The thoughtful Clares, when they got wind of my plan, offered to introduce me to Hannah Burgh, the wealthy widow of a Reverend James Burgh, himself a prolific writer and schoolmaster on Newington Green. Until his death some years before, Burgh had advocated for free speech, universal suffrage, and educational reform, all things that gave me hope. There was little I could glean about his widow in advance, except that her current mission in life, according to Reverend Clare, which she believed had been bestowed on her by God, was to educate young women to be good Christians and useful citizens. Reverend Clare loaned me a copy of her dead husband’s treatise—Thoughts on Education—but I was alarmed to find in its pages everything I was against. To his thinking, radical reform extended only as far as the world of boys, for whom he believed education should block any tenderness as a form of weakness. A girl, according to Reverend Burgh, should know only enough arithmetic to do household accounts, and whatever geography would allow her to converse with her husband and his friends. She was to ask questions more than answer them, being incapable of novel thought.

I prepared for the worst.

When a servant ushered me into the rather grim parlor with its heavy curtains, Mrs. Burgh was already parked in what looked like an uncomfortable chair, in what looked like an uncomfortable dress, widow wear, though her husband had been dead nearly ten years. She had hooded eyes that were hard to read, and greeted me without a smile. After a few pleasantries, which weren’t pleasant at all, tea was brought in. She wasted no time in beginning to quiz me, as she poured steaming hot tea into plain porcelain cups. I could see she had a slight tremor.

“Tell me something of your qualifications,” the widow said, taking a bold sip from her own cup that I was sure burned her lips.

I had no qualifications, of course, and paused to concoct an answer that was at least somewhat true.

“French?” she interjected.

“Not to speak of.”

“Fancy needlework?”

“No.”

“What about skills in music and drawing?”

Here was my chance. “As for my part, no, but I’ve a friend, a colleague, Miss Blood, who makes her living in botanical drawings, and I must say, she is first-rate.”

“That’s fine, but I’m asking about you, Miss Wollstonecraft. What do you bring to an endeavor of such scope?”

I picked up my teacup, trying to still my hand. “I suppose I bring my own thoughts on education. The education of daughters, that is.”

“Ah, then you’ve read my husband’s book?”

“I have. Twice.”

“As have a parade of potential headmistresses who have sat just where you are sitting now,” she said. “But let us take your measure, shall we?”