Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens

called her Ma, which in itself seemed odd; given their poorly concealed gentility, he would have expected Mama, but no. And the children themselves . . .
    What was a small, gently bred family doing living in such a way? Why had Rose chosen this as their life, for plainly she was the driving force behind that decision?
    Their determined isolation was another oddity; both children were of an age to attend school, and the local school wasn’t far, yet neither went. More, neither consorted with any other children, and, tellingly, neither expected to.
    Admittedly, Homer already required more wide-ranging teaching of a higher level, the sort normally supplied by either a good grammar school or a private tutor, but Pippin was young, and would, Thomas suspected, have been happy with the other girls at the local village school . . . except for her social standing, which was definitely not “village.”
    A bell jangled in the distance, drawing him from his reverie. It was Rose’s—Mrs. Sheridan’s—kitchen bell, summoning them to morning tea. If he didn’t respond and appear in the kitchen, she would bring in a tray for him.
    Swiveling the chair back around, he reached for his cane, stood, and headed for the door.
    He reached the kitchen on Homer’s heels; the lad had been in the dining room, which Thomas had suggested Homer use for all his studies.
    Homer fell into his chair and, his expression closed and unaccustomedly moody, reached for a slice of bread and butter. Pippin was already in her chair, happily consuming a slice of bread liberally spread with raspberry jam.
    Rose turned from the stove, the teapot in one hand and the milk jug in the other. Seeing Glendower, she acknowledged him with a nod. Setting the teapot and jug on the table, she reached for the cup and plate she’d left ready on a tray to carry into the library; these days she never knew whether he would join them for morning tea or not.
    She set the plate and cup before him and poured his tea before filling her own cup and sitting in her chair.
    Homer reached for the milk jug and filled his mug, then Pippin’s.
    Aware of his disaffected state, Rose asked, as he set the jug down, “Did you finish that arithmetic?”
    Homer pulled a schoolboy face. “Yes. But arithmetic’s so boring!”
    Rose opened her mouth, but Thomas—Glendower—caught her eye, and she paused.
    And listened as Glendower said, “In some respects, but arithmetic—all that boring stuff—is the foundation for everything I do as an investor.”
    Instantly, he had Homer’s undivided attention.
    “Without arithmetic,” Glendower continued, “I couldn’t make all the money I do. Any landowner, too, uses arithmetic every day—considering returns on his crops, yields over his acres, prices for his farms’ produce. Without arithmetic, no level of commerce could function. No banks, no shops, no government. And without arithmetic, you can’t build anything—no houses, railways, ships, not even roads—not proper ones.” Trapping Homer’s gaze, Glendower concluded, “If you expect to do anything meaningful with your life, you’ll need to conquer arithmetic.”
    Rose could have kissed him. She looked at Homer—in time to see him pull another face.
    “But I can already do additions and subtractions, and I know all my tables by heart.” Homer looked beseechingly at Glendower. “There has to be more to it than that.”
    Glendower blinked, then he glanced up the table at Rose, then looked back at Homer. “There is. There’s multiplication and division using much larger numbers than in your tables—that’s what knowing your tables helps you to do. Tables come first, then those two—and then there’s many levels of manipulating figures after that.”
    Rose felt her heart sink as both Homer and Glendower looked at her. She’d already reached the limit of her arithmetical education. She had hoped to be able to guide Homer at least for the next few years, but he’d already