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She was new to this parenting thing, but ignoring a teenaged boy’s snorts seemed the smartest course of action.

The Calderbank house was a mirror of hers, so it was no surprise to follow Marcia to the dining room. What was surprising was the lack of ornamentation on the walls or—or anywhere, really. The dining room contained only the table and chairs, set with lovely, although modest, tableware.

“Sit, sit,” called Marcia happily, bouncing to the other side of the table. “You know my brother, Rupert?”

The lad stood behind a chair beside her, and when Felicity smiled to him, he bobbed his head in a solemn nod, then pulled his sister’s chair out for her. As Bull did the same for Felicity, she murmured her thanks, her attention on the siblings across the table.

“And how old are you, Rupert?” she asked brightly, aware of how brittle she sounded, but having no idea how to speak to a lad his size.

“I’m ten,” he replied gravely, looking far too grown in a too-tight suit. “Although Father says I’m bright for my age.”

Felicity hummed as she reached for her napkin. “I am certain you are.” She wasn’t certain, not at all, but having no idea how bright ten-year-old boys normally were, she had no way to counter the lad’s claim. “And I assume you enjoy…um…poking frogs, falling out of trees, lighting things on fire, that sort of thing?”

The lad cocked his head at her. “Why in the world would I want to poke a frog?”

She was on shaky ground here. “Um…to see what makes it go?”

“Frog locomotion is achieved by contracting the extensor muscles in their long and powerful hind legs. The sudden movement thrusts the foot—which itself is long and webbed, for better purchase—hard against either the ground or the water. Thus, the frog could be said to ‘leap’ on land or while swimming.”

The lad nodded, satisfied, and Felicity couldn’t help but stare in amazement. She was impressed by young Rupert’s grasp of biological mechanics and his memory.

Marcia leaned forward to join the conversation. “Rupert is a bit of a genius. Engineering, biology, far too much history. He doesn’t care at all about current events.”

She said that as if it were a grand personal failing on her brother’s part.

Beside Felicity, Bull had slid into his own chair. “Marcia has firm and virulent opinions about the state of the world and women’s place in it.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” Marcia sniffed and shook out her napkin. “But it is the responsibility of every woman to fight for equal representation, equal pay, and would it kill them to give us more pockets?”

Felicity pressed her lips together to hide her smile at such far-fetched notions, and nodded solemnly. Her spine was as straight as it had been at any of her parents’ dinner parties, years ago, and vaguely she wondered why she was trying so hard to impress these children.

“See?” Bull mock-whispered to her, even as he sent a wink to Marcia. “Virulent.”

Luckily, Felicity was saved from having to answer by the entrance of the shortest, roundest woman she’d ever seen. Both Marcia and Bull brightened at the sight of the platter the woman held.

“What do ye have for us tonight, Mrs. Mac?” Bull asked, already reaching forward to clear a space for the platter.

It was Marcia who answered. “Roast chicken!” She sounded almost proud of the meal. “Rupert helped with the potatoes, but I made the bread!”

Bull grinned. “Then I ken it’ll be delicious! Here, do ye want me to carve?”

He was already reaching for the knife. It was uncommonly rude, but since Mr. Calderbank still hadn’t joined them, and since this was clearly an informal meal, Felicity couldn’t really object.

Instead she turned to the woman who was tucking the lid of the platter under an arm. “Thank you…Mrs. Mac?”

“Easier than remembering my tongue-twister of a name, eh?” she offered with a cheerful grin as she bobbed a curtsey. “Been with these scamps for years and years, eh?”

“Mrs. Mac does for us,” announced Rupert solemnly.

“Does?” Felicity repeated, attempting politeness.

Marcia smiled softly. “She takes care of the house.”

“Housekeeper, nanny and cook, eh?” The cheerful woman bobbed another curtsey, which was unfortunate to see, because the wee thing became shorter than Felicity, who was sitting down. “They run me ragged.”

“No, we don’t.” Rupert was reaching for the plate with the piece of chicken Bull offered, then passed it to his sister. “We’re practically self-sufficient. Spartan boys were removed from their parents’ care at the age of seven, and I’m ten.”

“Aye,” Bull agreed, “but they were entering the military.”