“Have you see Lady Burnham? She’s been updated.”
“Yes. Mrs. Hardwick and I met her at Délan’s.”
Cymbeline hissed. “What has she improved?”
“Her left arm, of all things.” Marguerite’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Truthfully, it’s vulgar. Pure silver, excepting her wedding ring–the Crafter bonded it to the ring finger.”
“Silver? Entirely?” Cymbeline shook her head. “Has she no grasp of what constitutes taste?”
“It’s the way of the nouveau riche, my dear.” Marguerite raised her skirts to her knee, exposing perfect ivory legs. “The bisque is much more attractive.”
The ladies set aside their cups, exiting the room and departing the house for the gardens. The low hiss of a pressure valve underscored their conversation, the occasional squeak of a joint interrupting the overall quiet of the scene.
“I do so love your flowers, Marguerite. How do you manage it?” Cymbeline touched a cluster of blooms, the petals tinkling as they brushed against one another.
“I’ll relay your compliments to Marshall. He’ll be pleased–he does make such an effort.”
“I’ve told Harold we need that model of gardener, but he simply refuses.”
Marguerite tutted. “Unfortunately, my dear Cymbeline, husbands do not always understand the needs of a household.”
They laughed, the metallic tones bright in the air.