Kissed at Midnight (5 page)

“Leave her there. Time on
the floor is good for her. As long as you don’t let her near the fireplace.”

“I would never let her near
the fire!”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but
what I mean is near the unlit fire. She likes to steal the coals and stick them
in her mouth.”

August recalled the moment
he had discovered that when he had taken his gaze off her for all of one minute
only to turn and find her mouth and face black like a chimney sweep, and her
pristine white gown covered in smears of coal dust. He hadn’t learned either.
It had happened several times before he had figured out he needed to keep a
close eye on her even when around the fire.

“You could get a fireguard,
sir. Some go all the way around.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying
not to take insult at the woman’s words. He was hoping not to have to change
everything about his home for the baby. She would grow out of it before long
surely?

“I have one. It just hasn’t
been brought out because the weather isn’t cold enough for a lit fire down here
yet.” Hands clasped behind his back, he cleared his throat again. “How are
things... erm, how are you settling in?”

“Very well, sir.” Miss Davis
cast her gaze down, fanning her lashes against her cheek. They were the same chocolaty
colour as her hair and infinitely tempting as they dashed across her dark
complexion.

He tightened the clasp of
one hand on the other behind his back. “Good. Mrs Cartwright has shown you
around and made sure you have access to everything you need?”

“Yes, sir.”

Guilt jabbed him at having
dragged this poor woman into a job and leaving her on her own to find her feet
but then was he not paying her a generous amount?

However something about Ivy
Davis urged him to wrap his arms around her and shield her from the world. He
wasn’t sure she’d appreciate it. The few conversations they’d had, she appeared
to have a sort of self-assurance one didn’t see in many young women. She did
not preen or seem overly concerned with garnering his good opinion, in spite of
him being her employer.

“I, uh, must apologise for
last night. You understand that will not be a regular occurrence?”

“Oh, of course, sir. I was
sure you hardly knew what you were doing. I hope you will forgive my
impertinence of being in your bedroom.” A blush rose in her cheeks. “I did not
see much, I promise. I just wanted to ensure you were safely to bed.”

August found himself nearly
choking on a breath. “See much?”

Her lush mouth dropped open.
“You... you were undressing. I... oh dear. You were very drunk, sir. I don’t
think you realised who I was. I’m sure you wouldn’t have tried to... well... Oh
dear.” She pressed her lips together as if to stop the spilling of all these
words.

“Tried to what, Miss Davis?”
He perfected his most commanding glare. What the devil had he done last night?

That elegant throat worked.
“Well, you had a cut, sir. On your hand.” She pointed as though he’d forgotten
where his hands were.

He drew one out from behind
his back and inspected it. “Yes, I remember breaking the vase.”

“I wanted to make sure you
hadn’t hurt yourself too badly and you appeared to have fallen asleep so I sat
on the bed to inspect it but then you... oh, sir...” She put a hand to her
mouth and the colour that darkened her cheeks appeared to spread all over her
face.

What the bloody hell had he
done? And did she really have to speak that way?
Oh, sir.
Did she have
any idea how she sounded? Like a lover in the throes of passion, her breathy
response summoned up flashes of images he had no desire to imagine. It had been
too long. Since work had become so busy, he hadn’t been with a woman. How long
ago was that? Eight months? A year? No, longer.

Inwardly, he groaned. No
bloody wonder he was having inappropriate thoughts. Why, it was almost
excusable that he was wondering what her chocolate hair would look like when
pulled it out from those chaotic curls and around her bare shoulders. Over a
year was far too long for a man.

No, it wasn’t excusable. She
shifted as though she might be stepping from foot to foot under those
voluminous skirts.

“What did I do, Miss Davis?”
he asked tightly.

“It wasn’t much, sir. Just
you... you
nuzzled
me a little.”

“Nuzzled?”

“Around here...” She
fluttered hands up and down her person but he had a fine idea of where she
meant. “It was harmless. You didn’t know who I was. I should not have gone in
your room.”

Bugger it. He’d been
nuzzling her breasts. That was why he recalled the scent of her and the feel of
warm flesh against cotton. What was wrong with him? And here she was blaming
herself.

“You did absolutely nothing
wrong, Miss Davis, please let me assure you of that. And let me assure you of
this too—I will never allow it to happen again.”

August kept his back
straight and attempted a stern expression—an attempt to look respectful and
hopefully trustworthy. He certainly did not nuzzle unwilling women and definitely
not someone he employed—someone in a vulnerable position.

If he were a better man,
he’d release her from her role and send her away with a year’s pay. But he
wasn’t. He needed her. Without her, he’d have to search for a new nursemaid.
Governesses were easy enough to come by, nursemaids not so much. And few other
governesses would be willing to take on such a young charge. He simply couldn’t
afford to be away from the tunnel site much longer.

