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Hampshire, but they were all died out; and their Kentish cousins had come into these distant properties as a matter of course. My mother’s questions were posed in all innocence, but their effect was galvanic.
    “Lord!” cried Ann Prowting, “Do you mean to say you are ignorant of what everybody hereabouts knows—that the Hintons and all their relations are the last true descendants of the Hampshire Knights?”
    “Ann,”
her mother attempted once more. “I do not think it is for us—”
    “But, Mamma,” she retorted impatiently, “it is beyond everything great! Here Jack Hinton has been saying for an
age
that he ought to be Squire of Chawton—and the Squire’s mamma don’t even know it!”

Chapter 5
    Chapters in a Life
    Wednesday, 5 July 1809

~
    A FLOOD OF BIRDSONG ROUSED ME AT HALF PAST SIX THIS morning. I opened my eyes to find the sunlight full in my face; the bedchamber looks south and the window is still undraped.
Strange,
I thought,
to hear no sound of the sea.
The relentless murmur of wave upon shingle was one aspect of Southampton life I should regret.
    With consciousness came the memory of the dead man in the cellar; there might be intelligence today of both his name and the nature of his end. I reached for my dressing gown and crept quietly out of the room, determined not to wake my mother—but I need have had no fears for her slumber; the shock and exertion of yesterday, coupled with Mr. Prowting’s excellent claret, ensured that she should lie slumbering yet a while.
    The peace of this country morning was indescribable, a balm for jangled nerves. I stood in the silent kitchen, and listened to the rustling of some small creature against the exterior boards, the lowing of cattle in the distance, and the crowing of a cock—then threw open the back door and stepped out into the yard. A tin pail hung on a hook nailed to the lintel; I took it up, and moved to the well to draw some water. This, I decided, as the pump moved easily on its oiled hinge and the clear water began to flow, should be the work I would claim within our new household: the drawing of water and the preparation of fires in the early morning, the making of a simple breakfast, when everyone else lay abed. The freedom and quiet of an undisturbed hour should be a luxury beyond everything; indeed, it was all the luxury I desired.
    Having escorted us from his dining parlour the previous evening, Mr. Prowting had helped us to lay a simple bed of coals in the kitchen hearth before departing for his own bed. The fire, properly banked, would serve to boil our tea this morning. The cottage boasted no ingenious modern stove, nothing but a spit and a quantity of iron hooks for the arrangement of kettles, and even Martha might find the conditions less than desirable; but Mr. Prowting had pledged himself to the task of securing a few servants among that class of village folk as were accustomed to labour in genteel houses—had several prospects already in mind—should be happy to interview them so early as today, etc., etc.—and should send the likeliest recruits to my mother for final approval. I foresaw little difficulty, delay, or exertion for myself in the business, and was content this morning to set my mother’s kettle on the fire.
    The task done, I hesitated briefly in the small kitchen. Ought I to dress and walk out into the street, in search of the woman Mrs. Prowting assured me was the best baker of fresh bread in the village? Or could I trust to Providence and my mother’s slumber a little longer, and steal a glimpse at the contents of Lord Harold’s trunk?
    After yesterday’s discovery of the corpse, Mr. Prowting had carried my bequest to the henhouse for safekeeping, as I did not think it kind to require the gentleman to enter a stranger’s bedchamber. The Rogue’s lead key hung heavily in my dressing-gown pocket. I curled my fingers around its length and walked swiftly back out into the yard, in the direction of the