The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List (37 page)

Although the O’Kellys were now landowners and enjoyed the company of some of the most influential men in England, they were by no means unaware of their tenuous standing within the social hierarchy. Any influence they had managed to corner was by virtue of Dennis’s success on the turf and Charlotte’s precedence in King’s Place, and not through noble birth or any praiseworthy activity. In order to maintain their position at the centre of the Epsom arena, they had to lay on an exceptional show. This was hard work, as the author of Dennis’s
Memoirs
records. Not only did they maintain ‘an open house during the time of every public meeting’, but O’Kelly established himself as a mediator of disputes between those of the racing fraternity. Accordingly, he cultivated a talent in ‘reconciling apparent opposites, contriving to entertain the Peer and the Black Leg at the same table’. Due to Charlotte’s finesse and experience with such matters, ‘The Duke of Cumberland and Dick England, the Prince of Wales and Jack Tetherington; Lord Egremont and Ned Bishop; Lord Grosvenor and Monsieur Champreaux; the Duke of Orleans and Jack Stacie’ were not only able to lay aside their differences but ‘were frequently seen at the same table, and circulating the same bottle with equal familiarity and merriment’.

It is unlikely such a gathering of names would have been seen at Clay Hill at all were it not for the added attraction of the nymphs that Charlotte shipped in to attend the needs of these gentlemen. Contrary to the nature of such occasions, Dennis insisted that ‘play or bets of any kind’ were not ‘to be made at his table or in his house’. More than likely this was to prevent the eruption of trouble between
hardened
gamblers. With gaming banned, the rakish gathering would have required something else equally thrilling to divert them after dinner. Sex with Santa Charlotta’s beautiful nuns satisfactorily filled this void and helped to sustain the couple’s popularity. Their reputation for ‘hospitality and good living’ preceded them. ‘Who keeps the best house in England? was the frequent question. – O! Kelly, by much – Who the best wines? O! Kelly, by many degrees. – Who the best horses? O! Kelly’s beat the world. – Who the pleasantest fellow? Who? O! Kelly’, their acquaintances were said to have proclaimed. The question, ‘who keeps the best whores?’ might also have been added.

While the racing season would have kept Charlotte occupied, the winter period, when the turf was frozen or too muddied to support contests, would have been an exceptionally dull time. Aside from the days that she spent alone with her daughter, she would not have acted as the hostess to any other virtuous guest. The O’Kellys’ home, which would have been recognised for its licentious activities, was hardly a suitable place for those not of the
demi-monde
to visit. In an era when the company of others, and particularly same-sex friendships, was the very bread and butter of landed class life, the sudden absence of companionship would be felt most acutely. In London, amidst the bustle of King’s Place, Charlotte would never have been at a loss for company, whether male or female. A constant tide of visitors would have moved in and out of her drawing rooms bringing gossip, news and amusement throughout the course of her day. Although she would have retained a close circle of female servants and ‘companions’ from King’s Place, in Epsom there would have been comparatively few callers. As a mistress and a procuress, she would be excluded from genteel social circles and shunned by her female neighbours. While Dennis would have been granted passage to socialise with whoever he chose, Charlotte would have spent many days and evenings with little company.

In order to alleviate lengthy periods of loneliness when Dennis travelled, as he did regularly for race meetings and as an officer in the Middlesex Militia, Charlotte and her ‘female attendants’ chose to accompany him. The Westminster regiment to which Dennis
belonged
spent most of their time engaged in a circuit of marches, which, rather than prepare them for active service, allowed them to parade in their uniforms. As they moved ‘from London to Gosport; from Gosport to Plymouth; from Plymouth to the extremities of Cornwall; from thence to Chatham, from Chatham to Lancaster, and from Lancaster to London again’, Dennis could be seen ‘attended by an expensive retinue’, followed by Charlotte, ‘who travelled in the rear of his company, with her separate suite.’ She also accompanied him more frequently to various races, where together they became ‘the life and spirit of every principle race meeting in England’. However, in spite of appearances, Charlotte was becoming increasingly unhappy.