Miss Davis opened her mouth
to say something then clamped it shut.

“I will not touch you again,
Miss Davis, I swear it.”

She nodded slowly. He wasn’t
entirely sure she believed him.

“I swear it,” he said
firmly.

“Of course, sir.”

Blast, that breathy quality
was back in her voice. And now he would be recalling not only the way she spoke
but her singing voice too. It would be hard enough catching up on work with a
head thick from alcohol, but now he had to live with the shame of being an
utter cad and suffer her voice ringing around his head all day.

“What are your plans for the
day?”

“I-I’m not sure. I thought I
might take Elsie out for a walk.”

“A fine idea. The pram is in
the old outhouse.”

Miss Davis tucked her bottom
lip under her teeth. Further unwelcome sensation rolled through him and he forced
his gaze to the top of her head, eyeing one of those unruly curls. “I shall be
in my study for most of the day. Should you need anything, please ask Mrs
Cartwright. She knows Elsie’s routine well.”

“Yes, sir.”

He eyed her for far too long
before dipping his head and swivelling on a heel. August paused when she called
his name.

 “Yes, Miss Davis?”

“Do you... do you work from
home every day?”

“No. I am on site much of
the time.”

“Oh, I see.” A smile broke
her face. It spoke of relief.

She was relieved he wouldn’t
be around. Dash it all, he really had scared the woman. But did it matter what
she thought of him? Yes, he didn’t want her fearful of him, but she could do
much worse than have him for an employer. There were many men who would see her
as a fine opportunity for an affair. They would not hesitate to try to bed the
exotic Ivy Davis.

Before he could ponder if
any man had tried or even succeeded, he offered her a curt nod.

“Have a good day, Miss
Davis.”

“And you, Mr Avery,” she
said to his back as he strode out.

Drawing the door shut, he
tugged at his necktie and willed the heat inside him to disperse. Having Miss
Davis in his house was meant to save his sanity and allow him to concentrate on
his work, but he wasn’t at all sure she would help rather than hinder.

The governess was far too
distracting.

Ivy had never been very good at driving carriages.
Apparently her lack of skill crossed over to pushing prams too. She cursed
quietly to herself while she attempted to manoeuvre the pram over the rise of
the pavement. Elsie smiled at her and stuffed a fist in her mouth, apparently
unaware of Ivy’s ineptness.

Ivy was just grateful the
infant decided to be quiet. Who knew a baby could be so demanding? Between
feeding, removing soiled nappies and trying to stop her from crying, the
morning had flown by. She suppressed a yawn. How much longer could she do this?
It was simply exhausting.

It was only until she found
a singing job, she reminded herself. Unfortunately Manchester wasn’t the best place
to make ones way as a singer. London was where she wished to be but Ivy had
followed news of auditions up here and become well... stuck. Her lack of funds
meant she was trapped here for the time being.

Of course not being able to
perform didn’t help. She pushed the pram past the rows of identical houses,
dipping her head in acknowledgement of the few men who touched their hats in
greeting. It was those auditions though, surely? She had confidence in her
voice, confidence in being a performer, yet as soon as she had stepped on the
stage her voice had vanished.

As had her dreams. All those
years of believing she had been blessed with a fine voice for a reason. It
didn’t matter she was not overly intelligent or blonde and beautiful.
She
had a beautiful voice. Her looks would make her stand out and would look
wonderful on stage. But now she was a governess, stuck in a house with a dour
master, doing a job she was not entirely sure she was up to.

Elsie squeaked a protest as
Ivy pushed her around the corner towards the market. The red and cream tops of
the stalls billowed lightly in the breeze. The mid-week market was not as busy
as the Saturday one and, for that, she was grateful.

Directing the pram through
the crowds was not a pleasant experience and she ran over a few toes as it was.
Some politely ignored the solid wheel crushing their toes while many grunted or
declared their annoyance at her. If it wasn’t for her sun-kissed colouring, she
would look like a beetroot, she was sure.

Triumph burst through her when
she spied the newspaper boy. She had just enough to pay the one penny for the
paper now she had a roof over her head. Regardless of how she felt about her
master, at least she had a fine room to sleep in and food in her belly. The boy
handed her a copy of the Manchester Guardian and she drew a coin out from the
purse slung around her wrist.

“Let’s find somewhere to
sit, shall we?” she said to the baby who sucked on a fist.

The day was dry and not
overly warm, and the thought of returning to the house sent a curl of dread
through her. Embarrassment still heated her cheeks at the memories of that
morning’s exchange. Mr Avery had been full of sharp apologies.

