The end of Harriette Wilson’s tale, not told by her… Where does the life of a courtesan end?

Harriette_Wilson00After writing her memoirs, Harriette had the writing bug, and also an awful lot of unsaid information about people who did not want her to tell it. She wrote a play called Bought In and Bought Out to explore in a comedy how some of her former lovers had bought out of her memoirs with certain stipulations…

In 1828 she and the man she called her husband at the time, Mr Rochfort, moved back to London permanently, she purchased a fourteen year lease on a town house on the corner of Trevor Square, and began writing novels. Clara Gazul and Paris Lions and London Tigers

In 1829 though she once again hit the press, as her maid accused her of having pulled away a chair so she fell on the floor, and then refused to feed her anything but bread and water, Harriette was arrested and taken to court Bell’s Life in London, ran an article on her appearance. She was described as old, ugly and grey haired.  And at this court case Rochfort stated that Harriette was not strictly his wife.

In this year Harriette is known to also have begun testing the water in London, as far as possible new courtesan style relationships. She approached an author sixteen years her junior, and he kept her letters. But she is older, and times had changed, and the young author had no interest, other than to be flattered enough to keep the letters. But he marked them stating that he never met her.

In 1830, Harriette wrote a letter stating that in order for Mr Rochfort to obtain his inheritance from his estranged mother, he would need to be single, as his mother disapproved of Harriette and so she had decided to separate from him. Rochfort hired rooms in Berkeley Square.

In December 1831 however Rochfort began another affair. He fell in love with another man’s wife and moved in with her. It was another swift kick to poor Harriette’s ego. At first she still wrote to others as though she was his wife, but in 1832 she stopped mentioning him, and simply pretended he’d never existed, and then began using her real surname Debuchet. She had continued to write to Lord Ponsonby through the years since she published her memoirs, though he never replied. In 1832 the letters to him became even more regular, and were filled with outpourings of the pain she suffered following his desertion of her in favour of her younger sister. At this point she lived at 69 Vauxhall Bridge Road and Lord Ponsonby and his friends wrote to one another using terms such as ‘Obscene harpy’ ‘vile woman’ ‘wretched individual‘ to describe Harriette.

While Harriette spent the next two years falling into being nothing but regretted history, Rochfort used the connections he had made through her to begin walking in the world of the men who had passed her around among them, he began working for the Duke of Wellington.

In 1834 Harriette moved back to Knightsbridge and tried her hand at playing the bawd and bringing younger woman into favour as prostitutes among the men of the ‘first nobility.’ Of course these men no longer trusted her and so the attempt did not succeed. She even wrote a letter to Lord Ponsonby offering him one of the girls, but the letter was as much a message reminiscing on her past with him.

The next we here of Harriette is in 1840, when her life finally took a turn  for the good. She was baptised into the Catholic Church, as Mary Magdalen, and began to preach of her conversion, dedicating all her energy and keen mind to her faith. There is one letter to the young author she had tried to seduce some years before saying her commitment to God meant she was no longer available for ‘love’ … ‘when I was a sinner and a good looking one’ …

Harried lived in a cottage then, tending a cottage garden and devoted now to only her faith. She died on the 10th March 1845 two weeks after her 59th birthday. In her final letters, she asked that the Duke of Leinster and Frederick Lamb pay her medical bills, and that Brougham, Leinster and Lord Worcester, now the Duke of Beaufort pay for her burial. Brougham wrote to Beaufort from Parliament.

My dear Duke,

Our old acquaintance, Mme De Bochet (Harriette Wilson) died the week before last and left a note to say she hoped two or three of her former acquaintance would give the few pounds (fifteen) required to bury her – she having had an estimate price in with all the particulars  of the church and struck off what was merely ornamental – which has reduced it as above. Duke of Leinster has given a little and I think as she also named you and me, we ought to contribute our might.

What say you?

A few days later Brougham wrote again, and asked for a little more saying that she had left additional debts for medical care, which her brother, a piano turner could not afford.

Harriette’s funeral took place at Chelsea Catholic Chapel and her death certificate recorded her as Harreitte De Bochet a ‘woman of independent means’.

It’s not known where she was buried.

😥

So that is goodbye to Harriette and her colourful life. I shall miss her. But perhaps one day we may discover even more of the truth. After Harriette and her publisher Stockdale had died Sophie Stockdale, the publisher’s wife, is known to have tried to begin a new blackmail campaign.

My Lord,

Pardon the liberty I take in writing to your Lordship.

