Since the person at the center of the quarrel was so calm, the other young ladies could only smile awkwardly and pick up their chopsticks, eating in embarrassment.
Sheng Xiangqiao had met many servant women sold off by their masters while she was in the hands of human traffickers. Each one was skilled at stirring trouble, provoking quarrels, and fighting.
This trick of twisting words and turning blame was something the little girl had learned well in that den of traffickers. Miss Shen, after all, was a pampered noble daughter, bound by many rules—if it came to a real fight, how could she be a match?
But the heir’s fiancée, fierce enough to slap someone, was a shock. The young ladies who had previously exchanged flirtatious glances with the heir now seemed much more restrained. And when they realized the sachet hanging from the heir’s waist wasn’t theirs, some felt ashamed, others angry, and one by one they found excuses to leave early.
Sheng Xiangqiao understood them—and understood the heir’s predicament even better. If he could, the heir would probably wish for several waists, so he could hang multiple sachets at once, sharing favor equally and avoiding jealousy.
After today, aside from the true owner of the sachet, the other beauties would likely cry and demand answers from him: how many “dear sisters” did he have?
Indeed, when leaving Qianlong Temple that day, the heir glared at Sheng Xiangqiao several times before riding off angrily.
Sheng Xiangqiao, meanwhile, ate her fill, packed away the snacks Miss Cao had given her, and returned to the Sheng residence. Yet after the vegetarian banquet incident, her two younger sisters stared at her the whole way back, surely thinking: Has Sheng Xiangqiao gone mad? She’s completely reckless now!
Finally, Sheng Xianglan couldn’t help muttering: “Just wait until we’re home—Father won’t let you off without punishment…”
Sheng Xiangqiao said nothing, only pretending to be tired, leaning back in the carriage with her eyes closed.
When they arrived at the residence, the two sisters got out first. Sheng Xianglan nearly ran inside, eager to deliver fresh gossip about her elder sister to her mother, Madam Bai.
As Sheng Xiangqiao stepped down from the carriage, she saw her cousin standing nearby, as if waiting for her. She asked: “Does Cousin have instructions for me?”
Cheng Tianfu looked at the girl’s delicate brows and eyes—especially those dark, shining pupils. No matter how he looked, she seemed like a quiet, gentle young lady.
But appearances can be deceiving—the little village girl was clearly not of a gentle, refined temperament. Cheng Tianfu said slowly: “Your commotion today was rather loud. How do you intend to settle it?”
Sheng Xiangqiao blinked: “It was only a quarrel between young girls. What’s so serious about that? Besides, could the real Miss Sheng truly endure that Miss Shen?”
Ning Yan, standing nearby, dared not speak, but thought inwardly: if it had been the real young lady, she probably would have quarreled with the heir himself today, regardless of right or wrong.
In truth, the impostor was also unhappy. The monthly allowance she had long awaited was gone, and she still hadn’t recovered from the loss.
Even if the Sheng family gave her no money, under the prince’s pressure, she had no choice but to play the role of Sheng Xiangqiao. But without fodder, how could the donkey pull the cart well?
She decided to muddle through, agreeing here and there. Thinking she might soon face punishment under the Sheng family’s strict rules, Sheng Xiangqiao sighed softly.
Cheng Tianfu hadn’t expected her to be the one sighing first. He raised his brows and asked: “Today you acted on impulse. Why sigh now?”
Seeing that only Ning Yan and Nanny Zhao were present, Sheng Xiangqiao spoke frankly: “I’m not naturally domineering. Do you think I enjoy this? After only a few days as Miss Sheng, I understand why the real one wanted to elope. If I were her, I couldn’t endure it either.”
She wasn’t venting about losing her allowance—she was speaking sincerely.
The real Sheng Xiangqiao was not as noble as people imagined. Though pampered by her father, she was spoiled and had no real accomplishments. Among other noble girls, she fell short in every art—music, chess, calligraphy, and painting. How could she not grow jealous and insecure, becoming more arrogant and unruly?
At home, she was schemed against by Madam Bai and her half-siblings, and her grandmother disliked her. Even her marriage was to a frivolous heir who flirted everywhere.
Cheng Tianfu listened without anger, only raising his brows: “So you mean… her elopement was justified?”
The little girl realized she had spoken too much. She quickly stopped, smiled lightly, and said: “I’m just a country girl, speaking without knowledge. Cousin need not take it seriously. But in the future, for these social occasions that require silver, could you help me decline them? I can’t always rely on you for money. Otherwise, in the end, I’ll have done my duty yet owe your household silver.”
She smiled politely, then walked away toward her courtyard.
Qing Yan noticed his young master watching the girl’s small, thin figure and snorted: “She’s just a country girl, spouting nonsense. Young Master need not take it to heart.”
Cheng Tianfu smiled faintly. He understood well—the little girl was cleverly criticizing the Sheng family as a whole for being harsh and unkind.
