The Lady In Red: An Eighteenth-Century Tale Of Sex, Scandal, And Divorce

by Hallie Rubenhold

  Then there were the mitigating factors surrounding the situation in which the act of criminal conversation occurred. A claim for damages might be assessed upwards or downwards when the love triangle and the histories of its three players were examined. As Lawrence Stone explains, ‘if the lover was a bare acquaintance of the husband then no breach of friendship and hospitality had taken place’. However, if, like Bisset, ‘he had been an old family friend or on regular dining terms and free to stay the night whenever he chose, then the breach of faith was regarded on all sides as very serious’. As a close male friend of the husband the act of adultery ‘was regarded as a double betrayal, first of the spousal relationship and second of male bonding’. This especially applied if the husband and the wife’s lover had been ‘bound together in loyalty’ as associates in the same regiment or, more heinous still, as members of the same family. In fact, the more closely the rules of damage setting are investigated, the more clearly they reveal the truth implied in a suit for criminal conversation. At its core, this was not a dispute about the violation of the marriage bed: it was about penalising men who, by breaking the honour code, were perceived to have torn the very fabric of society.

  But a criminal conversation suit also was about property and its value. Notionally, legal action was initiated because an interloper had damaged the viability of a plaintiff’s chattel; in this case, his wife. In order for justice to be administered, her importance to him, like the worth of a painting or a horse, required appraisal. There were a number of ways in which this could be assessed. By the second half of the eighteenth century, when the ideals of ‘companionate marriage’ or the love match began to colour society’s expectations of matrimony, an injured husband might complain that he had been unjustly robbed of his wife’s ‘comfort and society’, her friendship, company and the pleasures of her body to which he was lawfully entitled. Ascribing a sum to this sort of loss often proved difficult. However, in Sir Richard Worsley’s perception, these nebulous measures of worth did not count for as much as did Seymour’s value to him in financial terms. Lady Worsley was an heiress in her own right. She had come to him with upwards of £52,000 entailed on her. She and her estate raised his prestige, allowing him to purchase the fashionable town house on Stratford Place as well as properties in Marylebone and on the Isle of Wight. The attention that she and her fortune garnered had pushed them both into the most modish circles. Access to her money increased his influence, and the net worth of this amounted to more to him than an infinite number of tedious evenings spent together sipping tea and shuffling cards. For a man so intent on building a name and power base for himself, she was, in effect, his most precious asset.

  In this suit, all three parties bore enormous price tags. In such circumstances, and when factoring in Bisset’s breathtaking breach of the honour code, Worsley was certain to apply for an appropriately wounding sum. Before the mid-1780s, it was a rarity for plaintiffs to request damages in excess of £10,000, and even that was a sum reserved for the most exceptionable infractions. In 1730, Lord Abergavenny successfully sued his wife’s lover, Richard Lyddel for this amount, an action which in turn ruined him. Like Bisset, Lyddel had been an intimate companion of Abergavenny’s and had used his confidence to gain access to his home and Catherine Abergavenny’s bedchamber. It did not require much deliberation for the jury to decide that this had been an unpardonable abuse of a close male relationship. A similar decision was made when the case of Rochfort v. Rochfort was heard a decade later. An unprecedented £20,000 had been demanded and awarded for the worst of all possible offences, a betrayal between brothers. However, spectacular claims such as these were infrequent. Even in the most high profile extramarital scandal involving two exceedingly wealthy parties, the 1770 crim. con. trial of the Duke of Cumberland (the King’s brother) for a dalliance with Lord Grosvenor’s wife, damages were set at £10,000. As the awards allocated were so bounteous and the crimes committed so juicy, the era’s press took to these stories with relish. Abergavenny v. Lyddel was published throughout the first half of the century as a type of moral parable. The result of Grosvenor v. Cumberland became household knowledge.

  Even before he had taken advice from Farrer, Worsley would have had a strong sense of the sort of sum he might exact. It would need to be large enough to atone for the atrocity committed and to restore his broken authority. Nothing but the complete ruin of George Bisset would suffice. His desire for vengeance demanded it.

