Charlotte Hayes certainly should have known better when chance threw the impoverished Sam Derrick in her path. The circumstances of their initial acquaintance are, and will probably remain, entirely unknown. It is likely that they would have recognised one another in passing for some time before their fates intersected. As frequenters of the Piazza’s attractions, they may have greeted one another below the signs of the Shakespear’s Head and the Bedford Coffee House, exchanging pleasantries and flirtatious jests. Sam had arrived in London at the height of Charlotte’s glory and undoubtedly he, like other gentlemen, would have watched her holding court in the theatre boxes. Together, he and Tracy would have admired her, dissecting her beauty and speculating on her accessibility. When the wheel of fortune spun in the Beau’s direction and enabled him to purchase her favours, Sam glowed with jealousy. Of all the celebrated beauties with whom he nurtured friendships, he could lay claim to none of them exclusively. While Lucy Cooper humoured, fed and occasionally honoured him with carnal privileges, he could never attain the title of being her sole keeper. Nor was this to be the case with any of the ambitious votaries of the Piazza.
As a companion of Tracy’s, Sam would have been brought tantalisingly nearer to his friend’s mistress as she accompanied him on his public outings. Charlotte’s friendship and affection for Sam, who cut an otherwise unremarkable character next to his dashing companion, would also have been given the occasion to ripen. How Sam could pose a challenge to wealthy lotharios like Robert Tracy for the attention of women like Charlotte Hayes remained an endless source of mystery to male acquaintances. In spite of being described as ‘of a diminutive size, with reddish hair and a vacant countenance’, Sam’s record for intrigue was impressive. ‘It might be supposed, from the universal partiality of the ladies to him, that his person was so comely and elegant as to be irresistible’, wrote the author of a piece in Town and Country Magazine: ‘But this was far from the case.’ Where the male eye saw only an unwashed, penurious and puffed-up peacock, women admired something entirely different, commenting that he was ‘a pretty little gentleman, so sweet, so fine, so civil, and polite, that … he might pass for the Prince of Wales’. Sam’s appeal was not so much his dress or his physical appearance, but rather his charm. His gift of the gab was unrivalled, unbeatable, so enchanting that his manner and words could sway both men and women alike, or, as Tobias Smollett gushed: ‘He talks so charmingly, both in verse and prose, that you would be delighted to hear him discourse.’ It was those who had seen Sam at his worst, his comrades with whom he shared many a bottle and who had spied him sleeping on the streets, that could not conceive of the attraction. In the company of women and potential patrons, however, Sam could fashion himself into another person, one whose ambition it was to be recognised as ‘a man of the most gallantry, the most wit, and the most politeness of any in Europe’. As an actor by nature, he had no difficulty playing both roles.
Sam’s gallant side undoubtedly was responsible for winning Tracy’s mistress away from his friend’s handsome company. How precisely their relationship evolved from polite friendship into a full-blown love affair will remain a story that both have taken to their graves. They have not so much as left us a clue about the duration of their romance. We know only that it smouldered between the years of 1751 and 1756, but for how many months or hopeless years it continued is a mystery. For at least some part of this period, Sam’s love for Charlotte was of the fervent variety. Long after their ardour had burned out, she remained as his one great passion, the woman whose tender memory haunted him even in the final hours of his life. In his eyes she would always be ‘as desirable as ever’, irrespective of age, or the deterioration of her beauty. When they parted it was as friends. Derrick never said a word against her and always wished her well. Looking back, he remembered ‘My old friend and Mistress Charlotte Hayes’, not only with adoration but with a gripping sense of remorse.
