Pondering the huge gulf between her education, or lack of it, and James’s, she determined to try to remedy the situation. He had said that he was sure she could hold her own in any society, but she knew very well that she would be at a loss talking to any of his friends. She began to buy the current editions of Charles Dickens’s magazine, All the Year Round, and read articles about politics and the latest scientific discoveries, as well as the short stories, but there was so much she did not understand that she almost gave up.

Nan, finding her sighing wearily over a page, said briskly, ‘Well, don’t just sit there moping. There are encyclopaedias and all sorts in the William Brown Library. Go and find out.’

The library had been built behind St George’s Hall with funds from the philanthropist whose name it bore. May approached the grand building with some trepidation but found that once inside the librarians were happy to direct her to the information she wanted. She began to spend most of her Wednesday afternoons browsing through the shelves.

One day one of the librarians asked if she had ever read a book by Samuel Smiles called Self-Help; with illustrations of Character and Conduct. She borrowed it and discovered that, although much of it was so far from her daily experience that it was hard to follow, there were inspirational passages. She particularly liked his denunciation of ‘the worship of power, wealth, success, and keeping up appearances’. It made her feel that her rejection of some of the ideas she had been brought up with – to ‘know her place’ and ‘respect her betters’ – was not as wicked as she had feared.

One Sunday she and James found their way to the botanical gardens at Wavertree and were fascinated by the orchids in one of the glasshouses. May always carried her sketchbook and was immediately absorbed in drawing them.

Looking over her shoulder, James said, ‘You draw so well, and I know you love colour. I’m surprised you don’t paint as well.’

May looked up from her sketchbook. Somehow the idea had never occurred to her. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’ But she realised as she spoke that she did know. She had not thought about it for a long time, but now she recalled sitting on the stairs she was supposed to be sweeping and listening to Mr Latimer instructing Isabella. She remembered, too, Isabella’s inept attempts to follow his instructions. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I just never had any paints.’

The following Sunday he handed a package. ‘A little birthday present.’

Inside was a box of watercolour paints and a selection of brushes.

May’s evenings and Wednesday afternoons were given up from then on to experimenting with colour. It was frustrating and one Sunday she remarked to James that she never seemed quite to achieve what she was aiming for.