The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List

by Rubenhold, Hallie

  With a long-established portfolio of patrons who introduced new faces to her establishments through recommendation, Mrs Kelly’s businesses were entirely self-sufficient and maintained their distinctive reputation for being highly selective and discreet. William Hickey, who was among her better customers, often ‘went to dine with the useful, if not respectable Madam Kelly’, as she had become. In these new circumstances, Charlotte was even less willing than she had been in the past to suffer insult. On the same occasion that Hickey had come to dine in 1781, he claimed to have met ‘with a volley of abuse’ from Mrs Kelly for introducing one of his less salubrious friends into her house. Having trusted Hickey’s judgement, she found that Captain Mackintosh, whom she referred to as a ‘mean and despicable wretch’ and ‘a dirty dog’, had bilked her and each of Charlotte’s nymphs to the tune of £100. She made it clear to Hickey that at such an exclusive establishment as hers, this was not the kind of custom she had come to expect. Her base of support was such that she no longer required the patronage of any lustful gentleman with a heavy purse, and, if she felt like it, she could turn even the wealthiest from her drawing room.

  In this, Charlotte’s final return to business following two successive attempts to retire, she found herself less tied to any one of her professional premises. As she had learned upon her return to London, her ‘friends’ followed her regardless of where she chose to locate herself and irrespective of whether she had formally opened up shop. By the middle of the 1780s, she had relocated the focus of her trade to one of the freehold properties in Dennis’s possession in Berkeley Square, conveniently near to Half Moon Street. It was here in 1785 that Henry Dundas, Viscount Melville, an inveterate philanderer, escorted the Prime Minister, William Pitt, to the steps of Mrs Kelly’s mansion. The sexually ambivalent Pitt, when spying Charlotte at the door, made his excuses and quickly retreated. Gratefully for Charlotte’s enterprise, not all politicians were as reticent. Neither they nor their entirely male, land-holding electorate could give a fig about the carnal exploits of political leaders. Charles James Fox, Pitt’s political rival, made no bones about his relationship with the notorious houses of Mayfair or the women who found employment under their roofs. As a racing associate of Dennis and a client of Charlotte, his father’s money helped to subsidise the lifestyles that the O’Kellys enjoyed. As illustrated by Thomas Rowlandson’s political cartoon of 1784, Fox, in the throes of campaigning for his Westminster seat, is shown in the company of his so-called ‘best friends’ – a handful of bawds, including one particularly ancient doyenne who it is suggested may be Charlotte.

  Although still much in demand, Mrs Kelly’s public appearances became less and less frequent as the 1780s wore on. By the time she entered her sixties, an exalted age in the late eighteenth century, she became an increasingly reluctant purveyor of hospitality, choosing the quiet of her Half Moon Street residence and the company of Dennis over the loud, lewd dinners and gatherings of which she was frequently at the centre. Although Charlotte had never enthusiastically embraced the prospect of returning to her old profession, her withdrawal from society was hastened by the onset of what was described as ‘a lassitude and anxiety of mind and body’.

  For an unspecified period between 1783 and 1785, Charlotte became a recluse in her London home and separated herself ‘from a life of gay and giddy dissipation’. Through Dennis’s arrangement, Dr Chidwick was engaged to attend her while she strove ‘to divert the symptoms of hysteric afflicition’ and convalesced undisturbed. What precisely plunged Charlotte into a sudden state of clinical depression is not specified by any of the chroniclers of her or Dennis’s history, although the revelation of a subsequent incident in her narrative, as told by the author of Dennis’s Memoirs, makes this more apparent. Charlotte, it seems, had nearly recovered from her ‘mental complaint’, when news of a riding accident that had befallen her ‘nephew’ Andrew was delivered to her. In truth, Andrew had only been thrown from his mount, but as the Memoirs recount, ‘by the time this accident reached the ears of Charlotte, it was magnified to dislocations, fractures, amputations and all the melancholy consequences which might possibly have attended such an event’. Andrew had been a companion, he was Dennis’s designated heir and, having adopted his uncle’s name as part of his own, he had stepped into the role of a long-wished-for son. The rumoured news of a grievous, life-threatening injury was more than Charlotte could bear: ‘at the intelligence she expressed a kind of maternal grief’, from which ‘it was many months before she recovered’.

