A handful of other, more elaborately disguised identities are fleetingly presented, such as that of Captain E——, with whom Worsley was rumoured to have arranged a wife-swap during an evening under the stars at Coxheath. Mention of an ‘Honourable Mr———, son of Lord———’is also introduced behind a veil of riddles. He was believed to have ‘commenced acquaintance with her ladyship in town’ and after running through his ‘fortune before succeeding to it’ then had ‘the singular good luck to be elected for a member of a constituency at the last general election’. The more unlikely the liaison, the greater the author’s pretences of discretion, leaving curious readers to scratch their heads at the remaining jumble of indecipherable individuals mentioned only by initials.
From this tangle of acknowledged lovers, whispered names, rumours, conjecture, satirical suggestions and dubious sexual boasts, a log purporting to contain the sum total of Lady Worsley’s paramours was created. No one, however, could agree on the actual number. The author of Sir Richard Easy exaggerated the scandal by citing the existence of ‘a list of about three score gallants’. Walpole wrote with barely contained relish to Horace Mann on the 25th of February that ‘she summoned thirty-four young men of the first quality’ but later revised this to twenty-seven. He had probably got his information from the newspapers; the Morning Herald had been asserting that ‘no less than twenty-eight were subpoenaed at her own express command’. After the initial excitement of the February trial had flickered out, numbers were readjusted downward. Finical Whimsy suggested a more reasonable fifteen while the cartoonist James Gillray’s lampoon, A Peep into Lady !!!!y’s Seraglio depicted her with eleven supposedly identifiable admirers.
There is nothing to suggest that any of these assertions are correct. Since the time of the couple’s elopement, a stream of gossip had leaked into the facts and diluted them beyond recognition. Perhaps one of the greatest errors made, not unintentionally by those twisting the truth, was to mistake the tally of those subpoenaed with the notches on Lady Worsley’s bedpost. In the formulation of Bisset’s defence this list of men included those like Peterborough and Bouchier Smith familiar with Seymour’s reputation, as well as others privy to personal information such as Dr Osborn, who had never seen the inside of her bedchamber. Undeniably, others who had, such as Cholmondeley, Rushworth and possibly the Earl of Egremont, Simeon Stuart, John Fleming, Francis North and George Pitt, would also have been called. But it is here that the true problem of assigning a precise figure to Lady Worsley’s catalogue of lovers encounters its stickiest corner. Seymour’s name was linked to numerous gentlemen, but how many among them committed categorical acts of adultery with her is unknown.
A married lady’s character was a fragile thing. As the historian A.D. Harvey comments, ‘among the most sophisticated classes a woman’s reputation for chastity generally depended on her ability to maintain an appearance of being entirely uninterested in sex’. As it was believed that a woman’s physical desire was ignited by the loss of her virginity, recently married women of the leisured classes were especially prone to suspicion. In the airtight observation tank of high society, the scrutiny of pretty young wives by scheming matrons became one of the period’s favourite pastimes. Who would be first or next to waver and who appeared disenchanted or suffocated by the ennui of marriage were the subjects of many ladies’ daily correspondence. It required little more than a hint of coquetry, one too many turns on the dance floor with the same partner, or a stroll in the company of a man not one’s husband, to excite a twitchy eyebrow. Lady Sarah Bunbury found herself the subject of unrelenting gossip long before she had committed her indiscretion with William Gordon. On a visit to Paris with her husband, the couple were joined by Lord Carlisle. Only a handful of unchaperoned sightings of Lady Sarah with her ‘cicisbeo’ (or male admirer, as he was called) were required before news of a ‘flirtation’ had reached London. Back in England, her socialising and friendship with the womanising Duke de Lauzan sent the hacks leaping for their scandal-filled inkwells. More than a year before her elopement with Gordon, while Lady Sarah virtuously dodged the advances of de Lauzan and Carlisle, Grub Street intelligence was eagerly brewing tales about her lascivious adventures. A married woman need only display the slightest hint that, in the words of Madame du Deffand, ‘she seeks diversion’ to set the machinery of gossip spinning.
