Kissed at Midnight

by Holt, Samantha

  The child glared at her—if that was possible—and her face began to crumble. Her mouth opened.

  “Oh dear, please don’t,” Ivy begged, aware of what came next.

  A great cry tore from the infant and Ivy was acutely conscious of several people looking her way as though she had done something hideous to the child. Ivy frantically broke off another piece of crumpet, but that was flung out of the side of the pram.

  “Very well then, you do not like crumpets. Though I must say, I think you’re quite mad,” Ivy said in a sing-song voice, but it failed to break through the cries that were increasing in volume.

  There was nothing for it. Ivy would have to return to the Elm Street house—with haste. Handing the rest of the crumpet to Elsie in one last attempt to appease her, she discarded the wrapper in a nearby bin and gave a sigh at the sight of crumbs being flung from the pram. Could the child’s face get any redder or her screams any louder?

  As Ivy pushed Elsie along the pavement as quickly as she could manage, they drew looks of disapproval. Her mother would be one of them had she been there. Children should be seen and not heard. What a disappointment Ivy must have been to her when she spent all her childhood singing.

  Out of breath, she rounded the corner of Elm Street and tried not to curse at the house appearing so far away. The rows of cream houses appeared endless, and she might as well have a mountain to climb.

  “Hush, little one,” she begged, but Elsie was having none of it. She was determined to shatter the glass in every window of every house they passed and garner annoyance from every passer-by. Somehow over the din of Elsie’s cries she was still able to make out mutters of disapproval. Could she not control her child? She should not be out with her. What has she done to the poor dear?

  By the time she reached the house, she felt as red-faced as Elsie and on the verge of letting out a scream herself. She took Elsie from the pram and a greasy hand found its way into her curls and began tugging at her hair. Her hat fell from her head but Ivy was forced to ignore it in favour of heaving the pram up the steps, babe in hand.

  She opened the door with difficulty and abandoned the awful contraption in the hallway before hastening upstairs. If Mrs Cartwright or Mr Avery heard Elsie’s screams, she would surely lose her job. Ivy had never heard the likes of it.

  She released a slow breath once they reached the nursery. It was not over yet. Elsie’s face remained scrunched and angry, but they were home and away from the stern looks.

  Putting the child on the mat on top of the changing table, she put her hands to her hips and eyed the angry infant.

  “Whatever is wrong with you?” Ivy wrinkled her nose and nodded. “I think I have an idea.”

  She urged the child down and lifted her gown and the stench grew stronger. She had already cleaned Elsie up several times the day before but from the sight of this... She shuddered and forced herself to breathe through her mouth. It took quite the battle to get the child clean and to pin fresh linen around her. Elsie seemed to take great pleasure in rolling onto her front and beating her fists in annoyance.

  When Ivy finally had Elsie clean, she was about ready to collapse to the ground and beat her owns fists. Her hair had come free and spilled over her eyes. She blew a strand out of her face and lifted the child into her arms. Great gulping sobs still came from the child.

  “What would you have me do? Leave you in such a state?” she asked as she held the child against her chest.

  She rocked back and forth and hummed a made-up tune. Just as the baby began to calm, Ivy felt her body stiffen against her. A burping sound came from the little thing and then...

  Ivy’s shoulders dropped as something wet and warm spilled across her chest and down the front of her gown. Tears bit at her eyes as the child, clearly disturbed by the experience, began to cry in earnest again.

  “Do not cry or you’ll make me cry,” Ivy begged as she reached for a clean cloth to wipe away the mess from her gown.

  “Is all well?”

  Ivy spun to find Mr Avery standing in the doorway. His necktie was loose and signs of his night of indulgence sat under his eyes. But other than that, he looked perfectly refined and elegant. Whereas she likely looked a disaster with her hair spilling from her head and with vomit down her chest.

  Drawing her shoulders straight, she offered her master a serene smile while patting the child’s back. “Of course, sir. Everything is just perfect,” she said over the child’s cries.

