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

by Rubenhold, Hallie

  Popular convention has led us to believe the adage that ‘men never marry their mistresses’, but many successful prostitutes did enjoy an existence that ended in a marriage to their keepers. Numerous women on the Lists, as well as others who shared their profession, entered into wedded unions, not only with men of aristocratic birth (who, with some leverage, could marry whomever they might be inclined to) but to those of the gentry and the wealthy middle classes. Harriet Powell, one of Charlotte Hayes’s recruits, married the Earl of Seaforth; Elizabeth Armistead became the wife of the politician Charles James Fox; Kitty Fisher married John Norris, a wealthy landowner; Emma Hart became the wife of Sir William Hamilton, the envoy to Naples; Elizabeth Farren married the Earl of Derby; and Ann Day, after acting as the mistress to the 2nd Baron Edgcumbe, married Sir Peter Fenhoulet. In terms of fashion, where the aristocracy went, the rest of society followed. In an article that appeared in the January 1755 edition of The Connoisseur, a concerned critic claimed that keeping a mistress was becoming so much the practice that even clerks and apprentices were maintaining women in private lodgings. Worse still, many ‘grow so doatingly fond of their whore that by marriage they make her an honest woman and perhaps a lady of quality’.

  The reality of the situation was that not every lady of the town was rescued by a well-heeled lover, and for each penniless waif snatched from the grasp of starvation were many more who suffered brutal existences. Prostitution, as a career, made no promises to any of its recruits, and in this respect it differed little from any other course of life that a woman of the lower orders of society might follow. A girl born to poor parents within the confines of the rapidly expanding metropolis could expect to receive scant few of life’s favours. Every day would present another hardship or struggle, whether this was the burden of harsh physical labour, the never-ending quest for food and a means of keeping oneself warm, or fighting off the ravages of disease and violence which were rampant in London’s poorest corridors. For those of the lower middle classes, or what Saunders Welch termed ‘the labouring classes’ and the ‘industrious poor’, whether girls worked as laundresses, seamstresses and street sellers or managed to enter into apprenticeships or domestic service, their futures looked equally dim. Perhaps if they were lucky they might marry a man like them, a tradesman who eked out a living of twenty shillings a week as a weaver or carpenter. If they were very lucky, they might marry a slightly more prosperous shop-keeper and assist in running the family trade. Pregnancies and children would come regularly, breeding money worries with each new arrival. Life was precarious and unstable. No one could guarantee that their husband would be faithful, sober, or non-violent. No one could promise that a bad turn of luck wouldn’t land them all on the street or in prison. Women of this class, whose voices were unheard and who were virtually sidelined by society and the law, had little recourse in the tragedies that befell them. It is easy to comprehend in this light how prostitution might have led the hopeful to believe that the loss of virtue was a small price to pay for the opportunity of living a life of luxury and the potential of making a match well above their station. As long as the gilded carriages of Kitty Fisher and Fanny Murray continued to clatter over the cobblestones of Covent Garden, and actresses like Sophia Baddeley appeared dressed in her admirer’s gifts of jewels and silks, a girl might reconcile herself to a life of sin.

  While leading a necessitous but virtuous life offered little more guarantee of happiness than a career of prostitution, the latter of these two options held the potential for a variety of additional misfortunes. Venereal disease was primary among them, and one pitfall that a wife with a faithful husband might never have cause to experience. Both the pox and the clap were cured with tinctures of mercury, which if used too frequently might diminish in potency and become ineffective. If used incorrectly such treatments might also result in a slow, agonising death. Pregnancy, the natural by-product of a life spent indulging in sex, threw up an entire host of problems. Prostitutes often had to get rid of their offspring in order to preserve themselves. Frequent abortions and the emotional repercussions of depositing unwanted babies on doorsteps, at the Foundling Hospital or in other more lethal locations, must have been harrowing. These fears, when combined with finding oneself a prisoner to a pimp or a bawd, bound in debt to these sometimes vicious ‘protectors’ and in some situations locked in a room or a house and forced to service customers, would have been nothing short of a hellish existence. Even those who had been granted some degree of success in their professional endeavours and ‘traded as independent’ could easily succumb to the snares of drink, especially gin, the notorious gut-churning tipple of the desperate, and later to usquebaugh (or whisky), which dulled the pain of life with equal measure. For someone who was constantly in taverns and plied with drink by intoxicated patrons, alcoholism became a job-related illness. In any event, performing the sexual act with a physically unappealing partner seemed less troubling when one was barely lucid. Psychologically, how women in these situations contended with the hazards and tragedies that life served to them so liberally can only be imagined. Not surprisingly, their patchy histories reveal that many lived only for the moment and gave virtually no thought to the management of their futures: after all, what was the point when one had been the victim of circumstance and the schemes of others since the day of one’s birth?