In Seymour’s case, she had done far more than hint at a desire for diversion. Instead she had publicly cast off her cloak of virtuous pretence and proclaimed herself a whore. In the view of Grub Street, she had placed herself in the stocks and openly invited her character to be pelted with any dirt their publications chose to hurl at her. As her self-denouncement was shocking, so the invented tally of lovers had to be equally jaw-dropping. In practice, the reality of Lady Worsley’s relationships with men was likely to be somewhat at odds with the reputation she had acquired. Given Grub Street’s ability to exaggerate, it is doubtful that Seymour had sex with the majority of the twenty-seven plus attached to her name. Even accomplished gallants such as Fleming, Stuart, Pitt and Egremont, whose involvement with her seems more plausible due to their own sexual histories, may have enjoyed no more than a light-hearted flirtation. As in Lady Sarah Bunbury’s case, many rumoured liaisons were likely to have been based on observations of suggestive body language, over-attentiveness, or sightings of two individuals enjoying each other’s company. Even in less innocent situations, not every flirtatious encounter ended in the bedroom. Seymour could be discriminating. Some of her pursuers may have found that their name and hers were the only parts of their persons to be coupled.
Aside from Bisset, there is compelling evidence to suggest that Seymour had affairs with five additional men: Wyndham, Rushworth, Cholmondeley, Deerhurst and Graham. The possibility will always remain that there were more, but in keeping with the intriguer’s code of secrecy, it is probable that some of her paramours preferred to take their stories to their grave rather than tell them to a hack. Ultimately, identifying all of them was never the objective of Lady Worsley’s contemporaries. The prurient curiosity of the masses was easily distracted. What mattered most was that from the day of the trial society viewed Seymour as a deviant, and capable of any sexual aberration.
As the number of letters mentioning the events of her elopement suggests, those of Lady Worsley’s class followed the unfolding of events with a sharp interest. Unlike the censorious middle ranks and the press that pandered to them, the disapproval in the correspondence of those such as Walpole and other members of the gentry was not necessarily of Lady Worsley’s sexual appetite but of her conduct. The twelve jurors, men chosen for their knowledge of the world, were not ignorant of the morality of the age. Nor would they have viewed Lady Worsley’s behaviour as unusual for a woman of her position; adultery among the ‘better class of wives’ was ‘rather esteemed a fashionable vice than a crime’. As her lover’s criminal conversation trial was being heard, other ladies of their acquaintance, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Viscountess Melbourne, the Countess of Jersey, the Countess of Clermont, and the Countess of Bessborough, were entertaining inamoratos of their own or involving themselves in the clandestine amours of their friends. Where Lady Worsley fell foul was by acting on impulse, by breaking with received practice and then compounding her errors by kissing and telling. By casting open the shutters of a private club, she risked exposing the quiet immorality of all its members. As the Duchess of Devonshire explained in her novel, The Sylph, condemnation must be heaped on those ladies ‘who are enslaved by their passions, and bring public disgrace on their families by suffering themselves to be detected’. Such thoughtlessness was a betrayal of them all. She continues that the punishment for this was ostracism, as those who had offended were worthy of nothing but ‘our scorn and ridicule’.
Although Lady Worsley was not present at the trial, it was she who had given the most in the course of the proceedings. She had relinquished her entire character in order to save her lover. As yet, this
gesture in itself was no guarantee of success. In the end, the sacrifice of her reputation might still count for nothing. Either way, should the defence succeed or fail, Seymour would pay an enormous price to be levied in stiff penalties for the remainder of her days.
15
The Verdict
In the months before the trial, Bearcroft, Pechell and Howorth had been busy creating a defence volatile enough to explode Worsley’s suit. Together, they had assembled a strategy which they believed would save Maurice George Bisset from an impending £20,000 bondage.