  Why would such an event, especially when it proved a false alarm, have had such a profound effect on Charlotte’s mental state? It is most likely that the news of Andrew’s accident had come heavy on the heels of the death of her daughter. After Mary Charlotte was deposited at the convent in Ostend, nothing more is heard of her. Dennis, her father, who died in 1787, does not so much as mention her in his will. A token gift of ‘1000 pounds’, however, was granted to one of his nieces, Mary Harvey, who, along with his sister-in-law Elizabeth O’Kelly, had taken on the responsibilities of raising his daughter in Dublin when she was too old to remain at Clay Hill. Possibly through illness, the daughter whose life Charlotte had so closely guarded, the only blood relation she had fostered, was taken from her while only in her teens. The implications of this must have been too difficult for her mother to bear, causing her to throw into question the events of her own life, the babies she may have recklessly abandoned or aborted and the girls of a similar age by whom she may have done ill.

  For some time, Charlotte remained almost inconsolable, declining invitations and refusing to interact with anyone outside her own household. Cloistered away in her rooms at Half Moon Street, she only gradually began to amuse herself ‘with the decorations of fancy, and the ornaments of approved taste’. In order to deaden her despair, it was recommended that she fill her home with pets, so that she might ‘divert her thoughts’. Soon the O’Kelly residence was filled ‘by a variety of animated objects’, which included ‘several domestic and foreign animals’, the most interesting of which was a ‘wonderful parrot, whose rare and astonishing faculties, if it was not yet alive to prove their reality would scarcely be believed, even by the most credulous’. Polly, as the parrot was called, was purchased by Dennis for fifty guineas in Bristol and presented to Charlotte as a gift to raise her spirits. The ailing Mrs O’Kelly took the creature to her bosom, and devoted so much time to it that she ‘seemed to enjoy more satisfaction from its society than that of her own species.’ The result was a pampered pet, so well trained that it ‘not only repeat[ed] all things, but answer[ed] almost everything’, and possessed ‘so strong [a] retention, that it sings a variety of tunes, with exquisite melody!’

  Throughout Charlotte’s distress Dennis remained unwavering at her side, repaying her for the emotional and financial support she had lent him over the years. Towards the end of his life, Dennis as well succumbed to a sort of melancholia, or what his Memoirs describe as ‘an unnatural moroseness’, not unlike that suffered by Charlotte. By 1785, the normally convivial ‘Count O’Kelly’ was not in the best of health. Plagued by increasingly bad gout, he became irritable. He and Charlotte had come to pass most of their days in Piccadilly, sitting in their windows overlooking the park, silently observing the beribboned ton on their promenades. Since the onset of her ‘affliction’, Charlotte had entirely turned her back on Clay Hill. Dennis followed suit and handed the estate over to Philip. Purchased in the year of her daughter’s birth as a haven in which she might raise her child, the house held far too many ghosts to ever entice her back. Instead, Dennis began negotiations to buy a property which he had earmarked as an ideal retreat – somewhere for himself and Charlotte to live out the last of their days in a manner befitting the station to which they had risen. An ambitious social climber to the end, ‘Count’ O’Kelly had his heart set on acquiring the former home of the Duke of Chandos, Canons Park.

