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.
Chapter One
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 ar
ound. 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.
“Thirty-five then. With room and board. That is more than fair.”
Ivy swallowed. Thirty-five pounds was more money than she could have possibly hoped for. The chances were the family on Elm Tree would have taken one look at her references and chosen someone with much more experience. And governess jobs were in high demand. Where else could fairly respectable women work? After a year of trying to carve a career as a singer, she was down to pennies. Of course not, being able to—
“Well?”
“I’m a governess, Mr Avery,” she said softly. Well, sort of. “Not a nursemaid.”
“Do you want the job or not?”
Ivy ran her gaze over the handsome gentleman in front of her. If she didn’t find what her parents would call a proper job, she would be out on the streets. Her landlady was already demanding this week’s rent and she had no food and few belongings left to pawn.
And she could not go back to her family home. She simply could not. They would be thrilled to see her dreams had come to nothing. And Mother would dig out the nearest old, crusty, wealthy man she could find and have her married off before she had even put a foot on the doorstep.
“I do,” she said huskily. His brash stare made her feel like shrinking into herself while her body tingled with awareness.
Mr Avery might be handsome but he appeared to be quite the commanding man too. She hoped they didn’t clash. Ivy never did take well to people telling her what to do. It was exactly why she had run away to London to pursue a singing career. He would not be around much surely? He hadn’t said what he did but to live in such an area and dress as he did, he had to be wealthy. A shipping merchant perhaps. Or a mill owner.
The door to the drawing room opened and the frailest looking excuse for a footman entered. Ivy clutched her purse to fight the urge to jump up and snatch the tray from his shaky hands. It seemed to take an eternity for him to bring the tray over to the table in the centre of the room and, when he bent, Ivy was sure she heard his bones creak and click.
“Thank you, Jamieson,” August said. “Will you see if Mrs Cartwright would be so kind as to put Elsie to bed now? I’m sure the child will cause no more fuss.”
“Of course, sir,” the old man responded in a voice that sounded as frail as he appeared.
They both watched the footman retreat, and she let out a breath when the door slowly shut, half-relieved the man hadn’t dropped dead in front of her.
“Jamieson has been with me for many years and
served my father before me,” Mr Avery explained. “It would be a darn sight quicker to do everything myself or replace him, but the old fool would probably keel over if I suggested he retired.”
“I see. Well, that’s very... kind of you to keep him on,” she said diplomatically. Mr Avery certainly spoke with directness. Ivy might have appreciated it had she known him better. After all, she rarely thought before she spoke.
“The only other members of staff are Mrs Cartwright, the housekeeper, and Tilly, the maid. With just me, there’s no sense in keeping a large household, and I travel around England a lot.” He clasped his hands together. “So, you said you have references?”
“Oh, yes.”
She gulped and drew them out of her purse. She only hoped Mrs Locke’s words were worth more than that of Bobby, the innkeeper, with whom she had worked a few times when in need of money.
He took the letters from her, the baby still held firmly in one arm, and flicked them open with a deft hand. She observed as he scanned the letters, far too quickly to be reading them properly, she suspected.
Why was he not married? He had to be thirty and though he seemed a little abrupt, he wasn’t rude. What was a little abruptness when faced with a handsome, rich man? He certainly appealed more than any of the decrepit old suitors Mother had lined up for her. Most of them made Jamieson look as sprightly as a newborn lamb and ten times more appealing.
“Your experience is limited,” he mused.
Her heart sank. “It is. But I am a hard worker and I’m well-educated.”
Mr Avery pressed a finger to his lips and met her gaze. “I consider myself a good judge of character,” he said, casting the letters aside. “I hope you will not repay my trust with dishonesty.”
“I can have the job then?”
He nodded sharply. “Yes.”
“Oh, thank you.” Relief washed through her. She would have a nice, safe place to live. Warmth, food, employment. It was more than she’d had in a year. She beamed at him. “Thank you so much, sir. I promise you will not regret your decision.”
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