Cheng Peinian’s temperament had always been soft and yielding. Hearing these words, he still felt torn to the core: “Elder brother, you don’t understand Guiniang. How could she ever agree to a divorce? And if this matter spreads, how can I continue serving in court? What will people say of me?”
Cheng Peifeng laughed: “You scholars care too much about face. Do you think people aren’t already gossiping behind your back? Once the Sheng family’s scandal spreads, your reputation will be hung on the city gates for all to spit on! If she refuses, I have ways to force her hand. And once you’re divorced, a splendid marriage will naturally await you…”
At this point, Cheng Peifeng clasped his younger brother’s hand, his tone growing ever more gentle: “Peinian, you’re ten years younger than me, not yet forty—this is the prime of a man’s vigor. The Duke Ding’s legitimate daughter, Miss Tian Peirong, is newly widowed. I recall that before her marriage, she once entrusted someone to propose to you, truly admiring you from the bottom of her heart. Unfortunately, you insisted on marrying Guiniang and missed that fine match. Who could have foreseen that Miss Tian’s aunt would be chosen by the Emperor, rising from consort to Empress, and the Tian family soaring to the heavens! What a pity it was back then. Oh, and just recently, when you went to offer incense at Qianlong Temple, didn’t you meet her? I heard from your servant that you even accompanied Miss Tian to admire the wooden Buddha in the rear hall…”
“Elder brother, say no more!” For reasons unknown, Second Master Cheng cut him off in haste. Gripping the armrest, he sat in brooding silence for a moment, then seemed to steel himself: “Tomorrow… I will set out for Yan County to re‑examine the salt tax. It will take some time. As for Guiniang, elder brother, you must weigh the matter and handle it as you see fit.”
With those words, Cheng Peinian rose and left the study. His once tall and upright figure now appeared faintly stooped.
Cheng Peifeng sighed, though relief outweighed his regret. His younger brother’s path in officialdom had been rocky—brimming with talent, yet wasting away for years in a minor post at the Ministry of Revenue.
Now, in middle age, Cheng Peinian had finally shed the naïve airs of a pampered youth. His prospects for promotion had brightened, likely since that visit to Qianlong Temple. After all, Tian Peirong’s two elder brothers held high offices in the Ministries of Personnel and Revenue. If the Tian family chose to lend support, Peinian’s advancement would be within reach.
With this thought, Cheng Peifeng felt assured. He left the study, knowing that matters in the second household were not his place to confront directly. Their mother had passed early, and the eldest sister‑in‑law was as a mother; thus it fell to his wife, Madam Qian, to speak with Guiniang and lay out the harsh realities.
At dawn the next day, before light broke, Second Master Cheng departed.
Later that morning, Madam Qian entered the second household with her maids, overhearing Lady Guiniang murmuring to her attendants: “Why did my husband leave so early? He didn’t even drink the warm sea‑cucumber porridge before setting out. In this morning chill, traveling on an empty stomach must be miserable. His servant should have persuaded him. I slept too deeply and never noticed when he rose.”
As she spoke, Madam Qian stepped into the hall with the help of her maid.
Guiniang quickly gathered her hair and rose to greet her. Madam Qian lifted her gaze to her sister‑in‑law—though past thirty, her cheeks were still fair and flushed, her eyes youthful and smooth, untouched by the wear of years. Such ease belonged to one who had never tasted sorrow, cherished always by her husband.
Between sisters‑in‑law, comparisons were inevitable. In the past, Madam Qian had envied her younger sister’s fortunate life.
The Cheng family, unlike the venerable Sheng clan, was not of ancient nobility. Had the old patriarch not seized the opportunity, secretly aiding the then‑Governor of Yizhou—who later became Emperor—the Chengs would have remained mere salt merchants of Wanxi. Their reward was a minor hereditary title, enough to bring honor but not true standing among the great houses. Such empty titles were common in the capital.
The marriage between Cheng and Sheng had been something of a reach. Were it not for Cheng Peinian’s unmatched looks—hailed as the most handsome man in the capital—he could never have won Sheng Guiniang’s heart.
At the time, a high monk had divined their union: “The Sheng clan, though prosperous, will decline. To endure for a hundred years, it needs fortune renewed. The character ‘Cheng’ shall replenish the ‘Sheng.’” His wordplay seemed convincing, and perhaps it was the patriarch’s clever arrangement that sealed the match.
Now, it seemed the monk had been wrong. The Sheng foundation was unstable, and not only would it collapse, but it also threatened to drag the Chengs down with it.
Madam Qian reflected grimly: the Sheng family’s daughter had even ruined her betrothal to Prince Cining by eloping. Did she not realize the Emperor’s heirs were few, the Crown Prince frail? Should the Crown Prince die, Prince Cining would inherit the throne, and his only son would be the future Crown Prince. Thus, Sheng Xiangqiao had shamed the future Emperor, placing a green crown upon the head of the heir apparent.
