I woke in the morning to footsteps outside my door, threw on my robe, and opened it to find a small pot of steaming tea and a pitcher of cream on a tray beside my manuscript, with Johnson’s corrections, gentle but exacting. I had never studied grammar, not really, and my style lacked elegance, but I could tell from the care he took that he was shepherding the book. I put on my spectacles and set to work at once, not even asking for water to splash my face, sending his woman away when she offered me lunch, never stopping until I was called down to dinner, when I realized how many hours had slipped by. Not lost hours, but found.

I can tell you, sweet daughter, that during those few weeks under Johnson’s roof, I found the first true home I’d known in my life—apart from Fanny Blood—where I was not just welcomed but wanted, not just wanted but listened to, not only listened to but wondered at. When I wasn’t at work upstairs, I followed him around his bookshop by day, peppering him with questions. We jousted on issues of grammar and merit, sported over ideas. By night I sat at his dinner table, often the lone woman, but an equal in his eyes, with as much right to be there as anyone. Joseph Johnson treated me as the person I believed I was, or wanted to become. There are good men in the world, and bad, little bird, but then there are other men altogether: the ones who hold up a light that we might all better see our way.

He found me a small terraced house, cheerful yellow brick, in George Street, a ten-minute walk across the Thames, and engaged a maid from the country part of his family to shop, cook, and clean for me. I was terrible at asking her for anything, in fact, shocked her when I said we should take our meals together when at home. (I had seen Lady K tyrannize her servants, and vowed never to do the same.) It wasn’t the stylish side of the river, but I didn’t care. I had no money for furniture. I didn’t buy new clothes, didn’t curl, puff, or powder my hair. But I had a place of my own, a bed, table, chair, paper, ink, and sharp-nibbed quills. What else could I possibly want?

I worked on the novel, and surprised Johnson by presenting him with a book of stories based on my “Mrs. Mason” and the King girls, meant to teach morals to children and adults alike.

“So a conduct book, which you swore never to write?” Johnson asked.

“Only a sort of conduct book. To form the mind to truth, goodness, compassion.”