The Covent Garden Ladies (50 page)

Mitchell, ‘Mother’ Elizabeth 216, 251

Mordaunt, Henry 292

Mossop, Henry 32

Murphy, Arthur 87

Murray, Fanny 49, 50, 64–5, 66, 88, 92, 166, 288

Nash, Richard ‘Beau’ 49, 227, 228

Needham, ‘Mother’ 126

Newgate prison 183, 186, 187, 283

Nocturnal Revels
22, 47, 88, 90, 91, 96, 99, 108, 195, 197, 210–211, 217–18, 219, 221, 251, 253–4

Oeconomy of Love
(John Armstrong) 220–1, 253

O’Kelly, Andrew Dennis 248, 251, 258–9, 268, 271, 275, 276

O’Kelly, ‘Mrs’ Charlotte (see Hayes, Charlotte)

O’Kelly Dennis 166, 167, 241, 250, 268

early years 190–91

physical description 190

rumours of marriage 191

in the Fleet 192–96

gambling 215, 190–2, 258

and Eclipse 243, 244, 245

Miss Swinbourne incident 245–6, 167

hospitality of 255–56

later years 272, 274

death and will 274–5

O’Kelly, Elizabeth 248, 271

O’Kelly Mary Charlotte 247, 248–50, 268, 271–2

O’Kelly Philip 244, 166, 272, 275, 276

‘Old’ Twigg 54

Oldys, Dr. William 84–5

Owen, Susannah 89

Pendergast, Sarah 251, 252

pimps/pimping

charges

‘Poundage’ 65

‘Tire money’ 65–6

‘Chair money’ 67

‘arranging a flier’ 68

‘humming fund’ 67

‘Whore’s club’ revenue 66

definition of 26

pimp’s lists (handwritten) 62–3, 64–5

Pitt, William 270

Place, Francis 46, 124, 281

posture molls 201–2

Powell, Harriet 209, 287

Pratt, Robert 88

Price, Chace 212, 221

Prostitution/Prostitutes 284–98

virginity 46–7

‘in keeping’ 47–8

professional names 48–9

and married women 59

Irish 60

training of 60, 208–9

‘the Whore’s Club’ 66, 69–70

brutalities and dangers of 95–6, 287, 288–91

arguments in favour of 120

social make-up 121–4, 287

routes into the profession 125–27, 210–11, 285

pregnancy 241–2

marriage to keepers 287

alcoholism 289–90

perceptions of 291, 294–8

relationships with other women 293–4

living arrangements 292–4

Queensborough, Duke of (‘Old Q’) 222

Quin, James 231, 232

Ranger, H. 114, 119, 122, 204, 280, 281, 282

rape 126–7, 292

Register Offices 58, 126, 210, 211

The Remonstrance of Harris
55, 60, 69, 183–6

Reynolds, Joshua 279

Rich, John 104

Richardson, Samuel 125

Roach, James 280–3

Roach, John 280–3

Roach, Margaret 281

Roach, Mrs 281

Roach, ‘Tiger’ 281

Rose Tavern 12–13, 95, 167, 201–4, 206

Ross, David 166

Rowlandson, Thomas 270

S—t—n, Miss ‘The beauty of Arlington Street’ 168

St James’s, Piccadilly 170, 199

St Leger, Lord Hayes 78

Sandwich, 4th earl of 217

Savage, Richard 75

Seaforth, 4th earl of 209, 287

Selwyn, George 211, 212, 220

Shakespear’s Head Tavern 12, 38, 39, 52–4, 70, 71, 80–1, 92, 95, 112, 181–82, 199, 200, 202, 203, 206

Shannon, 1st earl of 224, 226

Shelly, Miss 221

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 203, 263, 264

Shuter, Ned 14, 52, 84, 131, 293

Smart, Christopher 84

Smith, Ann 45

Smollett, Tobias 69, 78, 79, 84, 93, 108–9

Soho 198

Southwell, Lord Thomas 224

Spencer, ‘The Honourable’ Charlotte 61–2, 165, 252

Spencer, Robert 61–2

Spilsbury, James 251

Star Tavern 68

Storace, Ann 276

Stott, Mrs Jane (see Lessingham, Jane)

Stott, Captain John 105

Strode, Edward 88

Strode, Lucy 88

Swift, Jonathan 28

Taylor, Dr. John 79, 102, 103, 104, 233

Thompson, Edward 50, 51

Temple, Fanny (see Hartford, Fanny)

Tighe, Elizabeth (
née
O’Kelly) 248

Timbs, John 24

Tomkins, Packington 53–4, 57, 63–4, 71, 111, 181, 182, 184–5, 200, 201, 202–3, 206,

Town and Country Magazine
93, 100, 231, 242

Tracy, Judge Robert 86

Tracy, Robert ‘Beau’ 86–91, 92–101, 189, 196, 231, 265

Uxbridge, 1st earl of 217

Vaughan, Thomas 124

Von la Roche, Sophie 121

Wales, George Prince of 217, 255

Walpole, Sir Robert 19

Ward, Charlotte (see Hayes, Charlotte)

Ward, Elizabeth 42–5, 46–7, 48, 89, 91, 100, 189, 196, 212

Ward, Ned 111

Warren, Emily 214, 209, 285

Watson, Thomas 201, 203

Weatherby, ‘Mother’ Elizabeth 49, 214

Welch, Justice Saunders 53, 121, 122, 123, 126, 178, 179, 180

Weyms, Betsy 292

Wildman, William 243

Wilkes, Thomas 225

Wilson, Tom 78, 233, 234

Windsor, ‘Mother’ Catherine 251

Woffington, Peg 35, 52, 84, 201

Wood, J.L. 281

Woodcock, Sarah 126

Wright, Justice 181, 182, 183

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hallie Rubenhold
is a historian and expert in women’s lives in the eighteenth century. She is the author of the novel
Mistress of My Fate
, the first in the series of Confessions of Henrietta Lightfoot, a courageous Georgian courtesan. Also available is Hallie Rubenhold’s edited version of the original
Harris’s List
.