  The stories of those who managed to retain some degree of cheerfulness in the face of such adversity are objects of wonder, particularly to modern observers. The entries for women like Sukey Baker, mentioned in the List for 1773 and 1779, paint touching images of the human spirit, inextinguishable even in the bleakest of times. In 1773 Miss Baker is marked out for her complete acquiescence to her customers, who ‘are as capricious in their desires as a fine lady in a toy-shop’. Within six years, it seems that Sukey Baker’s complete ‘condescension to her admirers’ has won her a ‘husband’ (in the loosest terms), or at least someone to defend her interests. However by 1779, Sukey’s husband has been captured by a press gang and ‘is gone board one of his majesty’s ships of war’, leaving poor ‘Miss’ Baker to once more shift for herself as a prostitute. In truth, the author of the List comments, this was not such a bad turn of events, as Sukey ‘was very seldom without bruises while he was with her’. Rather than dousing herself in alcohol or succumbing to the blackness of depression, Sukey remains miraculously resilient and is described as being quite chatty and ‘fond of singing’. She tells humorous stories and in spite of everything ‘bears a good name with respect to sobriety and dealing always with honour’.

  Others did not carry the burden of prostitution so well. The sad fate of Miss Menton, who features in the Lists of 1788 and 1789, presents a picture of a lonely and injured young woman sinking into unhappiness. In 1788 we are informed that the nineteen-year-old ‘independent lass’ has only just entered into a life upon the town in the past eight months. She sees visitors at her lodgings on Berwick Street, which she shares with another whore, Miss Ratcliff, but also takes ‘noon and evening excursions’ in search of culls. The author recommends her as ‘a deserving piece’, since she appears to ‘enjoy the sport with unfeigned rapture’ and ‘seems satisfied with one guinea’. The following year, however, the situation has somewhat changed. We learn that her entry into prostitution was occasioned by a seduction which eventually resulted in abandonment by her lover, a young baronet. Miss Menton had been in keeping with him for only a short while before ‘indifference took place’ and ‘the desire entirely vanished’. The author continues that, ‘owing to the baronet’s inconstancy, together with the common cares of the world, the damsel is subject to a great lowness of spirits’. Weakened by the demands of her profession, in the span of one year Miss Menton has already turned to the bottle for comfort, requiring ‘three or four cheerful glasses’ in order to dispel her dark mood and perform the task required of her.

  Alcoholism proved to be the ruin of many otherwise successful careers on the town. Eighteenth-century men d
id not like the sight of drunken ladies. Nothing was considered less genteel or feminine than a dishevelled and out-of-control woman completely incapacitated by drink. Kitty Euston (or Eustace), a moderately well-off Thais who had been on the town at least since 1761, had by 1773 almost entirely undone herself through her love of gin. ‘This lady about four or five years ago was indeed a pretty girl’, wrote the author, but ‘she can now toss off a glass of gin as well as the commonest bunter in the Strand, and like them, stoop to every meanness’. At least twelve years in business had exacted a heavy toll. She had spent time in the King’s Bench Prison with her keeper, a Mr Callender, and had fended off several encounters with venereal disease. Her hardships had bestowed on her a gaunt and ‘masculine’ look, erasing any soft traces of prior beauty. ‘She has suffered much’, claimed the List, and like a well-used broom had been ‘worn to the stump’.

