I hated Le Havre, but was glad to be with Imlay again. It seemed everyone there had come to make their fortune, crooked or not, and he was no different with deals instead of ideals the currency of the town, densely packed against a high seawall. I felt confined and claustrophobic. I couldn’t get a Parisian newspaper, and had left most of my books behind, so determined to finish my own book before the baby came. Imlay had rented us a large house with a view of the sea. He liked to watch the ships go out, rising and falling on the waves. I envied the seagulls the smooth glide of their open wings. I decided to embrace his trading venture, do what I could to support him, and try not to ruffle his moods. Imlay seemed content to have me in his bed again, which I took as happiness enough.

I took a walk every day, and worked more intently than I had for a long time. Shopped for groceries, made meals, ordered fabric from Paris to make baby clothes, altered my own clothes to fit me. When Imlay was away, I might leave him a leg of lamb smoking on the board to lard his ribs when he returned home. I found linens for his shirts in Le Havre, and heard myself using “us” more than “I,” a matrimonial parlance that surprised me. I told myself that I’d succeeded in negotiating a domestic partnership without clogging my soul by promising obedience. The book began to take shape. Imlay read what I was writing over my shoulder and heartily approved.

In May I gave birth to your sister, an experience so exhilarating, I told Imlay I felt like I’d scaled the highest peak in the Swiss Alps, and breathless with the beauty of it, wanted to go again as soon as possible. I had only the help of a nurse who was convinced mother and baby would die without a doctor in attendance, and was mortified I wouldn’t stay in bed for more than a day after, insisting on going down for dinner the next night. But, trusting my own body, I found labor the most natural thing in the world—not smooth work but a triumph, without any terror in it. Imlay and I marveled at our newborn daughter, sometimes gazing at her for hours, only surrendering her to the other’s arms. Those first weeks he doted on me with constant and gentle attention. Baby Fanny, named for my dearest friend, went everywhere with us, out to dinner, down to watch the ships come in, to the market. She took only my milk, and Imlay loved to watch her nurse at my breast, “so manfully,” he said, “I reckon she’ll write the second Rights of Woman.”