Sophia’s life at the top of the pile as a courtesan had lasted just four years, from 1771 to 1774. The subsequent rapid decline and early death was a hallmark of many of her Cyprian colleagues.
ANN CATLEY, 1745–1789
Ann’s father was a coachman, her mother took in laundry and as a young girl Ann would sing songs in taverns in the areas around London’s Tower Hill. When she was 13 years old she was seduced by a young linen draper, became apprenticed to a Mr Bates, and started singing on the London stage. There she came to the attention of a low-life by the name of Sir Francis Blake Delaval, who bought out her apprenticeship in return for her agreeing to become his mistress. She was seventeen years old, and her horrified father immediately applied to the courts to declare the arrangement immoral and contrary to public policy. Sir Francis, besotted with the young girl, happily paid damages, and lavished gifts on Ann including diamond rings, while at the same time giving her a weekly allowance and providing her with her own accommodation.
Unfortunately for his Lordship, she delighted in pursuing intrigues behind his back, each time accepting ‘bribes’ in the form of gifts and large sums of money. Amongst others, she became the lover of a wealthy Portuguese merchant, who showered her with jewellery.
Highly-sexed and with no concerns about the feelings of others, she made no secret of her affair with the Duke of York and in due course Delaval extricated himself from the arrangement of being her protector and provider. The final straw came when he went to Wetherbys’s, a well-known house of ill-repute, and was by mistake shown up to the room in which Ann was entertaining a young client. The furious Delaval insisted that she move out of her apartment immediately, and she went to live above a milliner’s shop in Covent Garden. Once there, she obtained regular employment as a singer in the theatre. She then moved for a few years to Dublin, where she pursued a lucrative career both in and out of bed, and on and off the stage. Returning to the London stage she very nearly ensnared an elderly gentlemen into marriage – terms had been agreed (namely a lump sum payment of £1,000, plus an annuity which she would receive for life). The old man thereupon wrote to his son with the news that he would soon be acquiring a step-mother. The son came to his father’s house and was somewhat at a loss to find Miss Catley, whose favours he too had been sharing … that was the end of that relationship.
Finally, she succumbed to the charms of General Francis Lascelles, moved in with him, had several children and in due course was rumoured to have got married. Theirs was a tempestuous relationship not helped by her serial infidelities. She eventually died of consumption, aged 44. Under her will – for which a Grant of Probate was obtained – her estate of £5,000 was left to her children. This may well be an indication that she never did marry Lascelles, or everything would have belonged to him and she would not have had any estate to leave.
‘THE ARMISTEAD’ 1750–1842
Of all the courtesans of the eighteenth century, Elizabeth Armistead was perhaps the most remarkable – remarkable for the extent of her glittering clientele, remarkable for living to the age of 91, remarkable for finding true love with one of the most charismatic and rakish politicians of the period. She did not have an auspicious start – she was born Elizabeth Bridget Cane in 1750. Little is known of her parents, but in her teens she was having to support herself in the only manner she knew – horizontally. By the time she was 19 she was working in a high-class brothel, but whether it was for the notorious bawd Jane Goadby or her rival Elizabeth Mitchell is not clear. However, what is apparent is that this energetic young lady with a warm personality and an impressive physique was extremely popular, and she was soon in high keeping thanks to a large number of ardent followers. In all probability one of her early supporters was a Mr Armistead, and she became famous by the use of that name. Others referred to her as ‘The Armistead’ – the joke being that she was named like a boat because she was boarded by so many people. She had her portrait painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and, as the Town & Country Magazine went on to report, she could ‘claim the conquest of two ducal coronets, a marquis, four earls and a viscount’.