From the action’s outset Sir Richard’s collection of smug lawyers had concluded that the defendant would have little room for manoeuvre. When Bisset appeared in court he was, in their view, no better than a criminal come to receive his sentence. But while there was no refuting the charge of adultery, the factors that governed it, the mitigating circumstances that first brought Lady Worsley to Bisset’s bed, would be the springs that freed Seymour’s lover from her husband’s trap. As the defence was proving, there was much more to this story than Worsley was willing to divulge. Midway through the trial, as a result of their endeavours, the hidden truths had only just begun to seep out.
Bisset’s defence had been honed into two exceptionally sharp prongs. The first had been designed to spear the plaintiff’s argument by proving that the worth of Sir Richard’s wife had been seriously compromised long before the Captain made off with the spoiled goods. Bearcroft, Pechell and Howorth would have recognised that this was an extremely unconventional approach which might raise a number of objections, particularly from Lady Worsley. To undermine Sir Richard’s case, Seymour would be required to publicly defame herself and to relinquish any lingering hope of resuscitating her reputation by permitting a number of her male associates to attest to her corrupted character. The logic behind this plan of attack would have been laid bare to her. Bisset faced complete ruin should the jury favour her husband and, in the end, Seymour would suffer doubly at the loss of her only protector. It was essential for the jury to understand that, contrary to belief, Sir Richard had not lost something of great value. As she herself had claimed, he had been indifferent to her, she had ‘received many slights’ from him and therefore her elopement had not deprived him of her ‘comfort and society’, as the law might argue. Worse still, Sir Richard was partially to blame as he had been remiss in shepherding her conduct. Bearcroft, Pechell and Howorth required witnesses who would regale the stunned jury with tales of her debauchery. Most importantly, the jury must also be convinced that any child Lady Worsley might bring into the Appuldurcombe nursery would be of questionable paternity. Her husband could not even trust her womb to secure his dynasty. The jury should not view her as one whose now soiled character commanded £20,000 in damages, but as an object in her husband’s collection whose value was worth far less.
The defence had formulated a proposal for obtaining the vital information. With assistance from her trusted friend Deerhurst, they asked Seymour to compile ‘a list of … gallants, to whom she acknowledged having been perfectly liberal with her favours’. She also ‘enclosed Doctor Osborn’s account with the recipes prescribed for her’ so the public would know how ‘liberal’ her husband had been. The impropriety of this measure was clear, both to Lady Worsley and to the men to whom she was to write. No honourable gentleman would ever consider publicly destroying the name of a lady of quality or his own reputation by betraying her confidences or by revealing details of their love affair. This was considered not only a disreputable act but one which posed a serious threat to the ordering of society. By virtue of her position, the wife of a baronet was entitled to deference, but respect for an individual and the class they represented might be easily eroded by the exposure of their moral flaws. The recipients of Lady Worsley’s pleading letters would have had serious reservations about appearing as witnesses. For this reason, it is likely that those who refused to testify outweighed the list of those who eventually did.
It is unknown whether or not Lady Worsley consented to having her character ruined. She may have required some convincing before giving up the remnants of her reputation to her lover’s legal team, but they would have reminded her that where her name was concerned, she had nothing more to lose. Through the narrow lens of those who judged her, it would not matter whether she had committed one public transgression or a multitude: she was no longer respectable.
The second point of this attack was even more vicious. Once they had finished shredding Lady Worsley’s character, they turned their knives on Sir Richard’s. Worsley had entered the courtroom with the confidence of the indomitable, with a certainty of his position as a titled landowner, a gentleman, a commanding officer, and as a member of the establishment. Irrespective of any possible mitigating circumstances, these fundamental factors would weigh more heavily in favour of him than they would for those who had subverted the laws and natural order of society. As Worsley had been the victim of a moral outrage perpetrated against him by a man of a lesser rank, the court of law had an obligation to punish the malefactor. But as Bearcroft, Pechell and Howorth would demonstrate, there were circumstances which challenged this assumption as well. The lovers were not the only ones who had violated the codes of honour and duty.
