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Celtic?” Mr. Durwin, retired founder of Durwin Stoves , asked.
    “Indeed they are. It was Mr. Pitney who established that. He has a deep abiding interest in Celtic artifacts.”
    Julia recognized that Mr. Ellis was generously attempting to draw his younger associate into the conversation. Perhaps it was his great size that contributed to Jacob Pitney’s timidity, for the dark-haired man towered above everyone else in the Larkspur . Big-boned he was, with hands that looked as if they should be swinging a pickax at a quarry rather than handling delicate antiquities. But it was obvious that he loved his work, for his brown eyes lit up when Fiona asked him to describe how the combs were used in weaving.
    “Aren’t you hungry, Mother?” Aleda asked from Julia’s adjacent right. Julia looked down at her plate and realized her fork had been idly plowing swirls in her creamed turnips for some time now.
    “It must be the turnips,” Grace, at Aleda’s other elbow, suggested before Julia could reply. The seven-year-old had an acute dislike for the root vegetable and seemed to assume it was only a matter of time before the rest of the household came to their senses and formed the same opinion.
    Julia didn’t force her to eat them, for she could recall a similar enmity with peas when she was a young girl. “The turnips are fine,” she told Grace. “I’m still not used to having everyone here again. It’s nice.”
    “Everyone” consisted of, in order of seating beginning with her son on the left, Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin, who were to marry in September, Mrs. Dearing, who had spent some years in California gold country with her late husband, Mr. Ellis, and Miss Rawlins, author of such penny novelettes as Dominique’s Peril .
    From Grace’s right were seated Mrs. Kingston, Mr. Pitney, Fiona, and Mr. Clay. Counting Julia and her children and parlormaids, Georgette and Sarah, who were flanking the sideboard in their black alpaca gowns and white aprons, fifteen people were gathered in the room.
    Good people , Julia thought. Oh, some had their minor peculiarities, as she suspected she did herself, but she could not have imagined a more congenial group living under her roof. She became aware that Mrs. Dearing was attempting to establish eye contact and said, “Yes, Mrs. Dearing?”
    “Have you heard whether the school board’s call on the Sanderses was successful, Mrs. Hollis?”
    All eyes turned to her now. Julia shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t.” But as the day wore on, she had ceased worrying about her fiancé being the target of a rock, for surely she would have heard by now if he had.
    “I do pray they were able to persuade him.” Mrs. Kingston glanced at the girls at her left. “A merry-go-round would be such a novelty—why, I doubt there’s another village in Shropshire that can boast such a wonder!”
    Mrs. Dearing nodded. “It looks as if the whole outcome depends upon Mr. Sanders, doesn’t it? I avoid gossip like the plague, but from what bits and pieces I’ve heard concerning him, he cares for nothing above his cattle—not even his own children.”
    “I’ve heard that as well,” Mrs. Hyatt sighed.
    The mood of the assemblage turned somber, with the scroll clock on the chimneypiece ticking off several seconds of silence. Presently Mr. Clay, whose face betrayed an apparent struggle with some sort of emotion, said, “We can only hope Mr. Sanders was in an agreeable moo-ood .” He winced afterward. “Forgive me—I just couldn’t help myself.”
    Another silence followed, during which everyone appeared to be collecting his thoughts. Mr. Durwin was the first to speak, scrutinizing Mr. Clay unsmilingly, but with eyes that held a suspicious glint. “I suppose you find that a-moosing , Mr. Clay?”
    Now somber expressions turned to chuckles. Even Georgette and Sarah sent giggles from the sideboard. “May I give it a try?” asked Mr. Ellis.
    “But of course,” Mr. Durwin invited.
    He