Honestly, Ivy would have
rather he had not said a thing. She didn’t feel at all concerned he might do
something untoward. The man walked as though he had a rod holding up his back
and his expression remained just as rigid. She didn’t doubt he never usually
indulged heavily.

Astonishing to think such an
uptight man was built like he was, however. Perhaps those muscles were
responsible for his rigid posture. How did a wealthy whatever-he- was have such
a body? She’d been around men enough to know that few were built like that—not
that she had ever seen them unclothed—but their portly bellies were far removed
from the firm lines of Mr Avery’s rippled stomach.

Ivy spotted a bench at the
edge of the park and swiftly crossed the road, scowling at a carriage that was
most certainly being driven recklessly. Several bicyclists and those taking an
afternoon stroll followed the paths through the park. Oak trees cast shade
across the lawns. Flowers were sprouting—yellow splashes of colour against the
green backdrops. Ivy allowed herself a smile. There were no parks like this in
Northside.

Wheeling the pram towards
the bench, Ivy sat and tucked Elsie’s blanket around her. This wasn’t too bad.
Elsie seemed quite content and the day was beautiful. The scent of grass and
the elegant people strolling around reminded her of home. Wyndcombe had been
much like this area of Manchester. There had been no slums or overpopulated
areas in her hometown.

A sharp stab of sorrow
pierced her as she unfolded the paper. It had been over a year since she had
been home. Did her parents think her dead?

Perhaps. But if she
returned, what would await her? An arranged marriage? A life hidden away
because of the shame of having run away to London? She doubted she would be
welcome in the small town of Wyndcombe anymore. The shame she would bring to
her family would be great indeed. It didn’t matter she had done little with her
time except search for a singing role. Even attempting to be on stage brought
shame enough. In her mother and father’s eyes, she was no better than a whore.

She sighed. Being unable to
perform hindered her ambitions unfortunately.

Ivy flicked open the paper
and searched for the advertisements page. It was simply those roles. They
weren’t right for her, that was all. She just needed to find the right place to
perform and she would have no problems. Then someone would spot her and she
would become the toast of London. All talk of her being a whore would end and
she could travel and perform in great concert halls.

“It will just take time,”
she said to Elsie. The child offered her a soggy fist and Ivy grinned. “Thank
you, but I am quite full. You go ahead though.”

As though acknowledging
Ivy’s permission, the infant stuffed her hand back in her mouth. Was that
usual? Did children really enjoy sucking on their limbs quite so much?

She shrugged and turned her
attention back to the paper. She skimmed the stories—something to do with the
empire in India. Tiresome. Talk of new factory laws and the annoyance of the
masters. Ivy huffed. Well, of course they were annoyed. They wouldn’t be able
to work their employees to the bone. She might be from a more privileged
background but her time in London and Manchester had certainly opened her eyes
to deprivation. She flicked again. An outbreak of cholera. A shudder wracked
her.

She paused when a name
flashed up at her under the next story. Avery. She narrowed her gaze and
focused on the photo. Her mouth dropped open. August Avery. Of course. She
should have realised. He was slowly becoming a renowned railway engineer. There
was even talk of him being smarter and more efficient than Stephenson. His name
was fast becoming better known than Brunel’s.

Oh dear. She was working for
quite the powerful man and she hadn’t even realised. The article spoke of his
latest project, a tunnel not far from Manchester. It was one even the
newspapers thought could not be done. The project was too ambitious apparently.
Ivy wasn’t sure why but she imagined digging a hole in a great hill was no easy
feat.

Elsie drew her attention
away from the paper with a flail of arms and a look of annoyance. Dread made her
stomach sink. She might have only spent two days in Elsie’s company but that red-faced
look of frustration was becoming familiar. The child was hungry.

Ivy glanced around and
spotted a street vendor just outside the park gates serving buttered crumpets.
Steam rose from his cart and images of melted butter and spongy crumpets
flitted through her mind. Surely the child would adore a crumpet? So far she
had discovered Elsie liked mashed potatoes and hated all vegetables but enjoyed
a nice solid biscuit, even if she could not yet chew through it.

Stuffing the paper under the
pram, she pushed it over to the vendor and purchased a crumpet wrapped in brown
paper. That left her with no money. She would have to ask Mr Avery for an
advance on her wages perhaps.

Breaking off a piece of
crumpet, Ivy blew on it and handed it to the child. She held her breath when
the baby brought it to her mouth, sucked on it a little then used one chubby
fist to squash the crumpet in oblivion.

“You’re not keen?” she
asked.

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.