Find out more about the author and her works at
www.hallierubenhold.com
, and about the series of novels, Confessions of Henrietta Lightfoot, at
www.henriettalightfoot.co.uk
.

Read on for an extract from
Mistress of My Fate
by Hallie Rubenhold

5th March 1835

MY DEAR READER, how pleased I am that you have purchased this volume! It warms my heart that you have requested it from your bookseller; that he has wrapped it carefully in brown paper and string and handed it to you. How happy I am that you have taken it home with you to read in the quiet of your sitting room or library. Now you may know the truth, and nothing gives me greater relief than this.

I have no doubt that many of you have come to this work out of curiosity. You have heard so much about me, most of which is pure fabrication. Now that you have torn off the packaging and cut the pages, you can begin to read my story and to know who I am. You see, for some time a relation of mine has been attempting to discredit me in the most reprehensible manner. I have no doubt that he too sent a servant to his local bookseller to collect a copy of this work. As you read this, so does he. His eyes are scanning every word, searching every syllable. He is among you, taking in my story alongside you.

To him I say, Lord Dennington, do not think I have written these memoirs because of you. Do not flatter yourself. You are only part of the reason. There is much I need to say on the matter of my life and I have grown weary of your slander. Whomever you have hired to do your disgraceful deeds, whether it is those shameless scribes who will print anything for a crust of bread, or that unscrupulous little spy you planted among my loyal staff, they are not capable of telling the truth. You pay them and so they will say anything. Certainly, a man who has seen as much of the world as you should know this.

Now it is my turn to pick up my pen, to clear my name, to scrub away the lies with which you have stained it. I must commend you for the amusement you have provided for me and my friends. We laughed heartily at your accusations – that I had been a circus performer, that I worked as a charlatan attempting to revive the dead and, worse still, that I murdered a ship of sailors. Really, this is quite absurd.

No, sir, as you will come to realize, these memoirs are not written solely because of you. I write because it is time for the public to hear my story, because for as long as I have been called Mrs Lightfoot, great men and women have asked for it. The world wants my confession yet, until this moment, I refused to honour that request. I wished to keep my life and my adventures quiet. Like you, my lord, discretion was one of the virtues I was taught as a child.

As for my other readers, whose sensibilities I wish to protect, I feel the need to issue a warning. In these pages I set out to tell the absolute truth. If you take offence easily, if you are faint of heart or of a delicate nature, there is much here that you are likely to find objectionable. It is necessary for you to understand why I have, in the past, refused to discuss these private matters. My story is not an easy one to relay, nor is it likely to be short.

I shall begin by telling you what I remember most vividly: an early morning in late October. I was but seventeen and so unprepared for the world that I hardly knew how to dress myself, let alone judge character or transact the business of ordinary life. I sat on the floor of my bedchamber in the darkness, entirely unaware of the hour. There was no fire in my grate, nor would there be anyone coming to light it. I shivered, from both the cold and a complete terror of that which I knew I must do.

For most of the night I had sobbed. I had lain outstretched on the floor, like a condemned prisoner, unable to move or think, able only to ache. My life as I had known it was now about to end. But, as any good Christian will tell you, with death there also comes resurrection and the possibility of a better existence elsewhere. I knew this in my heart, and that rebirth was the sole path open to me. I had only to muster the courage to grab for it and, in doing so, let go of all that tied me to the girl I had been.

So I did this, while the moon threw its dim cast across my window sill. I worked without so much as a candle to guide me, rummaging through the most essential of my belongings: linens, stockings, skirts, a petticoat and, most importantly, the few small items of value that I as a young lady owned. Of all a woman’s possessions, jewels will get her the furthest and mine, on several occasions, have saved me from experiencing the grossest of depredations. At the time, I had but two trinkets: a gold and pearl cross, which I always wore upon my person; and a pair of simple pearl eardrops. I was too young for diamonds. Those are for married women, and in any case, owing to my precarious position within their family, Lord and Lady Stavourley saw no need to adorn me so lavishly.

I wrapped my bundle as a servant would, in a sheet. I had never before carried my own belongings and I did not even know how to tie them up securely. However, I found that soft packet offered me some comfort as I clutched it to my breast. It calmed my trembling.

I dressed for the road, but not without some struggle, sliding on my sturdiest shoes and fumbling with the buttons of my grey riding habit. Around my shoulders I threw my blue cape, the hood of which rested atop my black hat. I hoped to look respectable for my journey without drawing attention to myself. In truth, I knew that most people would be able to guess my circumstances. It is not usual to see a well-dressed young lady with spotless white gloves and a quivering expression travelling unchaperoned.

It was not until after I had attired myself and gathered my belongings that my mind, like a lamp, flickered out. My lungs and heart and legs took over. My breathing was so harsh that I feared all of Melmouth could hear my gasps as I carefully navigated the treacherous steps of the back stairs. The chill within the stony walls turned my breath to steam. I was like an animal, clambering through the darkness. I stole through the narrow corridor near the kitchens, passing by the doors of servants, still sunk deeply into their warm straw mattresses. In an hour, the first light of morning would wake them and, with so many pairs of eyes on guard, my flight would have been impossible. You must understand that, by then, they hated me. They would have set upon me like a pack of slavering dogs.