Kissed at Midnight

Kissed At Midnight

Samantha Holt

Copyright 2015 ©Samantha
Holt

All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews.

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

Manchester,
England 1844

Perhaps it was Ivy’s imagination but the impressive brass
knocker on the shiny black door was certainly smirking at her. The lion had an
air of derision to him. Instead of looking aggressive, he seemed to be lifting
his jowls in a certain dismissive manner.

Braving the lion’s disdain,
she reached for the knocker and rapped it again. Ivy reminded herself to breathe
properly. Her singing teacher’s voice rang in her mind.
Breathe from
stomach. Let your ribs expand.

That was all very well but
when she was cinched into a tight corset, her ribs had nowhere to expand to. It
didn’t help her heart was racing like a train and that snooty lion was staring
her down.

You don’t belong here
, he
said. She glanced up and down the affluent street of houses. All made of cream
stone, all mirror images of one another, the houses stretched out in one long
curving row. While no ladies or lords would live here, only the very wealthy
could afford to. Merchants, lawyers... that sort. Ivy Davis certainly didn’t
belong here—not now she had not a penny to her name.

She tapped her foot
impatiently and leaned over the railing of the steps to peer into the lower
window. Were they not in? The advertisement had certainly said to call at two
0’clock, yet no one else was here. She would have assumed governesses would be
queuing around the corner to work for a family in this area of Manchester. They
certainly offered an excellent rate of pay. Still, at least if she had no competition,
she might have more chance of getting the job.

That’s if they didn’t take
one look at her and realise she was hardly suited to looking after a stray cat,
let alone children. Her experience with them was virtually nothing—with
the exception of having played with some of her younger cousins at her parents’
home in Surrey and Mrs Locke’s children.

Ivy straightened when a
noise broke the sounds of the street. The rattle of carriages and the soft
greetings of the well-to-do neighbours as they strolled past one another was
shattered suddenly. She frowned. A wail. It sounded like a wail. The
Wellingbournes made no mention of a baby in their advert. The children were six
and nine. Old enough, Ivy had decided, to be looked after by a governess with
no experience whatsoever.

Her heart jumped into her
throat and she mustered her coolest, most governess-like look as the door drew
open. Stern, shrewd, stiff-backed. At least that was how she remembered her
governesses. She wasn’t nearly pinched-faced enough nor did she have the bony
figures she recalled all those women possessing. Was it a requirement of a
governess perhaps?
A governess must always look as though she has just
sucked a lemon and exists on nothing but air and her charge’s complete
obedience.

A grin reached Ivy’s face
before she had a chance to stop it and, when the door swung open, she realised
she was beaming at the harassed-looking gentleman standing in the doorway. His
scowl made her grin vanish.

Heat crawled up her neck,
and she counted her blessings for her almost swarthy complexion. Gathering her
wits, Ivy perfected her best governess look once more.

“Good d—”

“Yes?” the gentleman barked.
“What can I do for you?”

A cry drew Ivy’s attention
to the child in his arms. She hadn’t noticed it before, simply because the man
holding it was quite impressive—even if he was scowling at her.

A strong jaw, thick dark
brown hair, neatly cut but a little dishevelled, and shrewd blue eyes. His nose
had a slight bump in the bridge. Had he been smiling at her, she might not have
found him intimidating at all, but as it was, not even the chubby baby in his
arms could soften the austere look to him. Apparently the lion door knocker
took after its owner.

“F-forgive me...” She
glanced at the baby as it snatched the gentleman’s lapel and began trying to
suck on it. The beautifully cut jacket was going to be covered in baby spit
before long. Ivy tried not to grimace. She forced her attention back to the
gentleman. “My name is Ivy Davis, sir. I am here about the governess position.”

His dark brows furrowed so
deeply they nearly met one another, and he began patting the baby’s back as it
wriggled in his hold. Small sounds started coming from the child and they were
almost certainly sounds of discontent. Before long it would be a full-on
crescendo and Ivy was not sure she wanted to witness that, having already heard
some of what she assumed was the baby’s wails.

“Governess position?”

“Y-yes.” She lifted the purse
on her wrist and thrust a hand into it to draw out the advert. Perhaps this man
was the butler and he had no clue as to his master or mistress advertising for
one.

Though she had never seen a
butler holding a baby or wearing such fine garments.

Ivy knew clothing and
materials well, and this man was well-dressed indeed. She unfolded the paper and
read aloud, “‘Position open for a governess. One boy and one girl. Six and nine.
References essential. Interviews taking place at 2 o’clock on the
twenty-seventh of September. Number eighteen, Elm Tree Road.’”

The gentleman’s scowl
deepened. Ivy gulped.

“Elm Tree Road,” he said
slowly, a definite hint of annoyance in his voice, “is on the other side of
town. This is Elm Street.”

Ivy lifted a hand to her
mouth. “Oh no...” She would never make it across town in time and she barely
had enough money to afford another carriage. “Forgive me for—”

Her apologies were cut short
as the baby let up a cry so shrill Ivy thought it likely it might shatter all
the glass in every house on the street. She winced while the baby’s face grew
red and its arms began to flail. The gentleman’s jaw tightened and he jerked
his head away to avoid being slapped by one chubby fist.

The heat in Ivy’s cheeks
grew, making her feel as though she had stuck her face in a fire. “I am sorry,
I will just...” She went to turn on the step but he called to her.

“Wait.” He spoke loudly to
cover the sounds of the child’s cries. “Did you say governess?”

“Yes,” she replied at the
top of her voice.

“Will you come in for a
moment?” he bellowed.

