I wanted to go to her, of course, nurse her through her confinement, knowing that she might not have the constitution to see a pregnancy through, and that it might kill her if she did. But without Fanny the school was on even more precarious footing, and Eliza and Everina showed no inclination to take on more responsibility. My only consolation was the students themselves, who awakened in me a deep well of patience I didn’t know I had. I treated them with respect and tenderness, not shame, not punishments, and they returned it all with keen attachment. Every day I reminded them to have the curiosity to learn, and the courage to say what they knew. No feigned raptures, haughty words, fake manners, and piddling accomplishments. I wanted them to write as much as read, trust their experience of the world, their truest feelings. They were like twenty Fannys in the making. I didn’t want them to be me; I wanted them to be her, at least until they could be themselves.

I tried to distract myself with the demands of the school, the students, counting our pennies in hopes of making ends meet one month to the next, even week by week. If we lost a single student, we’d have to close. Though I missed Fanny every day, I found stimulation in an ever-expanding world of ideas. I was often invited to Newington dinners, where men and women talked openly about child-rearing, schools, education, women, marriage—all subjects near to my heart, and quick on my tongue. It was June when the Green was abuzz with news that John and Abigail Adams were in London and had chosen Dr. Price and his church for their visit rather than one in the fancy West End. Londoners were aghast that these American heroes would choose an old Dissenter instead of a more fashionable minister, but Price had won the Adamses over by being one of the longest and loudest champions of the American cause. And now they were in our midst.