In  looking over my late husband’s papers I find that the MSS of Harriette Wilson is quite perfect, and more than appeared in print, for there are all those who withheld their names only merely crossed out with the pen. In offering the MSS to your Lordship, I was recollecting the circumstances of the late Lord Spencer’s undoubtedly a true history of our times, and there are also the numerous letters of who shall be in print and who shall not, for in years to come who would suppose that the greatest men of any age appear in the MSS.

I am not like Junius, I cannot afford to commit my MSS to the flames.

Sophie Stockdale…

One day then, perhaps, this original manuscript may be discovered…

Jane Lark is a writer of authentic, passionate and emotional Historical and New Adult Romance stories, and the author of a No.1 bestselling Historical Romance novel in America, ‘The Illicit Love of a Courtesan’.

Look at the index to discover all the true stories Jane has discovered during research, and to find links to excerpts and a FREE novella ~ A Lord’s Desperate Love

Click here to find out more about Jane’s books, and see Jane’s website www.janelark.co.uk to learn more about Jane. Or click  ‘like’ on Jane’s Facebook  page to see photo’s and learn historical facts from the Georgian, Regency and Victorian eras, which Jane publishes there. You can also follow Jane on twitter at @janelark

Capturing The Earl’s Love Part Seven ~ A Historical Romance Story

A #free short story…  I’ll be telling it here, and it can also now be purchased from Amazon.

@Copyright Jane Lark; Publishing rights owned by Harper Impulse; Harper Collins UK

Capturing the Earl’s Love

Capturing the Earl's Love High Res

 

A Historical Romance story

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

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Part Seven

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Meredith skipped into the circle with the other women while the men clapped, as her eyes were, unwillingly, pulled towards Lord Morton. She had a constant desire to look at him.

He stood with his usual manner of cool indifference to the world, tall and stiff. He was speaking with Lord Edward, and no longer looking at her. His gaze had quite clearly expressed disgust when he had looked at her.

Hugh grasped her arm, capturing her attention again, and redirected her as she made an error in the dance steps and nearly moved completely awry. She blushed as he met her gaze and smiled down at her. Hugh did not insult her by ignoring her.

The music slowed and she skipped the last steps. She was breathless, hot and panting when she stopped. Hugh stepped forward and gripped her arm. Meredith looked back across her shoulder, intending to look at Lord Morton again, but before she could, she saw her father.

He lifted his hand, implying he wished to speak with her.

“Would you care to walk outside?” Hugh whispered, leaning towards Meredith’s ear.

She mentally sighed. No, Hugh did not cut her as Lord Morton did; Hugh insulted her by expecting things from her she should not give. He would not ask the same of Rowena. Rowena, he would wish to marry. Rowena, he respected. No one in this room respected Meredith.

Had he not made that offer, she might have tried to avoid her father. But she was in no mood to let Hugh steal a kiss. No matter how pointless her hopes were regarding the Earl of Morton, she was feeling rejected, and now that he was no longer chaperoning Rowena, Meredith would never see him. This happy interlude in her life was at an end. One day soon she was going to have to marry someone, and it would be someone she did not want.

“My father is beckoning me, Mr Holland. Would you take me to him?”

Hugh looked to confirm what she’d said, and when his gaze came back to her, it had an edge of irritation. “Oh, very well then. Perhaps later I could have the supper dance?”

“I… I am not sure…” She did not wish to dine with Hugh. She was inclined to torture herself a little more. If she dined with Rowena, then perhaps Lord Morton would sit with them.

“Meredith!” Her father’s voice boomed above all others. It always did.

She cringed a little as people about them stared.

Hugh swiftly bowed and disappeared.

Her father gripped her elbow tightly and turned her towards the edge of the room. Once they’d passed through the crowd he found them an empty sofa in an alcove, and bid her sit. She did, her fingers gripping the seat cushion beside her thighs as she looked up at him.

He swept back his coattails and sat next to her.

He’d never sat with her at a ball before.

“Perrigrew has a proposal for you,” he opened without preamble.

“For me?” Perrigrew was her father’s business partner. His wife had passed away six weeks ago. Since then he had spent a lot of time at her father’s house.

“Yes, it is the perfect idea. I like it quite well, myself. It would develop a true partnership between us.”

She was not following what he said, though she watched his lips. She looked up at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa. What proposal?”

A proposal.”

“A proposal?”

“Oh child, do not act as though you cannot know. He has eaten with us several times in the last couple of weeks.”