  10

  The Royal Hotel, Pall Mall

  For several days, the door to room 14 had remained locked. Its mysterious occupants kept to themselves. Ann Ekelso had tried several times to replenish the fire in the bedchamber but her gentle rapping had met with silence. Only rarely were the housemaids or the butler permitted into the couple’s shadowy quarters, where the drawn curtains blocked out the light of midday. Other than a chance encounter, there were few opportunities to gawp at this most peculiar pair. Occasionally in the mornings ‘and long before the lady had made her appearance’ the gentleman could be seen moving between the bedroom and the Apollo, wearing ‘no cloaths whatever but his bed gown and slippers slipped on’. The staff thought it unusual that as soon as he had risen he would then ‘return to the bedroom … and … go to bed again’.

  ‘They were an odd kind of people,’ Ann Ekelso had commented to Joseph Connolly, who was often to be found tending to his master’s requirements alongside the hotel’s staff. What sort of person lingered about ‘in bed most of the day’ after ‘going to bed so very late at night?’ she prodded. But Joseph Connolly ‘would only laugh’. Neither she nor ‘the other servants … could discover the Lady or Gentleman’s names, or who they were’.

  Between the bed hangings and the sheets, Lady Worsley and her lover continued to wait. The hours since their elopement had lengthened into slow, tense days. Although their actions had been designed to provoke a response from Sir Richard, neither could be certain from where it would come, nor the shape it might assume. While there remained any possibility of ambush or violence they were forced to cower in the shuttered and locked rooms of the Royal Hotel. It was within her husband’s rights to have Seymour snatched and bundled into a sealed post-chaise bound for Appuldurcombe. Bisset would have been plagued by the spectre of a duel. Sir Richard’s whereabouts as well as his schemes were entirely unknown.

  Their only succour dripped from Deerhurst’s pen and arrived in the form of occasional correspondence. In spite of his visual impediment the blind Viscount was proving himself an indefatigable detective and champion of their cause. Within two days of their elopement, through a combination of bribery and investigation he had located Sir Richard and made the first strategic move towards securing Seymour and Bisset’s wishes. But the intervals between letters were unnerving. Without a clear view of events beyond their window, the lovers were hostages to fortune.

  After the elation of their successful escape, the reality of their situation began to settle in. More than his mistress, Bisset had been prepared for their illicit undertaking, having planned their movements and arrived with servants and clothing. In addition to the emotional strain of separation from her infant daughter, Seymour did not even have a change of undergarments. Although she had set out enthusiastically on this journey, her role was that of a passenger travelling in circumstances now beyond her control. For a third time, a message had been sent to Mary Sotheby, directing her to come immediately to London with Seymour’s clothing. The response had not been favourable. ‘It was Sir Richard’s strict order,’ the lady’s maid wrote, ‘that she excuse herself from coming to London.’ As for the coveted clothing, Mary claimed ‘it was not in her custody’. To Lady Worsley, this was a clear indication that her husband intended to punish her. Concern over what other reprisals might be lying in reserve caused her great disquiet. Sitting enclosed within the walls of number 14, she could do nothing more than wait and contemplate and worry.

  Those of the hotel’s servants who attended the couple noted
that Lady Worsley in particular ‘appeared extremely fearful of being seen’. It was with hesitation that she emerged from the bedchamber for her meals in the adjoining dining room. On several occasions, Ann Ekelso had watched her ‘run across the passage … with her hand to her face as if to hide it’. At other times, Seymour beckoned Ann to her while suspiciously casting her gaze beyond her doorway, ‘What gentlemen were in the house?’ she anxiously questioned the housemaid. As requested, the servant would repeat a catalogue of names. ‘What apartments were they in?’ she insisted. But the answers never succeeded in putting her at ease.

  By the third day of her captivity, Lady Worsley could bear her incarceration no longer. Whether or not the couple had been invited to Lord Deerhurst’s home, they were determined to see the Viscount in person and escape their restrictive lodgings, if only for an evening. In the morning Seymour pulled the bell rope and summoned Ann Ekelso. The servant opened the door to find her mistress naked and in bed, the sheets wrapped around her modestly. She directed Ann to ‘to wash her riding shirt and a pair of stockings and one or two other things’ and then explained that as she had no change of clothing or undergarments ‘she could not get up’ until Ekelso ‘had got them ready for her’. For a woman of wealth whose wardrobe contained over 500 articles of clothing, nothing could have felt more compromising than having to swathe herself in bedding while her only pair of stockings were rinsed.