Certainly her client list included the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Dorset, the Duke of Ancaster, the Earl of Derby, Viscount Bolingbroke, Lord George Cavendish and the fabulously wealthy nabob General Sir Richard Smith. The Earl of Cholmondeley, Lord Robert Spencer and Lord Coleraine were also benefactors. Through her talents she acquired enough wealth to buy herself at least two properties, in Bond Street and in Clarges Street, and quickly became the Toast of the Town. She was pre-eminent in her field for an astonishing ten years during which time she was a fashion icon, a centre of gossip, and an inspiration to many. And then in 1783 she fell for the charms of Charles James Fox, the Whig politician renowned for his six o-clock stubble, his gambling addiction, his womanising and his drinking. They had known each other, platonically, for perhaps ten years. Curiously, their affair only started after Fox had become involved with Mary Robinson, Elizabeth’s close rival. Fox was quickly smitten with his new conquest. Theirs was a love-match which astonished Society, a case of the Beauty and the Beast. But love it was, and it stood the test of time, as well as derision from some quarters, and a lack of acceptance into ‘polite society’. At one stage Elizabeth tried to break off the affair and in the autumn of 1783 Fox wrote to her:
You shall not go without me wherever you go. I have examined myself and know that I can better abandon friends, country and everything than live without Liz. I could change my name and live with you in the remotest part of Europe in poverty and obscurity. I could bear that very well, but to be parted I cannot bear.
Elizabeth relented and even sold her properties to pay off Fox’s gambling debts, set up home with him at St Ann’s in Surrey, and introduced him to the delights of gardening and country living. For ten years they lived discreetly as mistress and keeper, with Elizabeth resisting suggestions that they marry because of the scandal that it might cause. She eventually gave in to his entreaties, on condition that the union was kept under wraps, and after they married in 1795 the wedding was kept secret for seven years. It was not until 1802, when the couple embarked for Paris to meet the Emperor Napoleon that Fox decided to go public. There was a brief period of gossip and tuttutting, but the fuss quickly died down, largely thanks to Elizabeth’s charm, good nature and tolerance. Her husband was undeniably besotted with her, writing: ‘You are all to me. You can always make me happy in circumstances apparently unpleasant and miserable … Indeed, my dearest angel, the whole happiness of my life depends on you.’
Charles James Fox died at Chiswick on 15 September 1806, leaving his widow to soldier on alone for over thirty-five years. Respect for her was enormous – she was awarded an annual pension of £1,200 and in 1823 her former lover, now King George IV, gave her an annuity of £500. That annuity was continued by the King’s brother William IV when he succeeded to the throne – and indeed by Victoria when she became Queen in 1837. Throughout those years she was untouched by scandal, never once attempted to ‘kiss and tell’, and died beloved by the local community.
MARY ROBINSON, 1757–1800 – aka ‘Perdita’
Mary, universally known as Perdita after her most famous stage role, was one of the most talked about actress-courtesans of the era. Her affair with the Prince of Wales, and her ‘signing on fee’ of £20,000, is mentioned in Chapter Six along with her fifteen year relationship with the dashing rake Banastre Tarleton (see Chapter Nine). She was born in Bristol into a dysfunctional family called Darby – father was a naval captain who preferred to live with his mistress rather than with Mrs Darby. Mrs Darby and the young Mary moved to London, and at sixteen Mary agreed to marry an articled clerk called Thomas Robinson, who was believed to have ‘expectations of a large fortune’. The fortune never materialised, and Thomas turned out to be a philandering womaniser who made no effort to disguise his many affairs. Mary ended up supporting him, escaping to Wales to avoid creditors, before giving birth to a child called Mary Elizab
eth in 1774.
Mary was as bad at managing finances as her husband, proving herself more than happy to live beyond her means, and buying expensive clothes in order to be seen at fashionable places such as Ranelagh and Vauxhall Gardens. Within months their profligate behaviour resulted in the entire family ending up in the Kings Bench prison for debtors. There, Thomas installed a mistress while Mary looked after the young baby, earning a pittance copying legal documents. She also found time to write poetry, and having submitted a volume of ‘Poems’ to Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, obtained her support and encouragement to persevere with her literary efforts.