But what did Charlotte feel for Sam? How deep her emotions ran and how sustainable they remained over the course of their romance is also unknown. Her behaviour, however, leaves some evidence as to the sentiments of her heart. At the outset of their relationship Charlotte was prepared to risk her income and possibly even Sam’s life by entering into a liaison. Their very willingness to conduct an affair under a roof financed by Tracy’s money demonstrates a certain hot-blooded heedlessness. Although duelling had officially been outlawed, it was not unusual for gentlemen to find themselves drawing pistols over lesser breaches of honour. Neither Sam nor Charlotte could possibly have known how Tracy might have reacted to their betrayal. As it happened, her keeper was of the lenient variety. It seemed that the liberties Tracy permitted his mistress with regard to her expenditure also extended to her private passions. Love had once again immobilised the Beau’s powers of reason. Inevitably, when the gossip of Charlotte’s escapades reached Tracy’s ears he refused to acknowledge it. While the rakes and harlots of Covent Garden laughed at his expense, he simply shrugged in disbelief.
While Tracy looked the other way, Charlotte flaunted the rules of intrigue, tentatively at first and then with flagrant abandon. While it was commonly understood that women of her position always kept an eye to future possibilities, it was generally perceived as good form for those in high-keeping to exercise a hint of prudence when pursuing additional amours. With rented lodgings in Pall Mall and a household to maintain, it was best to have a list of ready candidates for the position of keeper if she should happen to find herself suddenly out of favour. Between visits from Tracy, to whom her primary responsibilities lay, Charlotte would have been able to pursue a relationship with a ‘favourite’ or ‘favourites’ of her own choosing. Her favourite in this case happened to be Tracy’s friend, Sam Derrick. Those men who occupied this honoured position were made to follow a discreet protocol. Sam would have found himself in a similar position to William Hickey, the favourite of cyprian Fanny Hartford. Although Fanny was in keeping by another man (whose name she refused to reveal), Hickey made himself a regular visitor when his rival was not around, and on one occasion even found himself having to slip out of bed and into the adjoining closet when Mr—popped in unexpectedly. Although keepers would have demanded fidelity from their mistresses, few would have trusted the objects of their passion to maintain it, making jealousy and suspicion a common feature of such relationships. Provided a mistress’s indiscretions were conducted behind closed doors and not blatantly in the public gaze, there might exist a possibility of forgiveness, but when she took her pleasures openly her behaviour became an act of gross defiance.
Observers of the convoluted triangle that had evolved between Charlotte, Sam and Robert Tracy blamed only the Beau for the feckless management of his mistress. The situation took a spiteful turn when Charlotte began to publicly parade her romance with Sam. Her experiments with Tracy’s tolerance had degenerated into a campaign of humiliation. As one gossipmonger wrote: ‘When she had an inclination to enjoy the company of her favourite man, she would take him to the Shakespeare or the Rose, and regale him at the Beau’s expense in the most sumptuous manner’. To add insult to injury, she would then present Tracy with an exorbitant bill. On more than a few occasions, after ‘having very simply given her credit at those houses’, Tracy was accosted by taverners for sums of thirty or forty pounds, ‘when he thought there might be a score of four or five’. What precipitated Charlotte’s attack on her keeper’s reputation can only be imagined. Her behaviour speaks of resentment or revenge. Although the details of their sexual arrangements are never revealed, even women of Charlotte’s elevated standing could find themselves the recipients of violent beatings and degrading sexual practices. Charlotte’s fashionable contemporary, Ann Bell, was a victim of her wealthy lover’s abuse. After being anally raped, Bell was repeatedly slashed with a penknife and had her hands broken before being dumped in one of Covent Garden’s most up-scale bagnios. She would not have been the first, nor was she to be the last, who suffered such treatment at the hands of a
keeper. While it is possible that some degree of foul play may have been responsible for encouraging Sam’s participation in Charlotte’s scheme, it is equally probable that jealousy alone drove him to it.
Upon entering into a romance with Charlotte, Sam would have been forced to recognise that theirs could never be an exclusive relationship. Not only was Charlotte bound by circumstance to share her body with his friend, Robert Tracy, but she had to cultivate the interest of other possible keepers in the event that the Beau should tire of her. Derrick’s position would not have been so threatened by the existence of these peripheral admirers, but rather by the unavoidable reality that Tracy owned Charlotte. With the ability to buy her security and affection, the Beau would always possess the upper hand. In spite of Sam’s faith in the receipt of his inheritance, his wealth would never match that of his friend’s, nor of Charlotte’s other admirers. Sam’s position was unwinable, and one which forced him into taking a back seat in Charlotte’s life from this position he stepped into the role of protector. According to the Nocturnal Revels, Sam’s presence in his mistress’s house was felt by all who visited there. Derrick was quite regularly to be found lurking somewhere under her roof or ‘enjoying the run of Charlotte’s kitchen’. When there was no danger of Tracy appearing to demand her company, he bedded down with Charlotte, living partially as her lover and partially as her green-eyed lodger.
