The greenhouse pipes were still cold.

I heard a step behind me.

"That's not for you," said Peter Lyle, the estate manager.

"It's in the greenhouse."

"You shouldn't be handling budgets."

"I'm the one working in the greenhouse."

He took the sheet from my hand. "This is an internal document."

"I didn't steal it. It was on my door."

"Then forget you saw it."

"Where did the three thousand dollars go?"

Peter's mouth tightened. "That isn't your concern."

"It becomes my concern when the heater is broken and the repairs are paid for."

"I'll take care of it."

"You've been saying that for months."

"Your job is plants, Clara. Not the estate's accounts."

I had learned long ago that arguing with Peter gave him a reason to call me emotional. I put my notebook in my pocket and kept my voice even.

"My job is to keep the plants alive. I need heat to do that."

He stepped closer. I could smell the mint on his breath. "The Ashcombes have been generous to you. Don't confuse that with a right to their business."

He went back toward the house.

That evening, the greenhouse lamp flickered twice, then stayed on. I stood beneath it, holding the clinic receipt and the work order together in my cold hands.

On one sheet, the estate said it had paid for heat.

On the other, it promised to fix the boiler.

I did not yet know which lie mattered more.