  For every Nancy Dawson and Charlotte Hayes who managed their careers with skilful business acumen, there was a Lucy Cooper who carelessly threw away any advantage she had gained through thoughtless behaviour and a preference for the bottle. For many more women, poor health and general despair was to blame. So many names that appear on the Lists over the years are mentioned once and then never again. What became of them, the anonymous Miss Browns, Miss Joneses, Miss Williams and Miss Smiths who simply pass through the pages anonymously? We can hope for happy endings. It is not unlikely that some found long-term keepers or even married. As prostitution could serve as a stopgap between roles on the stage or positions in domestic service, it is possible that some were able to find other work. Perhaps a handful even found their way through the gates of the Magdalen Hospital where they were trained for positions in ‘respectable life’. Regrettably, for a large number of women this was not the way their stories ended. Those who disappeared from the Lists most likely did so for more sinister reasons. In addition to incurable syphilis and alcoholism, the march of age or the loss of beauty could bring an abrupt end to a career. Likewise, the law frequently caught up with women who coupled prostitution with pickpocketing, or those like Charlotte Hayes who found themselves unable to pay their bills. More than in any other place, death lay in prison. It is probable that many of the names on the Harris’s Lists ended their short and difficult days like Lucy Cooper, bereft of friends and at the bottom of a pauper’s grave.

  It should be remembered that for the majority featured in the Lists, prostitution was never their chosen path, but rather one that fate had mapped out for them. In a male-dominated society, it flattered the masculine ego to believe that once a woman had been stripped of her virginity, she became as lustful as a man. If this happened outside of marriage, quite simply she became a whore, if not in action than in thought. There were no halves in this equation. Whether a young woman willingly gave her consent to fornication or whether she was raped did not matter: the net result was the same – she was no longer pure and her carnal desires had been whetted. The world looked unforgivingly on women in this situation; they were rendered good for nothing but a life of prostitution, that necessary evil of all of society’s roles. Since the authors of the Harris’s Lists were male, this is the perspective that is adopted by and large in the Lists’ entries, an attitude that expresses only cursory sympathy for the woman’s plight. Many of the women (who in some instances should rightly be called girls) who found themselves on the Lists arrived there as victims of rape or even childhood sexual abuse. The story of Lenora Norton, who appears in the 1788 and 1789 editions, is a case of the latter. Her history is recorded in such a terse matter-of-fact tone that it is almost shocking to read. It is described to the reader in titillating terms how Miss Norton, the daughter of a surgeon, was ‘seduced by her present keeper in a famous hotel’ at a very young age. So young, in fact, that Lenora had not yet even entered puberty. It seemed that nature had not ‘stamped the least shadow of womanhood’ on her nubile body, which as a result caused ‘the naked centrical spot’, ‘fearful of pain, which was not accompanied by any other sensation’ to ‘recoil at the touch of the wicked invader …’. The author then cheerfully concludes that, although just a girl, Lenora ‘was not destitute of admirers’ and soon learned to ‘seize the long hated acquaintance and urge him home with the true feelings of a woman of pleasure’. Lenora then spent the next several years of her life courting the advances of other gentlemen, but eventually was seduced back into keeping with Mr Cotton, her abuser. How many other listed women suffered similarly can only be imagined.

  The possibility of rape or physical assault was always a spectre that lingered in the wings of a prostitute’s life. Naturally, the majority of crimes of this nature would go unreported, although women on the receiving end might find themselves scarred both emotionally and physically for life. The celebrated Betsy Weyms, mentioned in the 1761 List, bore a striking reminder of the risk of violence inherent in her walk of life. Called the ‘wall-eyed beauty’ by her admirers, at some early point in her career Betsy had been the victim of a vicious attack which resulted in the loss of an eye. A pimp or a bully could come in quite useful in preventing bloody fracases of the nature suffered by Miss Weyms. For kept mistresses in lodgings, it was always handy to have a male servant on staff. Charlotte Barry, William Hickey’s mistress, was fortunate enough to have a man who answered her door and who was strong enough to repel the aggression of her former lover, Henry Mordaunt. Without the presence of a male protector, many women mentioned in the Lists relied on one another for security and support. One of the most common arrangements was for prostitutes to live and work in pairs or small groups, thereby ensuring that at least someone was keeping an ear and an eye attuned to the safety of the others. Only a shout from an adjoining room was required to raise the alarm and, through a collective effort, fend off any foul play.