The privileged classes had a weak spot which handicapped them severely where matters of privacy were concerned. Since birth, they had been trained to be blind and dependent. When surveying a room they saw only the bodies of those who mattered. In most cases, this excluded virtually everyone of a lesser social standing. As a result the privileged classes frequently forgot themselves in front of a theatre of labourers and staff, whose presence they failed to acknowledge. Such negligence was the undoing of many, especially where matters of law were concerned. In Sir Richard’s case, his ruin would be the ageing, callous-handed bathing-woman at Maidstone, Mary Marriott. Worsley would not have seen her as she had helped his wife in and out of the plunge pool, but Mary Marriott, insignificant in her functional shoes and muslin dress, knew he was there and witnessed what he did.
Mary Marriott had been deemed so unimportant by the court that her name had not even been granted the courtesy of a prefix; the requisite Mrs or Miss, which denoted a woman’s all-important marital status. She was simply a worker, a drudge. On that day she was not present to give her testimony in person. It had been reported to the jury that ‘the bathing-woman was ill’, but whether this was the true reason for her absence is questionable. The secrets Mary Marriott carried were heavy ones and it was not in the best interests of the plaintiff that she haul them to London.
As she was unable to attend court, the bathing-woman was asked to swear affidavits before a lawyer attesting to what she had seen. Accordingly, an agreement had been struck that both parties in the suit would send their attorneys ‘down to the place for the purpose of taking the affidavits’. Unfortunately for the defence, Worsley’s wily solicitor, James Farrer was the first to arrive in Maidstone.
Farrer had wanted to ensure that no aspect of his client’s case was left to chance. Every avenue demanded investigation, and delicate information required safeguarding, where necessary. If the defence was to call on the bathing-woman, he would travel to Kent before them in order to receive her statement. If she produced something incriminating, he would be poised to catch it and mitigate its impact. So Farrer rode to Maidstone and located the cold baths. In midst of winter, he followed the pathway down to the neo-classical temple. At some point, he found Mary Marriott, who unknowingly carried on her a vital and volatile piece of information. He spent some time with her, drawing out the account which was later read to the court. Farrer took her story down as follows;
… Lady Worsley used to come to the cold bath near Maidstone to bathe, and that she [Marriott] used to attend her; that Sir Richard and Mr Bissett [sic] were generally with her; and that the last time she came, which was about noon, in September last, and at the latter end of hop-season, Sir Richard and Mr Bissett staid at the door without, while
she bathed; that after she had bathed, she retired into a corner to put on her shift, as Ladies usually do after bathing, and then returned to dress herself, and sat herself down on the seat: that there is a window over the door of the building in which the bath is, and which is the only inlet for light into the bath, and from which any person, who is sitting down on the seat, may be seen, but not when retired into the corner; that when she had almost finished dressing herself, Sir Richard tapped at the door, and said ‘Seymour! Seymour! Bissett is going to get up to look at you’, or words to that effect; and looking around, she saw his face at the window: that he continued there about five minutes; and that she did not see the plaintiff on the outside, but believes he must help the defendant up; and that after Lady Worsley had dressed herself, she went out, and they all were merry and laughing together: that, excepting this, she never saw any improper conduct or behaviour in the said three persons, unless what is above stated may be thought so.
The corrosiveness of the bathing-woman’s recollections must have grown evident as Farrer transcribed them. It was a veritable admission that Sir Richard had played a role in his own undoing. Farrer studied Mary Marriott’s assertions closely, searching for the holes in her story. After some consideration the lawyer returned to the structure of the bathhouse. He examined it, both inside and out. He paced before the window and looked at the small balcony above the door. He took measurements and made notes in his pocketbook. Then, discovering a chair on the outside of the building, he dragged it to the entryway and hoisting himself up to the inlet he peered through the glass. He would argue that Bisset might have done the same, without the assistance of Worsley.
In order to counter Mary Marriott’s claims, the baronet’s lawyer, Attorney-General Wallace was eager to have Farrer spell out his findings for the jury. Between the rational judgements of an educated professional man and the stories of an illiterate woman of the labouring class, Wallace knew to whom the benefit of the doubt would be given.
The Lady In Red: An Eighteenth-Century Tale Of Sex, Scandal, And Divorce Page 19