  In November of 1785, an advert appeared in one of the Lon
don newspapers for the ‘Freehold estate called Cannons’. Nine miles from London, it comprised:

  five hundred and forty seven acres, one rood and thirty-one perch, of remarkable rich meadow, arable and wood land. One-hundred and twelve acres of which is a fine fertile paddock, refreshed by two noble sheets of water, surrounded by a capital brick wall, a neat magnificent Portland stone dwelling house with suitable offices, pleasure grounds and gardens … the farms are very compact and lett to … good tennants; the whole annual value (exclusive of house and offices) nine hundred and fifty four pounds, fifteen shillings …

  The entire estate was to be auctioned at Garraway’s Coffee House on 16 November. Dennis seized the opportunity and, after many months of protracted negotiation with its current owner, William Hallett, he was able to secure Canons outright in April 1787. It was a splendid purchase. Canons Park was a picture of bucolic perfection, a Georgian Arcadia, where sheep and deer grazed in fertile meadowland, where one could amble contemplatively along the water’s edge and through cool wooded glades. While the house at Clay Hill had been decorated fashionably and lent itself adequately to formal entertaining, the Canons Park estate was a grander address by far. Although the baroque mansion constructed under the direction of the Duke of Chandos had been demolished, a more modern, classically restrained edifice had been built in its place. Its interior was ornamented with carved marble chimney pieces and statuary, its rooms were edged with gilt mouldings and cornices, while an ‘elegant stone staircase’ with a ‘handrail inlayed with ivory and pearl’ would take guests to the first floor. With twelve bedchambers, a salon, breakfast room, dining room, study, and several drawing rooms and dressing rooms, the O’Kellys could delight their visitors as they had at Clay Hill but in more commodious surroundings. The ‘various and magnificent’ items of furniture and objets d’art that Charlotte had purchased or been presented with, ‘for meretricious services done in King’s Place’, were moved from Clay Hill to decorate her new rooms. Canons was described as being an hour’s drive from London, closer than Clay Hill had been, which allowed for visitors to come and go more freely, preventing Charlotte from succumbing to the isolation she had experienced in Epsom. Dennis had intended Canons Park to be the ideal country refuge, where neither the demands of London nor the business of horse breeding would disturb them.

  For roughly eight months, Charlotte and Dennis enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of their new country abode. As his Memoirs state, after his establishment ‘in the delightful residence of Cannons, the proprietor became more select in his company’. Dennis had begun to tire of his racing clique and the antics of some of its more blackguard members. As an older man, ‘O’Kelly took many occasions to express a disapprobation of his younger days’, a luxury that only those who have met with success irrespective of their youthful follies can relish. Accordingly, Dennis (but not Charlotte) was embraced ‘by people of the first class of his own sex and a few female friends’. By now Charlotte was accustomed to such arrangements and would disappear back to Mayfair in order to avoid uncomfortable situations. In the end, however, Dennis preferred the company of his lifelong companion to the ephemeral camaraderie of the local squirearchy. When his persistent gout began to ‘attack him with determined violence’ in early December, he chose to shut up Canons and spend his bedridden days at Half Moon Street under Charlotte’s care. Shortly before Christmas, Dennis slipped into a delirium, before expiring ‘with every evidence of bodily ease’, on 28 December.

  Many men had claimed to love Charlotte Hayes, but those such as Dennis O’Kelly and Sam Derrick, who had seen her as more than a fashionable ornament to parade on their public excursions, did what they could in death to reward her for her devotion in life. Sam Derrick, who had praised her kindness and gentility, who had never entirely managed to remove her from his heart, bequeathed what little of value he had into Charlotte’s hands. Dennis, however, was able to provide her with much more than token gestures of enduring affection. Although the years had proved that Charlotte was more than capable of looking after herself and amassing a comfortable fortune through her own efforts, Dennis recognised that as a woman who did not have the benefit of society’s respect, Charlotte’s position after his demise would be a vulnerable one. As many women of Charlotte’s character ended their days in greatly reduced circumstances for lack of male protection, Dennis thoughtfully made provisions to avoid this. Of the three main beneficiaries named in his will, it was ‘Charlotte Hayes, called Mrs. O’Kelly who now lives and resides with me’ who stood to gain more than his legitimate blood relations. For the duration of her life, Dennis had granted his mistress the privilege of calling Canons her home. So that she might not find herself without means of getting there, he also bequeathed her ‘both my chariot and coach and all such coach or carriage horses as I shall be possessed of at the time of my decease with all the harness equipage and furniture thereto belonging.’ He ensured that her home continued to be well furnished, granting her ‘the use and enjoyment of all the household furniture, goods and chattels’, in addition to his most valuable plateware, the candlesticks, the ‘silver tea urn, tea kettle, coffee pot and all … silver whatsoever being tea equipage or property belonging to her tea table’. Into her care he placed the ‘diamonds, jewels, watches, rings and other personal ornaments’, in addition to the diamond ring he wore, as a token of remembrance. All further residue of his estate, all profits resulting from his stud and the sale of horses after his debts were paid, was then to be divided three ways, between Charlotte, his nephew Andrew and his brother Philip. Although the cumulative value of these possessions was substantial and would have assured a comfortable existence, Dennis promised her something that would offer her lasting peace of mind: a guaranteed income. Charlotte was to receive an annuity of £400 attached to the freehold of the property, instructed to be paid quarterly into her hands ‘during the term of her natural life without any deduction or abatement whatsoever’. At last, Charlotte Hayes was at liberty to retire.