In 1776 she got a part on the stage after befriending David Garrick and the playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and for four years learned her craft as an actress while enjoying various flings. Then the Prince of Wales entered her life, and as will be seen she became the most famous, most talked about woman in London. As one of the grandest of ‘les grandes horizontales’ every change of outfit was duly noted and reported on. As the Morning Herald mentioned on 12 June 1781:
Fortune has again smiled on Perdita; on Sunday she sported an entire new phaeton, drawn by four chestnut-coloured ponies, with a postilion and servant in blue and silver liveries. The lady dashed into town through Hyde Park turnpike at four o’clock, dressed in a blue great coat prettily trimmed in silver; a plume of feathers graced her hat, which even Alexander the Great might have prided himself in.
In particular the papers loved to report on the alleged rivalry between Perdita, Dally the Tall and the Bird of Paradise. The Town & Country magazine regularly passed on tittle-tattle, as did The Rambler Magazine with comments such as:
January 14: The Perdita now labours under a severe fit of the rheumatism, occasioned it is said, by the want of exercise, she having had very little business in her way, to transact for some time. The Bird of Paradise, by the same secession of business in her rival Perdita, has very much enlarged her profits; in consequence of which she has got a new chariot, new furniture, and other pageants.
The rivalry showed one thing – a very small circle of high-class courtesans serviced an equally small circle of aristocratic rakes. Being seen with the most famous woman of the moment was something which the young, and not so young, blades aspired to, a sort of ‘Pass the Parcel’ game played for rather high stakes.
After one prolonged visit to Paris, she returned to England bringing with her all the prevailing French influences in fashion and style. As the Morning Herald of 7 December 1781 had predicted, she was expected to return with ideas ‘which could not fail to set the whole world a-madding’. Later, on 9 January 1782, the same paper gushed:
Last night the divine Perdita visited the opera…She was dressed in white satin, with purple breast-bows, and looked supremely beautiful. Her head-dress was in a stile which may be called the standard of taste; her cap, composed of white and purple feathers entwined with flowers, was fastened on with diamond pins.
By the following season she was wearing what became known as the ‘Robinson hat for Ranelagh’ along with the ‘Perdita Hood’, the ‘Perdita Hat’ and the ‘Robinson Gown’. She caused a sensation when she turned up at the opera in March 1783 sporting gold embroidered stockings. In all matters of taste and style, she reigned supreme, and what Mary Robinson wore one day was immediately picked up by the ‘frail sisterhood’ i.e. leading courtesans, the next. Milliners and costumiers had every reason to be thankful to Mary – she was decidedly good for business.
After her affair with the Prince of Wales ended and she had taken up with Banastre Tarleton, Mary increasingly devoted time to writing – poems, odes, and sonnets, and then novels. Some of these sold in considerable numbers, mainly because of the perceived autobiographical nature of the works, and ran to numerous editions as well as being translated into French and German. She was an admirer of the works of Mary Wollstonecraft and in 1799 published A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination. In it she showed her disillusionment with the institution of marriage. Later, she started writing her autobiography but she died on Boxing Day in 1800 before it was finished. Her daughter subsequently published it as Memoirs of the Late Mrs. Robinson, Written by Herself, With Some Posthumous Pieces.
HARRIETTE WILSON née Dubouchet – 1786–1845, one of four whoring sisters. Harriette Wilson was perhaps the best-known courtesan of the Regency era. She was born in 1786 to a watch-maker by the name of Dubouchet, who kept a shop in Mayfair and who had come to London from Switzerland. He adopted the surname of ‘Wilson’ in 1801. Harriette was rumoured to have had fourteen siblings. Of the five girls who reached maturity one, and only one, chose not to join the Cyprian Corps. She was dubbed ‘The Paragon’. Of the others, Harriette disliked her sister Amy, who appears to have found it impossible to resist the temptation to steal whoever Harriette was sleeping with. Another sister, called Sophia, earned Harriette’s dismissive assessment as being ‘unintelligent and lacking wit’. In Harriette’s words Sophia
had begun her career before other girls even dream of such things. She had intruded herself on a cobbler at thirteen, thrown herself into the arms of the most disgusting profligate in England at fourteen, with her eyes open, knowing what he was; then offered herself for sale, at a price, to Colonel Berkeley, and when her terms were refused with scorn and contempt by the handsome and young man, then throws herself into the arms of age and ugliness for a yearly stipend, and at length, by good luck, without one atom of virtue, became a wife.