  Another anxious day was passed behind a locked door as Lady Worsley’s undergarments dried by the fire. When darkness came, the couple prepared themselves for a cautious visit to Cleveland Row. Still fearful of being apprehended they crept from their rooms and ‘hurried through the passage … afraid of being seen or noticed’. Thomas Fort led them to a waiting hackney coach, whose windows, like those of their lodgings were screened by shades.

  That evening, over dinner, Lord Deerhurst divulged the minutiae of his conversations with John Hesse, and any further information he had been able to squeeze from his sources. They learned of Sir Richard’s hiding place in Paddington and received assurances that their position at the Royal Hotel remained undisclosed. The Viscount was guarding their interests to the best of his ability. However while Deerhurst was soothing their nerves with his hospitality, Worsley and James Farrer were tying the last strings of their net.

  On the morning of Friday the 23rd of November, the tables were turned on Lord Deerhurst quite unexpectedly. Two strangers appeared at his door, asking to see the Viscount. The better dressed of the pair announced himself as James Farrer, the attorney engaged by Sir Richard Worsley. After being admitted into the house on Cleveland Row, Farrer addressed Deerhurst plainly. He explained that he had come to his home to learn the whereabouts of Lady Worsley and Captain Bisset and that he ‘apprehended that His Lordship was privy … to such information’. Deerhurst hesitated. Farrer further explained that he had ‘furnished himself with a writ from the Court of the King’s Bench’ which he, through the powers of the law, ‘intended to serve on Mr Bisset’. The attorney continued. He also had in his possession ‘a citation from [the Court of Doctors’ Commons] to serve on Lady Worsley’. Then Farrer gestured to the man in his company. Should there be any question as to the authority of this action, he had brought with him ‘an Officer to attend serving it to her’. Lady Worsley wanted a divorce and as his visitors were determined to initiate proceedings, the Viscount decided to surrender his secrets.

  Deerhurst confessed that the couple had been hiding at the Royal Hotel on Pall Mall since Monday, but that unless Farrer ‘pursued a specific set of directions’, he would not be granted access to them. As Bisset and Lady Worsley ‘were wholly unknown to every body in and belonging to the hotel’, Farrer had to enquire for Joseph Connolly, who, through the use of this signal, would show an approved person to the lovers’ lodgings.

  Farrer was now on the warpath. He and the court officer marched directly to the Royal Hotel and asked ‘for the servant, Joseph Connolly’. Connolly cast a wary gaze over the men and was only convinced when the attorney finally added ‘that he had come from Lord Deerhurst’. The valet then directed the gentlemen upstairs and into the Apollo dining room, where a startled Bisset rose to his feet.

  ‘Maurice George Bisset?’ Farrer asked. ‘You are served with a writ from the Court of the King’s Bench.’ The attorney thrust an article of parchment into the former captain’s hand. Before Bisset could offer a reply, Farrer ‘then enquired for Lady Worsley’.

  ‘Who asks for her?’ demanded Bisset.

  James Farrer ignored his interrogator and with an officious tone simply stated ‘that it is necessary that I should see her’.

  Bisset regarded the man standing beside Farrer and realised that he carried with him the news for which they had been waiting: the launch of Sir Richard’s suit for a divorce. ‘I shall fetch her,’ he said ‘and then went out of the room for that purpose’.

  Several moments passed before Bisset ‘returned to the room with a Lady hanging on his arm’. ‘I am Lady Worsley,’ pronounced the small but defiant figure.

  For a lady accustomed to greetings of deference and curtsies the intimidating stance of the officer of the Court of Doctors’ Commons seemed threatening. He stepped up to her and formally served her with a legal citation.

  Farrer and the court officer left the couple behind the closed door of the Apollo, holding the writs in which Sir Richard’s devastating first thrust was couched. The extensive divorce depositions which record in precise detail the movements and behaviour of both parties give no insight into the reactions of either Lady Worsley or Bisset at this decisive juncture; the moment when the consequences of their uncertain venture were revealed: that instant when Seymour opened the documents and realised that she would remain shackled to Sir Richard for the rest of her life, or when Bisset glanced at the paper in his hands and read the charge of criminal conversation.