  As might have been predicted, Dennis’s death had a destabilising effect on Charlotte’s mental condition. Already susceptible to upsets following the tragedy of the loss of her daughter, her dark moods seemed to last for even longer spells, so that well into the next century O’Kelly relations were still making veiled references to ‘Charlotte’s state’. Additionally, it is possible that Charlotte may have been contending with the long-term effects of syphilis as it gradually eroded her health. From January of 1788, she removed herself once more from London society and from those who demanded her services. She sought refuge at Canons and leant on Dennis’s male relations for the support to which she had become accustomed. Almost everyone, from family to her established friends and business acquaintances, came to recognise this departure as being her last. The 1788 edition of Harris’s List, compiled in the winter of 1787 just before her change of circumstances, is the final time her name is found mentioned in these annals. It is certain, however, that when Charlotte took her farewell curtsey and abandoned the theatre of Venus, she did not live a solitary life. Although no longer in practice, her home was frequently the venue for Andrew’s entertainments, including a revival of the great musical performances at Canons originally initiated by the Duke of Chandos. A new generation of beautiful young actresses and singers, such as Mrs Crouch and Ann Storace, was followed there by their many admirers, and the estate would have hummed with the energy of youth, love, lust and music. But what mischief may have come to pass on a warm summer’s evening in the gardens or twelve bedchambers of Canons would have done so of its own accord, without any assistance from Charlotte.

  19

  THE LAST DAYS OF THE LIST

  AT THE TIME of her death in 1813, Charlotte had seen well over eighty-five years of life. The specific circumstances of her passing are unknown, other than that she died at Half Moon Street on an unspecified date, at an unrecorded time. Her longevity meant that she had lived to witness the deaths of many of her nearest and dearest. She had even su
rvived her rivals and contemporaries in the sex trade, including John Harrison. Remarkably, she had also managed to outlive the Harris’s List, a publication by whose existence she had profited threefold, first as a listed ‘lady’, then as a mentioned madam and also as a beneficiary of its sale.

  Not unlike Charlotte Hayes, née Ward, a.k.a. O’Kelly and Kelly, the Harris’s List had evolved significantly during its existence. Although it retained its original format, by the last year of its issue in 1795 it bore little resemblance to the publication that helped to spring Sam Derrick from the clutches of Ferguson’s Spunging House. From 1757 until his death in 1769, the List remained a product of Sam Derrick’s invention: a witty but useful little tome which sought to document the characters who comprised Covent Garden’s carnal underworld. It painted them as true flesh and blood, objectively and honestly. As Derrick had never envisioned such a wide-scale success, initially the Harris’s Lists were intended to appeal to the Piazza’s regular crowd, containing references and in-jokes familiar to the local pleasure-seeker. The author’s presence on the pages is a palpable one, as is the sense that the List is a community effort, coloured with wry personal observations and hearsay, relayed to Derrick by a variety of acquaintances.