Charlotte would not have grieved over respectable society’s refusal to admit her into its charmed circles. In fact, as one who was born the daughter of a harlot, it is unlikely that she would have ever imagined or even desired such a situation. Certainly, in her eyes, the debauched company she kept was far more varied and interesting. What would have plagued her, however, was the unanticipated isolation of retirement. In London, there were few public places out of bounds to her; she could enjoy the theatre, the pleasure gardens, promenades in St James’s Park, assemblies and balls. The rules of rural life were different and, aside from her own lands, there were no open spaces where she might comfortably roam, unscrutinised by disapproving eyes. As Charlotte had known no other existence than that of high-class whoredom, there would never be an environment more suitable for her than London. While in the country, due to the restrictive conventions of propriety, her interactions would also be limited to a male-only sphere. These would be the associates of Dennis, the boorish, drunken black legs, who droned on about races and stakes and horses and stables and jockeys … or the officers of Dennis’s band of toy soldiers, whose company might prove only marginally more interesting. In her capacity as Duenna of a King’s Place establishment, and even in her youth, regaled as a toast of the town, Charlotte’s sphere of friends would have been a broad one. Her confidantes had included some of the most outrageous, eccentric and brilliant men and women of her era: actors and writers, courtiers, politicians, scientists, clergymen
and
members of the Royal family. She had no shortage of suitable female acquaintances from her world either. To then be left alone, trailing behind Dennis at race meets, following him from one encampment to the next, unable to attend gatherings where virtuous wives and daughters might be present, and to hear little news of her friends, took an exacting toll on her spirit. After nearly eighteen months of such an existence, Charlotte decided to move back to London.

At some point during the late 1770s, Dennis had been advised to sink some of his winnings into Mayfair property, thereby assuring the security of his fortune. Among these purchases was the freehold of an elegant new house, conspicuously situated on the corner of Half Moon Street and Piccadilly and facing onto Green Park. The strategic positioning enabled all of fashionable society to admire his grand townhouse while taking their constitutionals. The O’Kellys equally enjoyed the opportunity of observing the painted faces and tailored torsos of the
bon ton
by simply looking down from their drawing room windows. Where indications of status were concerned, there were none that announced wealth quite like this. While Dennis had intended that the Half Moon Street house should become their primary London residence, he had also made the purchase with the inheritance of his nephew, Andrew Dennis O’Kelly, in mind. In her late forties, it had become apparent that Charlotte would not have any further children. Since she and Dennis had never legally married, any children that Charlotte had borne were rendered illegitimate. As it was rare for girls, and particularly those produced out of wedlock, to inherit estates, all of Dennis and Charlotte’s land and possessions would one day be passed to the son of his brother. Through a series of Dennis’s judicious purchases, by the early 1780s Andrew looked set to inherit a large portion of Mayfair. In addition to Clay Hill, Half Moon Street, and the properties they retained on Great Marlborough Street, shortly after Dennis’s death his possessions also included numerous freeholds and leaseholds on houses in Clarges Street, Chesterfield Street, Berkeley Square, Charles Street and Manchester Square.

Upon her return to Mayfair, Charlotte chose to take up residence at the house on Half Moon Street, where she might observe the world as it wandered by her window. Here, at the heart of the fashionable universe,
so
inextricable from that of the vice-ridden one, she need never feel alone or confined. Her reappearance, however, did present a problem. Although ‘retired’, Charlotte’s return signalled an active resumption of her trade, a situation that she had preferred to avoid. By basing herself in Half Moon Street, she had hoped to keep the affairs of her collection of small brothels at an arm’s length. Now, without her nunnery on King’s Place at which to congregate, her friends and devoted clientele came calling at Half Moon Street, and their visits were not exclusively of a social nature. They came as they always had, in the hope of finding a suitable keeper or a cyprian with whom to share their bed. When they sat in her drawing room or sipped her champagne they did so in the anticipation that Santa Charlotta would provide them with access to a sexual encounter. As Charlotte would have come to realise, there would be no true retirement, no escape from her role as a procuress, whether she passed her days at Clay Hill or on Half Moon Street. Wherever she went, the
demi-monde
dragged at her heels, pulling her relentlessly back into its embrace.

