The Temple of the Muses by Jane Davis

Author:Jane Davis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Jane Davis
Published: 2026-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

1784

It is not the blast of cold air that makes Dorcas gasp. Standing on the doorstep are two Mohocks, one of whom carries a flaming torch.

“We believe this is the house of Mr Samuel Turton,” says the man on the right, his hand on the hilt of a glinting rapier. “He lost at the card table last night.”

“On whose authority are you here?” She hears the tremor in her voice.

The Mohock on the right draws his sword. “Our own.”

Dorcas wakes in a cold sweat, her heart pounding. It is the work of a moment to convince herself it is the fifteenth of September, Seventeen Eighty-Four. That the man whistling as he dresses behind the screen is James Lackington. Dorcas knew when she promised to be his helpmeet in life that he didn’t lack ambition, but assumed it was limited to earning a livelihood from selling books and spreading a love of reading. Today and in the days to come, they will discover if his growing ambition has hooked them a whale or a donkey.

The entire household will go to Chiswell-street. Most of Patience’s pupils have tickets, so she has cancelled today’s lessons. George will bind no books. All hands are needed on deck, as her husband put it. Lackington’s will have several extra pairs in its payload, distributing their handbills. Hannah and Letty will be inside the grounds.

During an early breakfast, her husband has Samuel run to the barometer several times to check for changes.

“Still fair,” he reports each time.

On leaving the house, her husband looks up at their narrow strip of sky. “’Tis as dry and still a day as could be hoped for.”

Six o’clock, and Finsbury is thronged.

“So much for our plans to arrive before the crowds,” Dorcas says. The three boys are up ahead, Samuel in the middle. She turns her head to make sure Letty hasn’t fallen behind. There is their china doll, between Patience and Hannah, the three of them arm in arm.

It is not just people without tickets who are in search of a good vantage point, but others who see opportunity in a crowd. Pie and bun-sellers have set up stalls on Moorfields, together with those hawking Lunardi novelties. There is the carnival feeling of old.

A vendor holds out a Lunardi garter. “For luck.”

“Madam,” her husband ventures pleasantly, “many factors will determine whether Mr Lunardi rises like a lark or an eagle. Luck isn’t among them.”

“Can’t say I agree, but for argument’s sake, let’s imagine you’re right, sir. What harm can it do?”

“I can’t believe I’m alone in disliking the idea of my wife wearing another man’s name on her thigh!”

As they turn the corner onto Chiswell-street, they are accosted once more. “Glass eyes for the blind, ivory teeth for broken mouths!”

To avoid a repetition of the riots that followed De Moret’s aborted launch, three regiments of the city’s trained bands are patrolling the streets and guarding the gates, admitting no one without a ticket. Already, guards are shouting instructions through loudhailers.

“Anyone attempting to climb over the railings will be dealt with as a common thief.

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