For whatever Derrick offered Charlotte in terms of genuine affection, she repaid in comfort and kindness. She shared what she could with Sam, providing him with companionship, support and sustenance, ‘when he had not shoes for his feet’. Aside from Derrick’s persistent hope that his inheritance would one day arrive and alter his needy circumstances, it is unlikely that either of them harboured any illusions concerning the future of their affair. Although it was not an ideal arrangement, neither she nor Sam were in a position to enjoy any other alternative. In his state of penury he could never hope to support her in the luxury she required, while she, as a first-rate lady of pleasure, would never condescend to exchange her existence for one of impoverished misery simply to follow the ephemeral joys of love. It is easy to picture the destitute Derrick lying in his lover’s arms, fraught with anguish and unworthiness at his inability to buy them a suitable future. His love for her would have been threaded with the sadness of an impossible situation. Charlotte, too, must have succumbed to a certain degree of despondency – although, with less patience and trust in the promises of men, she eventually would have tired of Sam’s empty assurances. Sam was never able to give her the expensive tokens of love she received from wealthier admirers, and his sence of inadequacy with regard to this never diminished. So many years later, he was still unable to forget what he felt he owed her. While they dwelt under Tracy’s roof, both felt powerless, and dependent in their own ways on the munificence of his bottomless purse.
Forced to adore his mistress from the sidelines, it was not long before hostility sprang from Sam’s feelings of impotence and envy. As a poet, Derrick’s natural inclination was to turn to the might of his pen rather than the force of his sword. Either way, his action was hasty and ill-considered. In the end, its repercussions would be detrimental to Charlotte’s well-being.
In 1755, when relations between the Beau and his mistress were beginning to wane, Sam could conceal his emotions no longer. ‘A Defence of Female Inconstancy’, dedicated to his friend Robert Tracy ‘of Coxscomb, in Gloucestershire’, appeared in print. Derrick had thrown down the gauntlet. If Tracy had eschewed the rumours of his friend’s treachery with his mistress in the past, now he had no cause to doubt them. The epistle not only carried a confirmation of Charlotte’s irregularities but offered a justification for them. Women were inconstant by nature, Sam explained, and were prone to wandering affections. He reasoned:
Why to one man, should woman be confin’d?
Why not unfetter’d, like his freeborn mind?
Is it not better she should the numbers bless?
All smell the rose – but are its sweets the less?
He then ripped the seams out of Tracy, the celebrated paragon of perfection:
Besides, restriction palls the jaded taste;
And in one man few virtues can be trac’d;
If all should in one prodigy unite,
Could such a monster give the least delight?
No, Sam concluded. Tracy’s handsome physique, his charm, his mind and his money were not sufficient to maintain his mistress’s affection. Women know what’s in their best interest, and ‘if worthier objects arise’ then, ‘You can not blame them, to withdraw the prize’. In spite of owning Charlotte, the Beau needed to recognise that his mistress defied her own nature if she did not look elsewhere for someone she truly desired. That someone, of course, was Sam. Finally, he implores his friend to loosen his grip and let Charlotte follow her heart, concluding:
Henceforth, uncensur’d, then, let woman range,
And due reflection be a friend to change.
How Tracy reacted to Derrick’s proclamation is frustratingly unrecorded. Certainly, the code of gentlemanly honour would have demanded the satisfaction of a duel at such a public insult. As Sam is known to have been involved in at least two other exchanges of fire, it is not improbable that this incident may have precipitated a third. Could this have been the culmination of the unfortunate triangle? If so, then all three managed to come through it alive, but it is unlikely that Tracy and Derrick found ample time to repair their injured friendship. A sudden turn of events shortly after the poem’s publication was about to alter each of their lives.