She did not understand, and merely looked at her father. Her fingers were still clutching the cushion. She released it, instead clasping her hands in her lap, and straightened her back, trying to remember to look elegant, as she’d been taught.

“He intends to offer for you tonight, child. He wishes to speak with you alone. He is coming here to speak with you. He should arrive soon. I came ahead to have chance to talk to you myself. I have given my consent. So you may say yes, immediately. But Perrigrew is an old-fashioned sort. He wishes to say the words to you himself, and then we thought—”

She stood, looking down at him. “What words, Papa? Thought what?”

Meredith’s father stood too and took her hand. “That the wedding could take place in a week or so, with a special licence. There is no point in hanging about with such agreements. The marriage contract has been signed.”

Meredith opened her mouth but no words came out. No. Mr Perrigrew was older than her father! She had seen Mr Perrigrew looking at her, often, but… She had never imagined this. How could she have imagined this?

Emotion welled in Meredith’s chest, as tears and screams tied a knot in her throat. She had never imagined such an end to her life.

She would rather throw herself off a cliff than accept Mr Perrigrew. She would rather be Hugh Holland’s lover than Mr Perrigrew’s wife. Her thoughts raced – spinning and twirling and tangling up. Oh God. How could she…

Turning away, without apology, she fled the room, her heart pounding in the rhythm of a drumbeat, in her chest and her ears. Nausea and fragility besieged her as she ran out on to the terrace. She could faint… Oh God, no, please. I cannot marry a man I care nothing for. She did not stop. She carried on, one hand gripping her skirt, and her reticule, which dangled from her wrist, bounced against her hip as she raced off along the moonlit garden path, her still empty dance card tucked within it.

When she reached a summerhouse, she stopped, catching her breath and recovering her wits as she looked back in the direction of the house. The path was dark, screened off from the terrace by trees, blocking any light from the ballroom.

She sat down on a bench in the whitewashed, wooden sanctuary, covered her face with her hands, and cried, a wave of utter despair sweeping over her.

If Mr Perrigrew was who her father wished for her, she had to accept him. Her life was to be given to Mr Perrigrew. He would not take her to balls, or parties, or anywhere… She would not even be able to maintain her friendship with Rowena; she knew she would not.  Mr Perrigrew rarely socialised with the ton. He called them pretentious fools and accused her father of trying to climb the social ladder.

The last charge had been thrown against her father for bringing her out into the ton. Mr Perrigrew had said her father would be seen as a parasite, and not a businessman, for doing so.

Her father thought Mr Perrigrew a friend. Meredith did not think him a friend. He seemed divisive to her, and this proved her right.

Why had her father bothered sending her to school for a year to prepare for her come-out, and give her hopes by telling her, frequently, how he wished her to win a title, if he then just gave her to Mr Perrigrew? He must have realised, now how stupid his hope had been.

Her skin tingled as tears trickled down her cheeks. Oh God. Her heart felt as though it was breaking.

“Miss Divine?”

Meredith stiffened, swiftly wiping away the tears from her cheeks, but she did not stand as she looked up at Lord Morton. She hadn’t heard him approach. But then she had been crying and her hands had been covering her face. She said nothing. What was there to say? He loathed her. He would not be interested in her fate.

She was angry with him suddenly – angry, bitter and resentful. How was it possible to love someone so much, when he hated you?

~

A Lord’s Desperate Love is the  story of two of the secondary characters from the 1st book in

the Marlow Intrigues Series

‘The Illicit Love of a Courtesan’

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NOTE  – THIS – AND ALL MY BOOKS – ARE CURRENTLY REDUCED IN THE UK!

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For

  • the story of the real courtesan who inspired                                                 The Illicit Love of a Courtesan,
  • another free short story, about characters from book #2,                              A Lord’s Scandalous Love,
  • the prequel excerpts for book #3                                                                   The Scandalous Love of a Duke

Go to the index

Jane Lark is a writer of authentic, passionate and emotional Historical and New Adult Romance stories, and the author of a No.1 bestselling Historical Romance novel in America, ‘The Illicit Love of a Courtesan’.

Click here to find out more about Jane’s books, and see Jane’s website www.janelark.co.uk to learn more about Jane. Or click  ‘like’ on Jane’s Facebook  page to see photo’s and learn historical facts from the Georgian, Regency and Victorian eras, which Jane publishes there. You can also follow Jane on twitter at @janelark

Jane’s books can be ordered from most booksellers in paperback

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