  A knowing smile broke across his face. It shocked her so much that she nearly stumbled back. Their gazes met and understanding rocked between them. He had been in her very shoes. She would not admit she was struggling though. Ivy Davis never gave up. She hadn’t given up her dream of singing and she certainly wouldn’t let a tiny baby get the better of her.

  “Just perfect,” she told him again. She needed this job and nothing would spoil that. Not even the effect Mr Avery’s smile had on her.

  Chapter Six

  The carriage drew up at the entrance to the tunnel. Piles of stone and rubble marked the entrance. Wooden jousts supported the great hole in the hillside. Wagons and a wooden hut sat in the mud in front of the tunnel. August climbed out of the carriage and put on his hat before straightening his waistcoat.

  Apprehension hummed through him. Though this time it was not anxiousness over the tunnel that caused it. It was Miss Davis. He prayed she managed on her own today. She had seemed a might ruffled yesterday.

  A smile twitched on his lips as he recalled the curls spilling over her face and her flushed cheeks. Unfortunately he too had suffered a few days like that with Elsie, where the child seemed to want to do everything possible to make his life hell. He supposed he had eventually come to grips with it but it mattered little. A child needed a woman’s touch and he had to work. Regardless of whether he had proved himself capable or not, he needed Miss Davis.

  She would be just fine, he assured himself, as he took a moment to study the Pennine hills. Pride made his chest swell. They said it couldn’t be done, that the tunnel was too big an undertaking, but here they were likely only four months or so away from completion. They were now putting in the brickwork and the ends of the tunnel had met with mere inches in error.

  August strode down the muddy hill to the wooden shack where he found one of the foremen. Mr Phillips greeted him genially and expressed pleasure at seeing him on site. August didn’t need to visit the site regularly but he still did so. He was reluctant to leave it totally in the hands of the foremen in spite of the knowledge they were smart men who would follow his plans to the letter.

  “Are we still likely to open as planned?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr Phillips nodded and offered August a cup of tea. August took the cup but knew the drink would be weak and tasteless. The facilities for making tea were not the best and the tea leaves had likely been used over and over.

  The wooden hut smelled of damp and was lit with only two lamps. The whole site had been plagued with water and the workers had spent many, many months working in deep water. He was grateful the hardest tasks were behind them. A few men had been killed with collapses and explosions, and the water hindered their progress. Still, they were making good progress now.

  People often doubted his visions. Too young, they said, too progressive. But he understood modern steam trains better than the men who had been working with less powerful engines. They still did not grasp what they were capable of and would choose to navigate around hills and obstacles rather than risk pushing a train up an incline.

  August sipped the weak tea. “Any further collapses?”

  “We had some brickwork come down a few days ago. No accidents and it didn’t set us back by much.”

  August nodded. “I’ll go and take a look myself. Thank you, Mr Phillips.” He placed his unfinished tea on the table and ducked out of the cabin.

  He spent a good two hours inspecting progress and speaking with some of the navvies. The workers were rough, hard-workin
g fellows and most found them too coarse but August enjoyed their ribald sense of humour. He didn’t even take offense when they referred to him as a toff. He’d come from a relatively privileged background and amassed quite a bit of wealth for his age, but he refused to forget who lost lives for his vision. Being a navvie was one of the most dangerous professions of their time, such was the cost of progress.

  When he’d finished his inspection, he paused to eye the front of the tunnel. The stonework at the front would go up later on in the year. He had a castellation effect in mind. He imagined the trains rocketing past, their steam billowing from their funnels, the sound of the wheels on the track and the hiss of water in the tenders.

  There was nothing like the sight of these great beasts cutting their way through the countryside. They were the future for Britain. With the growth of the railways, people from all walks of life would be able to travel and industry could grow. August looked forward to seeing the day when distance really was no object.