Cold sweat broke across Madam Qian’s neck. Remembering her husband’s instructions, she dismissed the maids and shut the door to speak privately with Guiniang.
Soon, muffled sobs echoed from within. Lady Guiniang burst into tears.
Outside, the maids waited anxiously, forbidden to approach. Her personal maid, Qiao Ying, bit her lip in worry. Just then, she looked up to see a tall, slender youth stepping through the moon‑gate of the inner courtyard.
The youth was tall—so tall one could hardly believe he was only fifteen. His back was straight, brows thick, nose high. Though dressed in a snow‑white scholar’s robe that lent him refinement, the sharp gleam in his eyes was like a blade’s edge. The little maids blushed as he swept past them like the wind.
Madam Qian’s trusted nurse, Nanny Ying, was guarding the doorway. Seeing the second household’s young master, Cheng Tianfu, about to storm in, she quickly raised a hand to block him: “Fourth Young Master, the First Madam is speaking with your mother. Please wait—oh heavens!”
Before she could finish, her plump body was shoved aside with a kick, and Cheng Tianfu pushed the door wide, striding in.
Inside, Lady Guiniang was already in tears. Her thumb was pressed in Madam Qian’s grasp, dipped in red ink, about to be stamped upon the divorce paper. But when she saw her son—returned suddenly from his summer studies at the old estate—she choked out, “Tianfu…” before collapsing against the table in weakness.
Madam Qian, startled by her nephew’s intrusion, released her grip and forced composure: “Fourth, why do you enter without knocking?”
Tianfu ignored her, went straight to his mother, checked her pulse, and, finding no grave harm, picked up the divorce document. After reading a few lines, he lifted his gaze and glared at Madam Qian.
Madam Qian knew this boy, though young, had always been a troublemaker. At five, he led older children to poke a hornet’s nest in the back garden, and disasters followed one after another, earning countless beatings from his uncle. Later, the old patriarch feared his father might kill him in anger, so at eight, he was sent to study under a great scholar far away. Over the years, he had grown more disciplined, returning with some polish. Yet today, his door‑kicking, glaring defiance brought back memories of those reckless days.
Before Madam Qian could assume her elder’s authority, Cheng Tianfu spoke sharply: “Aunt, you shut the door only to force my mother into divorcing my father?”
Such meddling in the Cheng family’s private affairs could not be openly admitted. Madam Qian stiffened her cheeks: “This is between your parents. Children should not interfere. Go to the study and find your uncle—he will explain.”
But Cheng Tianfu did not move. Instead, he sat down, glanced coldly at the divorce paper, then tossed it into the incense burner. In an instant, it turned to smoke. Raising his brows, he said: “Your nephew is weary from travel. Aunt, you should return and rest.”
Madam Qian, relying on her authority as mistress of the household, turned to Guiniang: “Tell Tianfu to leave! This matter is not his to decide…”
The words had barely left her lips when the youth suddenly raised his hand. With a sharp crack, the thick wooden tabletop split beneath his palm. Narrowing his eyes, he said coldly: “Aunt, do you mean to linger in my mother’s chambers overnight?”
Madam Qian saw at once that the boy’s wild temper had flared again.
Though still young, Cheng Tianfu was widely connected. During his years of study away from home, he somehow befriended several wandering swordsmen and learned martial skills. At twelve, while hunting with the princes, he had once saved a stranded royal by single‑handedly slaying a black bear, earning praise from the Emperor himself. Yet the old patriarch had sternly warned him to devote himself to letters, not to rely on military merit. After all, battlefield honors were bought with blood, and the Sheng family’s sons need not gamble their lives so recklessly.
That strike just now was truly frightening—proof that his years of scholarly study had not dulled his martial training.
Madam Qian glanced at Nanny Ying, still sprawled at the doorway, then at the boy who would kick his aunt without hesitation. Realizing she could no longer bully Guiniang, the “soft persimmon,” she stiffened her face, gathered her shaken nurse, and hurried away.
Guiniang, meanwhile, had regained her breath, though tears streamed endlessly. She had just heard her sister‑in‑law’s words: this divorce, her husband knew of it, perhaps even consented. The thought pierced her heart with dull, aching sorrow. Her natal family’s scandal was undeniable—her brother’s daughter, Sheng Xiangqiao, had eloped despite a betrothal to a prince. The Shengs had tried to smother the disgrace, secretly sending men to search for her, hoping to retrieve the girl, punish her harshly, and bury the matter.
Guiniang had overheard fragments of her brother’s conversation with a steward during a recent visit home, guessed the truth, and told her husband. Cheng Peinian had gone to the Shengs, but her brother denied it, begging him not to spread the rumor.
After years of kinship, Cheng Peinian saw the tense look on his brother‑in‑law Sheng Xuan’s face and felt a chill in his heart. When he returned, he told her, “This matter must be true.”
Frightened, she had quickly warned him not to speak of it. But now, how had the elder branch of the Cheng family also come to know?