Her husband was Lord Berwick, who had initially wooed her as a potential mistress by offering an annuity of £500, and had then decided to marry the girl, more-or-less out of spite since it was quite apparent to all that Sophia hated her paramour most assiduously. But a Lady she became, at the grand age of 17 years, leaving Harriette and her younger sister on the game.
Sister Fanny had barely entered her teens when she started her career as a courtesan. Compared to her, Harriette was a slow-starter. As she enigmatically remarked in the opening section of her memoirs:
I shall not say how and why I became, at the age of fifteen, the mistress of the Earl of Craven. Whether it was love, or the severity of my father, or the depravity of my own heart, or the winning arts of the noble Lord which induced me to leave my paternal roof and place myself under his protection, does not now much signify…
Other wealthy patrons followed, and she ended up with an impressive list of clients including the Prince of Wales, the Lord Chancellor and four future Prime Ministers. She and Fanny cut a swathe through the cream of London’s ‘well endowed’ men, with one often picking up where the other left off. In ‘The General out-generalled’ shown as Image 31 Harriette is seen leaning out of the bedroom window alongside the Duke of Argyll, while the Duke of Wellington is dancing around on the pavement demanding to be let inside.
When she was 35 years old, Harriette astonished everyone by retiring from harlotry. She got married to a man called Rochfort, and hopped on a boat to France. And then decided that it was pay-back time. She published her memoirs one instalment at a time, ending each one with a list of the famous names to be included in the following instalment (unless the persons named paid up…). Yes, it was blackmail, but it was a very open and straight-forward form of blackmail. Her targets were principally men who had promised her money in her retirement, or an annuity, but had gone back on their word. The strategy used by Harriette was extremely effective, and the public were enthralled with her under-the-bedclothes revelations. Harriette supposedly made £10,000 out of the venture, which gave a fascinating insight into the mind of a woman who had scaled the heights of her chosen profession. The Earl of Craven was dismissed as a monumental bore, and a figure of fun because of the cotton night cap he wore to bed. Wellington had no small-talk and was described as looking like a ratcatcher. But she saved her vitriol for her chief target, the Duke of Beaufort. He had promised her an annuity in exchange for her agreeing to break off her liaison with his heir, the Marquis of Worceste
r. The annuity failed to materialise, and the Duke, like many others, paid the price for his duplicitous and niggardly behaviour.
Elsewhere she gives this view on a woman who fornicates: ‘There are but two classes of women … she is a bad woman the moment she has committed fornication; be she generous, charitable, just, clever, domestic, affectionate … still her rank in society is with the lowest hired prostitute.’ The book ran to thirty-one editions in the first year alone. It was a best-seller translated into many languages and sold throughout Europe, making Harriette a wealthy but much-despised woman. In time the public lost interest. Harriette came back from Paris and lived for a while in Knightsbridge before disappearing from view and dying in Chelsea in 1845 at the age of 59.
* * *
What these summaries show is that at the top of the tree, for those courtesans who dominated the second half of the Georgian era, life was often short but never dull. They occupied a sort of parallel universe, a demi-monde where they were never entirely acceptable in polite society, and yet were held out as fashion icons, and as the representation of good taste, fashion and style. Above all, they were successful business women – they made sex pay, and it gave them a lifestyle way beyond anything they might have aspired to in any other line of work. It reached the point where wealthy men would vie with each other to be able to boast of having whoever was the Toast of the Town in ‘high keeping’ – rather like a modern-day footballer parking a Bentley Mulsanne outside his house even though he does not have a driving licence. Being seen out at the opera with a leading courtesan had enormous caché, and for the women at the top, these liaisons were highly profitable.
In Bed with the Georgians Page 8