  By the time he was back in the carriage and returning to Manchester, it was late afternoon and his stomach rumbled. He had missed lunch, not even getting the chance to eat with the workers. He peered out at the rolling hills and recalled his quiet morning meal. Should he ask Miss Davis to join him with Elsie? He had grown used to having the child on his lap while he fought to eat. She liked to snatch what she could off his plate and that had become how they’d discovered what foods she liked and could manage.

  August scowled at the scenery. It was not really done, perhaps, eating with the help, but since the arrival of Elsie—and Miss Davis, he supposed—he’d become acutely aware of being alone.

  Before Elsie, he’d used the time to work or think about any problems he was likely to encounter. Now, with the child in Miss Davis’s care, he spent mealtimes wondering what they were doing. Did Miss Davis smile at Elsie? Did she sing to her? Did her eyes turn bright as they so often seemed to?

  The rise of smokestacks and rows of houses came into view and August found himself anxious to return home. He squeezed his hand tight around the edge of the carriage window. They were fine, he assured himself. Mrs Cartwright was there and Tilly was not a daft girl. Unfortunately it was in his nature not to trust anyone to do things as he would. He hoped she had put Elsie down for a nap after lunch and remembered not to give her too much milk so the child was hungry enough for supper.

  The carriage drew up in front of his house and he noted the gentle glow from the drawing room window. She was in there then. He stepped out and glanced at the darkening skies. The days would grow longer soon enough for which he would be grateful. Returning to a semi-dark house always filled him with dread. Jamieson could rarely be counted on to ensure the lamps were burning upon his return.

  August opened the door cautiously and paused to listen for telltale screams—from either female. But neither Elsie nor Miss Davis was screaming. In fact, the house was deathly quiet. Unease dripped into his gut. He pressed open the door to the drawing room and released a slow breath.

  Warmth replaced the unease and he couldn’t resist the twitching of his lips. Sprawled on his large wing-backed chair, Miss Davis slept. Her head rested against one of the velvet wings and one arm was draped over the side while Elsie slept on her chest, her head burrowed against the governess’s breast.

  He eyed Miss Davis’s parted lips and closed lashes. Her hair was loose again, several curls spilling down her neck and dashing across her chest. Like melted chocolate, they were a waterfall of beautiful colour against the purple of her dress. A dress that was created of fine fabric. Exactly who was this governess of his?

  Reluctant to disturb them but noticing the cup that hung loosely from one of Miss Davis’s fingers, he snatched it up. He winced at the s0und of rattling china on the table but neither child nor woman stirred. They must have had an exhausting day.

  August’s gaze was snared by the discarded newspaper on the table. He recognised the picture well enough. It was the tunnel. He lifted the paper and skimmed the article, noting the mention of his name several times. She had been reading about him.

  He couldn’t help but draw up his chin. She was curious about him. He had to admit they knew little of each other but they were master and servant. Why would they need to know anything about one another? However, he was thankful she was just as curious about him as he was about her.

  Except they were at odds now, for she surely knew more of him. The deep, aching desire to find out more of her settled low in his stomach, and he flicked his gaze back to her face.

  He couldn’t deny it. He longed to know everything about the beautiful, vibrant woman he had hired to look after his charge. And the dragging sensation in his gut told him he wanted to know more than he really should. Like how would she sound when he pressed his lips to her skin? And exactly what did those plump lips taste like?

  August snapped his gaze away. He had promised her he wouldn’t touch her and he was a man of honour. He would never break that promise, no matter the cost.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning had gone relatively smoothly compared to the previous days, Ivy was pleased to note. There had been no vomiting incidents, and neither she nor Elsie had completely broken down. Exhaustion still encroached on her vision, but their nap yesterday had revived her somewhat. If she could travel to London and then Manchester alone and live in some of the roughest parts of the city, she could certainly handle anything this eight-month-old threw at her.

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs, having intended to change Elsie before taking a stroll again, when a knock rattled the door. She peered around and knew Jamieson was still in the kitchen and was likely to take a good half an hour to reach the door, so she opened it herself. Before she had a chance to offer a greeting or a query, the woman on the doorstep swept in.