17

Full CIRCLE

JOHN HARRISON HAD
been anticipating trouble from the day that he assumed the proprietorship of the Rose Tavern. Harrison recognised his enemies, and knew who might attempt to fell him as his fortunes rose. Whether it was Justice Fielding or Packington Tompkins, whether the threats came from angry clients or broken women, the pimp had learned from his past experience and was ready for any sort of confrontation. What he hadn’t foreseen was that the greatest challenge to his empire wouldn’t emanate from any of these predictable sources. Instead it came from Theatre Royal, just next door.

In the early 1770s his neighbour, David Garrick, who was always striving to stay one step ahead of his competition at the Covent Garden theatre, had become increasingly dissatisfied with the state of the facilities at Drury Lane. The house, after years of wear by boisterous hooligans who perpetrated violence against its carved interiors, had begun to look shabby. The theatre had not seen substantial renovation in some time and, with the Drury Lane’s centenary approaching in 1774, Garrick saw this as a perfect opportunity to make necessary cosmetic improvements. The Theatre Royal, however, required more significant work than simply a facelift. For years, the managers had been irked by the inaccessibility of its main entrance. It was hemmed in on all sides by the thoroughfares of Russell Street and Drury Lane and surrounded by a ring of smaller buildings, and patrons frequently complained that they were forced to navigate a series of uncomfortable passages in order to approach the lobby. In order to remedy these problems Garrick was
looking
to substantially alter the shape and design of the theatre, and his plans spelled trouble for the Rose Tavern.

For a century, the Drury Lane theatre and the Rose had shared their prosperity, like two conjoined twins. Their songs and sounds, like their clientele, passed through their shared wall, the business of one governed by the presence of the other. Those who worked in the Theatre Royal came to rely on the Rose for their refreshment and diversion, using it as an adjunct of its own facilities. Although mutually dependent upon one another, there was no question as to which structure took precedence; the blossoming of the Rose’s business was a credit due almost exclusively to the theatre. After years of co-existence it was not suggested that the Rose be demolished altogether, but rather that the theatre should stretch out her arms and embrace her smaller, dependent sister. In order to rectify the problem of accessibility, Garrick’s fashionable architect, Robert Adam, suggested an extension of the theatre’s façade which would in turn swallow up the tavern and incorporate it as an in-house convenience. In this decision, it seems the Rose had little say.

Harrison could not have been pleased when the news of Garrick’s renovation project reached him. Regardless of how much authority he may have been able to wield over his whores, tenants and patrons, the proprietor of the Rose would be no match for ‘Little Davy’, one of the most powerful and well-connected men in all of Covent Garden. Adam’s plans cast a long shadow across the future of John Harrison’s livelihood, but it was not likely that the pimp was prepared to stand by idly while the heart of his empire was cut out before him. Harrison would have to be compensated, but how much he received from the managers of the Drury Lane theatre is anyone’s guess. In addition to taking in the edifice of the Rose, the adjoining dwelling where Harrison had been living appears to have been affected as well, and from 1775, the year the works commenced, he is no longer recorded at the address. Although disruptive, the change in circumstance did not put Harrison out of business altogether, and it is probable that Garrick may have had to indulge a number of the publican’s requests in order to move forward with the redesign. Possibly the decision to integrate the tavern’s signboard into the external décor was one such concession to
its
grumbling proprietor. Irrespective of the reduction of the Rose’s scale, the tavern continued to thrive and remained a popular place of resort.