Ivy darted a look about the
street. She had nowhere to go now but what did he want with her?  She eyed the
wide breadth of his shoulders and assessed his height. He was a good head
taller than her and certainly strong. But with a squalling child in his arms,
what could he do? Besides, this was not Northside, where her lodgings were.
Gentleman didn’t accost women here, surely? She would be safer in this man’s
house than in her own shabby room in Mrs Hartledge’s boarding house.

She stepped in and the
gentleman closed the door behind her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the
dim hallway. A lamp was lit on the console table but the austere red wallpaper
absorbed any light, and the three doors to the adjoining rooms were shut,
allowing no light in.

“Will you just...?” he began
handing her the child before she had a chance to realise what he was asking.
She found herself holding a wriggling, red-faced baby under its armpits.

“She’s hungry,” he said, his
stern expression turning suddenly bashful.

There, in the darkened
hallway, Ivy waited while he hastened away to another room. She held the child
out at arm’s length and stared at her. What to do? She swallowed and glanced
around. Who was this man and where was this child’s mother or nursemaid? She listened
out for sounds of other members of the household, but it was hard to tell if
anyone else occupied the house over the child’s high-pitched cries.

“Shhh...” she soothed
ineffectually. “Shhh, please,” she tried.

When reasoning with the baby
didn’t work, she drew the warm bundle against her chest and experimented with
settling her against her shoulder. Tiny fingers curled around her jacket and
gripped tight. On instinct, Ivy started swaying from side to side. Oh, where
was that man? If he didn’t hurry up, she feared the child would explode from
crying and Ivy might want to join her before long.

“Shhh, little one,” she said
in a sing-songy voice. A tiny break in the noise made Ivy’s heart bound so she
tried again in the same voice. “Be quiet, little one. That’s right. No need to
fuss.” Encouraged by the decreasing noise, Ivy continued babbling to the child
whilst rocking from side to side.

“Your father better hurry up
or we shall both end up seasick,” she said to the child, whose noises had
dampened to quiet burbles of discontent.

“I’m not her father.”

Ivy jolted as the gentleman
appeared in front of her. But she didn’t have time to get over her surprise. He
took the baby from her, his fingers brushing the lapels of her dark green
jacket. The material was thick and she shouldn’t have been able to feel much of
anything, yet it felt as though that brief touch had left imprints on her skin.

“Elsie is my cousin’s
daughter. My cousin died of consumption a month ago and I’m her guardian,” he
explained as he settled the child in his arms and brought up a bottle to its mouth.
Elsie latched on easily and the world was silent once more.

Ivy forced her jaw shut and
tried to focus on something other than the way his brief touch had stirred
something inside her and how extraordinarily attractive his mouth was when he spoke.

“Won’t you come in?” He
somehow positioned Elsie in one strong-looking arm and pushed open a door.

“Um... yes.”

Ivy swept past him into what
turned out to be the drawing room. Here the wide bay window let in much light
and the furnishings were less severe too. Everything screamed bachelor
gentleman though, from the dark wood drinks cabinet in one corner to the lack
of flowers or pretty pictures. The wallpaper was red here too though threads of
gold damask broke the strong colour.

“Please sit. I’ll ring for
tea.”

Purse clutched in both
hands, Ivy sat and peered up at the gentleman. He had some staff then, she
thought, as he pulled the rope. These houses were not large enough to justify
many staff, but where was the butler or nursemaid? Why was he nursing the child
himself? He turned to face her, adjusted his hold on the baby and her stomach
did a flip at the sight.

Ivy didn’t think she had
ever seen a man with a child. Her father had never been hands on with her or
her sister—few men were. Yet the sight of the tiny baby settled into the crook
of this man’s arms did strange things to her insides.

She dragged her gaze up and
twisted the string of her purse around her finger over and over. Ivy swallowed.
Why did he not sit? Why was he looking at her so? A furrow was back on his brow
and his deep blue eyes bore into her as though he was trying to make out a
puzzle. Oh, how uncomfortable this was.

“Sir...” she said
experimentally. Her voice came no stronger than a mouse’s squeak.

Focus came back to his
expression and his shoulders straightened. “Forgive me. August Avery, at your
service.”

“Miss Ivy Davis,” she
replied automatically, startled by her breathy tone and his suddenly prim
manner.

Mr Avery strode over to the
chair opposite the fire—his chair no doubt as it was a huge wing-backed
monstrosity with red velvet tufting—and sat. Elsie, she noted, had settled
quite happily in his arms and, though her mouth made little sucking movements,
she didn’t appear to be feeding anymore. Ivy’s heart stretched a little more. Poor
thing, losing her mother at such a young age.

But where was the father?
And why was Mr Avery looking after her all alone? In spite of the way the baby
appeared quite content, the harassed expression she had seen on his face when
he had opened the door told her he was hardly a natural at looking after a
child. She had to assume he wasn’t married or else his wife would be feeding
Elsie.

“What... what can I do for
you, Mr Avery?”

“You said you were looking
for a job as a governess?”

“Well, yes...” Needs must,
she reminded herself. It was hardly her dream job, but her dream seemed so very
far away at the moment, and one could not live off dreams alone. She needed
money and a safe place to live ideally. A governess’s job would give her just
that while she worked on becoming a singer.

“I’ve been meaning to put
out an advertisement in the newspaper but have not yet had the chance. I need
someone to look after Elsie. I’m assuming you have references.”

“I...yes, but—”

“What was this family in Elm
Tree Road offering?”

She felt a little like she
was at an inquisition, powerless to do anything other than answer his
questions. Yet she did not want a job as a nursemaid, did she? She was hardly
fit for a governess’s position. Her experience was virtually nothing and her
only reference was from Mrs Locke from the theatre whose children she had
looked after when she had to work late at night.

Nevertheless, she replied,
“Twenty-five pounds a year.”

“I’ll give you thirty
pounds.”

“Mr Avery,” she protested.