Sheng Xiangqiao had made a scene at Qianlong Temple, expecting punishment. But that night, aside from Nanny Zhao’s furious scolding, no one else reprimanded her.
As Sheng Xiangqiao said, it was only a quarrel among young girls. The Shen family was not a powerful clan, and the elders were too lazy to meddle.
It was said that Sheng Xianglan had planned to exaggerate the incident to her father, but he had already heard of it from Cheng Tianfu. Whatever Cheng Tianfu said, her father dismissed it, merely frowning and scolding Sheng Xianglan: “Stop bringing up childish quarrels in front of me.”
Lord Sheng Xuanhe, having endured the ordeal at the imperial hall, had grown much more resilient. For him, the petty troubles caused by his false daughter were of no consequence. These days, he was often out of the residence, attending banquets and meetings—though in truth, he was discreetly considering remarriage. At present, there were two suitable candidates, and he needed to compare and choose. That afternoon, he went out again for another meeting and banquet, likely not returning until late at night.
As for her cousin, he too seemed to have gone out in the afternoon, perhaps to spend time with his classmates. Her grandmother, meanwhile, had been unwell and was taking medicine. Even if Madam Bai wanted to incite her children to complain, she had to think twice.
So, after Nanny Zhao scolded herself hoarse and then went off to have a maid massage her legs, Sheng Xiangqiao was left in peace. She could snack, sketch patterns, and practice her embroidery skills.
After dinner, however, Cheng Tianfu’s servant Qing Yan arrived, bringing Sheng Xiangqiao a wooden box. Opening it, she found a small bundle of silver ingots and a copybook. It seemed Cheng Tianfu still had some conscience—he had sent five taels of silver. But the copybook…
When Sheng Xiangqiao opened it, she was stunned. The ink was fresh, clearly newly written, not a shop product. And the style of the characters—it was unmistakably the same as the stele inscription by Liu Heshū she had seen at Qianlong Temple earlier that day.
Sheng Xiangqiao stared at it in silence, uncertain what her cousin meant by this. The next day, while strolling in the garden, she deliberately turned toward the path leading to the study.
With the exams approaching, Cheng Tianfu had borrowed his uncle’s study to prepare. He spent most of his time there reading, though when tired, he would step outside to walk or feed the fish.
Hoping to meet him, Sheng Xiangqiao walked to the study’s outer path.
There he was, seated on a stone bench by the rockery and pond.
The tall youth wore a loose white robe, collar slightly open to reveal the smooth lines of his neck. His hair was tied simply with a plain ebony hairpin. His long lashes were lowered, his straight nose caught the lazy afternoon sunlight, and his slender fingers turned the pages of a book. Amid the drifting autumn leaves, he radiated scholarly elegance.
Seeing this, Sheng Xiangqiao hesitated to approach, afraid of disturbing his studies.
But Cheng Tianfu had already heard her footsteps. Without raising his head, he said: “What brings you here?”
Sheng Xiangqiao bowed politely, then stepped closer: “Yesterday I received the box you sent. I thought I should thank you in person…”
Cheng Tianfu lifted his gaze slightly, expression unreadable: “No need. It was yours to receive. But I am curious—which item pleased you more?”
His words carried a hint of probing, though Sheng Xiangqiao seemed unaware. She replied: “I liked them both! Cousin was thoughtful to give me small silver ingots—they’re convenient for purchases. And the copybook, Ning Yan said it looked hand-written, perhaps by you. Truly, you went to great effort.”
Cheng Tianfu raised his brows faintly: “And how does she know it was written by me?”
Sheng Xiangqiao turned back to Ning Yan: “Exactly—tell Cousin how you recognized it.”
Ning Yan blushed under the young master’s gaze and quickly replied: “Well… Liu Heshū was actually a distant relative of the Sheng family. Years ago, he was implicated in the Shanxi salt tax case and was dismissed by imperial decree. After that, his calligraphy and poetry were banned, and our household even burned many of his works. That’s why I recognize this ‘Crane Style’ script… Later, his disciples managed to clear his name and his reputation was restored, but he had already passed away, and almost none of his works remained. Master once said that even if one wanted to buy his breathtaking copybooks, they couldn’t be found anymore. Seeing the fresh ink on this copybook, I boldly guessed—it must have been written by you, or perhaps copied at your request.”
She regretted speaking so freely yesterday when she saw the copybook, not realizing the false young lady would bring it up today before the fourth young master. She worried she had spoken out of turn and would later be scolded by Nanny Zhao.
But Cheng Tianfu only smiled faintly: “No wonder—you’re a maid of the scholarly Sheng household, well-versed in the history of letters. Indeed, Liu Heshū’s works are no longer sold. If not for the stele he left at Qianlong Temple, preserved by the abbot who was his friend, even that last inscription might have been lost. A brilliant talent, gone so quietly, with even his family’s fate unknown.”
Though he spoke with genuine regret for the fallen scholar, his eyes never left the bewildered little girl before him.