By 1755, the Beau’s finances were in an appalling state. Years of unbridled expenditure and gambling, exacerbated by Charlotte’s efforts at the pump, had come near to draining his resources completely. Even to the casual observer it had become apparent that ‘by pursuing such a line of conduct, Tracy might in time have squandered away the most ample fortune in England’. Charlotte, too, had not failed to scent trouble in her keeper’s circumstances, but unfortunately, finding a candidate as generous and as easily manipulated as the Beau was proving difficult. She had been so distracted by her quest to locate a replacement keeper that she was taken entirely by surprise when, without warning, Robert Tracy died.
The ailment that gripped Tracy, a man not yet thirty, is unknown. His will had been drawn up in haste on 14 May 1756, only several days before he expired. The Beau, who until then had lived only for his own pleasure, left a wake of debt behind him. The Revels reports that ‘his affairs were much disordered’, and his will records that he was even in arrears to his manservant, William Morgan, for ‘about one hundred pounds’. Knowing that his creditors would be baying outside the door of his chambers, he entrusted a fellow barrister with the task of selling ‘all the said goods, furniture, books, watches, rings’ to pay off what was owing. As was traditional, a small sum was then set aside for the purchase of mourning rings, or tokens of remembrance worn by those closest to the deceased. Tracy specifically left five pounds ‘to my laundress Charlotte Ward’ for this purpose.
In death, the Beau had exacted his much-belated revenge. By the conventions of Charlotte’s profession, such a bequest was nothing short of an insult. The gift of a mourning ring would have been a suitable gesture had it been accompanied by a pension to remunerate Charlotte for her devotion. It was through such bequests and pensions that a courtesan might gather an ample living for herself, so that in old age her security could be assured. Tracy, however, was not about to reward his mistress in death for her offensive behaviour while he lived. He owed her nothing she hadn’t already taken.
The Beau’s departing deed devastated Charlotte, not because she loved him, but because through his calculated reprisal he had set into motion a chain of events that would ruin her. Furious at his betrayal, Charlotte would one day boast to his friends that she never loved Tracy, or ‘any man in her life’. After more than ten years on the town, and as seasoned as she was, her former keeper’s actions were entir
ely foreseen. Charlotte had used his name to secure goods on credit from a multitude of shop-keepers and merchants; now she was unable to pay her bills. Everything she had won by her service to Tracy – all of her plate and jewellery, the fine furniture and silk gowns – had to be pawned. Even then she was not able to make up the shortfall. Without a well endowed keeper, she could no longer maintain either her carriage or her horses. Finally, she dismissed her servants, gave up her expensive lodgings and sought refuge with her mother. Unable to make good on the remainder of her debts, it was only a matter of time before the bailiff traced her whereabouts to Mrs Ward’s front door. Then, as the winter set in, they came for her. As she languished in the spunging house, friends and family took what steps they could to have her exonerated from the charges. Unfortunately, these measures failed, and by early 1757 she was in the Fleet.
Outside the rules of the Fleet, Sam was more disconsolate than ever. Having no funds with which to rescue his mistress, he employed the only gift of use to him in such situations: his infamous charm. According to Town and Country, Sam had done what he could to spare Charlotte from her creditors in the period prior to her arrest. He made appeals to those whom she owed the most money, pleading her case in person, begging them not to foreclose on her debts. Sadly, his persuasive words were not able to move the hearts of those holding the unpaid credit notes. Once these methods had failed and Derrick could do no more to save his mistress from the miserable fate awaiting her, he fell back on the tradition of collecting a subscription for the incarcerated. This approach had worked for the imprisoned Lucy Cooper, who had had funds raised on her behalf when she ‘was almost naked and starving, without a penny in her pocket to purchase food, raiment or a coal to warm herself’. The thought of Charlotte enduring similar misfortunes would have plagued him mercilessly. Derrick would have blamed himself at least in part for her troubles. Had poverty not bound his hands so tightly, the woman he loved would not have had to suffer.
The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List Page 11
