When May got back to the kitchen she was just in time to see Mrs Wilkins returning the lunchtime beef joint to the larder, and there was an empty plate on the table with a slick of mustard on it. May’s supper was another piece of bread and a small portion of cheese. When she had finally polished the last boot and was able to crawl into her narrow bed, she was hungry, cold and exhausted. She missed the frowsty companionship of the dormitory, the murmur of voices, the sense of Patty’s sleeping form close beside her. The food at the workhouse had been bland and uninteresting, and she had often wished there was more of it, but at least she had rarely gone to bed so hungry. Of all her lessons, the ones she least enjoyed had been the basic housework, and now it seemed that her life was going to be a long succession of tasks she hated. She leaned over and groped inside her box until she found Angel’s rag doll. She held it against her cheek, breathing in the faint aroma that still clung to it, and gave way to the tears that had been building inside her all day.

She was woken next morning by Mrs Wilkins pounding on her door and shouting to her to get up. She staggered to her feet and splashed her face with icy water from the ewer, struggled into her dress and apron, pushed her hair under her cap and hurried into the kitchen.

‘Well, this is a fine way to start!’ was the cook’s greeting. ‘You’ll need to do better than that if you’re going to give satisfaction. Now get that fire going!’

It set the pattern for the day. No matter how much she hurried, May always seemed to be behind. The governess did not come down to fetch the breakfast tray, so May had to climb the three flights of stairs to the nursery floor with it. Then Miss Parsons complained that the schoolroom was not swept ready for her. It was at that point that May had her first sight of Isabella. She was a small replica of her mother, but the fairness that gleamed like silver in Mrs Freeman’s hair was pale and dull in her daughter’s, and where her mother’s features were even and delicate, Isabella’s nose and chin were too pronounced for beauty. Her eyes were small and she blinked continuously. She looked, May thought, like a small, frightened mouse.