  The choice of many prostitutes to live and work together served other purposes beside that of personal safety. The need for companionship and a sense of community cannot be underestimated. Although the Lists, indicate that by and large prostitutes were fully integrated into the communities they inhabited, living nestled among wigmakers, stationers and ironmongers rather than in isolated red light districts, their relations with other women would have been somewhat strained. As prostitutes were commonly perceived as vice-spreaders – agents of disease and corruption who could insinuate themselves into a family and undermine the fabric of society – it was simpler to keep oneself to oneself and to commune only with others involved in or sympathetic to the trade. Therefore, creating and maintaining friendships and relationships with others in similar situations was crucial to avoid isolation and to sustain a sense of community. Not surprisingly, groups of siblings as well as mothers and daughters often lived together as families while practising as prostitutes. The Lists are filled with names of sisters like the Ingmires (1761) and the Bowens (1764), who entered into prostitution and created a home environment where they could continue to engage in their trade and live as a family. In a number of cases, as was the situation with the Sells sisters in 1773, three generations of women, a mother, her daughters and their female children, cohabited under the same roof. However, such strong bonds between women did not always require shared blood. There were many who chose to live together as close friends, becoming in some cases one another’s surrogate family. Polly Kennedy and Nancy Dawson, who were both considerably well-off by the time they were mentioned in the 1761 and 1779 Lists, chose to live together for reasons of mutual companionship. The two were inseparable, sharing a keeper (the actor Ned Shuter) and lodgings for most of their lives. Their friendship, like that experienced between many women, was one which became as deep as a familial bond and led Dawson to will Kennedy her fully furnished house on King Street at the end of her life. While there were many who resided in ‘adopted’ family groups, others shared lodgings with fellow prostitutes simply in order to defray the costs of living. Much like today’s single urban professionals, it was more economical if the expenses of rent, food and even transportation were
shared between two or three. In 1793, Miss Townsend and Miss Charlton, both of 12 Gress Street, had thrown in their lots together and were not only splitting the rent due on their residence but the expense of keeping a carriage. They, like the noted trio of Miss Trelawney, Miss Fitzroy and Miss Wargent (all living at 9 Bateman’s Buildings), were frequently seen in public together, attending the same dances and theatrical performances, laughing and gallivanting in a close-knit circle.

  Ideally, a successful mistress of her enterprise would strive to eventually become the ‘keeper of her house’. A wealthy enough lover would purchase the lease of a premises for his lady where she could let out the unoccupied rooms to others of her profession. By these means she could elevate herself from the rank of mistress to that of bawd, or bring friends or female relations under her roof to ward off loneliness. Many of those who ‘kept the house’, such as Miss Heseltine in 1779, Nancy Crosby in 1788 and Mrs Vincent in 1793, opened their doors to a mix of prostitutes, ordinary male lodgers, women who desired a place to give birth in secret (or ‘lie-in’), and couples who sought a location to ‘intrigue’ by the hour. In fact, the letting of rooms was such a comfortable means of securing an extra income that other, more seemingly upstanding professionals saw the merit in it. The Lists are peppered with addresses of prostitutes living under the roofs of tradespeople, like Miss Seabright in 1773 who was lodging ‘at a Barber’s in the Haymarket’, or Nancy Davenport and Sarah Cullen who shared accommodation ‘at a cabinet maker’s.’ Just how far society was willing to turn a blind eye to the activities of Harris’s ladies was entirely relative.