  With a red feathered hat and large skirts, the woman filled most of the hallway. Ivy was forced to press herself against the console table and nearly knocked a vase from it. Elsie let out a grunt and shoved a fist in her mouth—her typical greeting it seemed. Ivy felt the need to let out a similar noise of dissatisfaction.

  “Can I help you?” Ivy had to dip slightly to get a view of the woman under the wide brim of her hat.

  The woman, who appeared several years older than she, was attractive in a slightly masculine way. Her jaw was strong and her nose straight, but she had long lashes and elegant red hair. It did not particularly match her garments but if she was trying to appear striking, it certainly worked. Ivy imagined if such a woman wanted to be on stage, she would succeed in garnering attention with ease.

  The red lady’s gaze swept over her dismissively, barely acknowledging the child in her arms. “Where is Mr Avery?”

  “He is out at present.” Ivy couldn’t say where. He had left before she had even seen him that morning. It seemed Mr Avery either went out to work or shut himself away in his office. Whether he did anything else, she didn’t know, but she suspected not. He had stayed true to his promise not to drink again or to touch her. The teasing thought that she might miss that touch flitted through her mind and she shoved it aside. It was entirely inappropriate.

  “Who are you?” The words were sour, as if the lady had just sucked a lemon.

  Ivy had to mask a smile. Now this woman would make a fine governess with her pursed lips and disapproving expression.

  “I am Miss Ivy Davis,” she offered, aware she wasn’t fully answering her question.

  The woman’s eyes grew steely. “You are a relation? His cousin from America perhaps?”

  Ivy had little idea who this cousin was. Mr Avery had made no mention of relatives in America but then he had told her little. Most of what she knew of him had been garnered from the newspaper and the few titbits Jamieson shared with her. Mrs Cartwright could be counted on to stay entirely silent on the matter of her master.

  “No, I am not.”

  The woman’s gaze finally fell on the child. “A nursemaid?”

  “A governes
s.”

  A sharp, ugly smile stretched the woman’s lips. “Indeed. And pray tell what a governess is doing looking after an infant?”

  She bristled at this. Who was this woman and why was she questioning her role? “Forgive me, but who can I say called? I must see to Elsie.”

  “Mrs Pepperwhite. I live next door. I have been taking an interest in Elsie here. It isn’t right, a man looking after a child on his own.” She fished into a tasselled purse the same shade of her dress and handed her a calling card.

  Ivy bit back a retort, desperate to remind the woman Mr Avery wasn’t looking after the baby alone and from what little she knew, Mr Avery had done a fine job on his own. Elsie appeared well looked after and Jamieson had said Mr Avery had a great deal of patience with the child.

  “I shall be sure to let him know you called,” she said instead.

  Gaze narrow, Mrs Pepperwhite nodded briskly, but Ivy could tell she longed to stay and perhaps press Ivy for more information about her role. Or perhaps she didn’t like being dismissed by a mere governess. Either way, there was something about the neighbour that made her innately uncomfortable. She claimed to be interested in Elsie’s welfare yet had barely glanced at her.

  Maybe it was Mr Avery that truly claimed her attention. He was handsome after all.

  For all she knew he even enjoyed her company. Was she a widow? Or were they having an affair? Oh dear. Ivy put a stop to the thoughts before she conjured up some fanciful tale and instead summoned a brilliant smile.

  “I must get on. Good day, Mrs Pepperwhite.”

  She didn’t miss the slight huff as the woman left nor did she prevent her smile from turning triumphant. Whoever the woman was, Ivy did not like her one bit. If her hands had been free, she would have opened the door to add emphasis to the dismissal but, as it was, the woman conceded defeat and left. The door shut with a dramatic slam that made the oil paintings rattle on the picture rail of the hall.

  “What an unpleasant woman,” she said to Elsie who sucked on the lapel of her shirt. Ivy grinned. “And I see you agree.”