  Like the duellist who aims at the heart, Sir Richard was determined on destruction. He had ensured that his wife and Bisset, his betrayer, would never be free to marry. For her sins against him, and because his sense of honour required it he would cast her off, forcing her to wallow in a state of matrimonial purgatory. It was intended to be a punishment felt by both lovers, equally. However, his friend’s unspeakable wrong, his gross violation of an intimate trust and a private agreement required a harsher brand of justice. He should have to experience not only the humiliation and disquiet of the man he had deceived, but a diminution of status and its resulting social disgrace. Worsley decided that Bisset’s folly would cost him £20,000 (the equivalent of £25.4 million), or, more plainly, his life.

  When considering his social standing and military rank, the position of his wife, as well as the store he set by Bisset’s friendship, Sir Richard might reasonably have asked for £10,000, in keeping with conventional practices. This sum, the equivalent of nearly £12.7 million today, would have severely crippled, if not ruined Bisset. But Worsley would take no chances, particularly as juries were known to halve large claims when making awards. The sum of £10,000 was not enough to restore honour. A mere £10,000 could not soothe the stinging humiliation which Sir Richard felt or reconstruct his damaged pride. In order for Worsley to brush off this slight and continue his climb through the ranks of influence he required a very public vindication.

  Even for a gentleman of George Bisset’s wealth, a claim for £20,000 would be impossible to meet. If his total worth, the complete value of his personal estate, did not equal that amount, he would not be able to make good the debt. In the eighteenth century this meant arrest by a bailiff and imprisonment in the Fleet, the oppressive hole into which insolvents were thrown. Much of Bisset’s liquefiable wealth would be placed under the hammer to meet Worsley’s demands. The pressure to sell his land would be unremitting. Under English law, a man’s property could not be confiscated, but tightened straits could compel him to dispose of it. Throughout the era, estates and their adjoining lands, fertile grazing grounds, farms, stables, and la
kes regularly changed hands due to an owner’s indebtedness. The sale of his land would mean Bisset’s final defeat. His position in society would be compromised. In these circumstances securing a loan or any type of personal favour which might free him from the shackles of his debt would be difficult. Clearly, Worsley intended him to die in poverty and dishonour.

  The demand for £20,000 was a highly strategic move on Worsley’s part. It is most likely that one of his intentions was to force the sale of Knighton, or at least much of its land. The estate would be the spoils of his victory, a gleaming trophy earned in a bitter rout. The acquisition of this sizeable parcel of property was likely to make Worsley the most powerful landowner on the Isle of Wight. It would be a dramatic resurrection for his injured conceit.

  George Bisset now faced ruin. The very contemplation of £20,000 would have been nauseating. He would require lawyers who could build him a sturdy defence, but constructing a convincing case from an indisputable instance of adultery would be nearly impossible. His mistress’s position appeared just as bleak. Sir Richard’s proposed ‘Separation from Bed and Board’ read like an edict of banishment, a sentence of exile from the realm of respectability. The last of their misguided hopes for an amicable settlement had been destroyed as well as their foolish belief in the generosity of the baronet’s character. The worst was now upon them. How they would contend with a situation turned so starkly against them, if they could salvage anything from their loss, was yet to be seen.

  11

  A House of Spies

  Having successfully discovered the whereabouts of Lady Worsley and her lover and served them with legal writs, James Farrer returned to Paddington, where he explained to Sir Richard that in order to proceed with both the suit for separation and the suit for criminal conversation they must accomplish two important tasks. The first was to positively ascertain the identities of the adulterous pair and the second was to gather ‘the most full and clear evidence of the criminality of their intercourse’. The latter was much more straightforward than it sounded. In the eighteenth century it was not considered ‘necessary to prove the direct fact of adultery’. A suggestion that illicit sex had probably taken place was all that an indictment required. As adulterers were especially canny about covering their tracks, practitioners of law had long since concluded that if they were forced to produce definitive evidence of guilt there would not be ‘one case in a hundred in which that proof would be attainable’. Whether Farrer had burst through the lovers’ door and discovered them in flagrante or found individuals who could attest to the pair’s inappropriate relations didn’t matter. Both forms of evidence were equally admissible. However, any accusations would have to be based on actual observation, not hearsay. Malicious below-stairs cant was not admissible. Rumpled and soiled sheets, stained undergarments, overheard moans of passion and hidden love letters, were. The law also stipulated that the testimony of at least two witnesses who could positively identify both parties was necessary ‘to conclude that adultery had taken place’. In such matters, there were few better qualified to comment on an individual’s private affairs than those who moved invisibly through the lives of the patrician classes: servants.