After that, everyone sat together, drinking tea and chatting idly.
From the conversation, Chu Linlang pieced together the story. Miss Yin Xuefang’s father had once served as a clerk in Jiaocheng—his post was minor, but the family was comfortably well‑off. He had worked for many years under Lord Zhou, Chu Linlang’s late father‑in‑law. Yin Xuefang’s mother, Madam Liu, was also a close friend of Madam Zhao. In those days, the two families often visited, and the children played together. By this reckoning, Yin Xuefang and Zhou Sui’an were childhood companions.
It was said that when Yin Xuefang was only a hundred days old, the eight‑year‑old Zhou Sui’an had held the baby girl tightly, refusing to let go, insisting his mother take her home to raise.
But misfortune struck. Lord Zhou became entangled in a lawsuit, lost his post, paid heavy fines, and died ill. The Zhou family—widow and child—returned to their rural home in Jiangkou, severing ties with the Yins.
Miss Yin later married, but her husband died young—less than two years after the wedding, thrown from a horse. Her husband’s family was cruel, accusing her of ill fate that killed him, cursing her daily, and even forcing her to remain a widow and adopt a nephew to continue the family line.
Her parents, unwilling to see their eighteen‑year‑old daughter condemned to lifelong widowhood, fought bitterly with her in‑laws and brought her home. But the quarrel left her reputation ruined; her mother‑in‑law spread slander everywhere. Branded as a “widow of ill fortune,” her prospects for remarriage dimmed.
Having understood the mother and daughter’s background, Chu Linlang found herself unable to join the conversation. She excused herself, claiming she needed to change clothes, and left her mother‑in‑law’s quarters.
Her maid Xia He, seeing her mistress’s gloom, whispered: “Madam, with guests in the house, isn’t it improper to leave so soon?”
Chu Linlang washed her face, flicked off the water, and snorted coldly: “Guests? More like relatives who treat this place as their own. Without me there, they’ll feel freer.”
Xia He blinked, worried, and murmured: “Do you mean… the Old Madam wants to give our master…”
Chu Linlang said nothing. She changed clothes, picked up her sewing basket, and bent her head to thread the needle.
Xia He sighed. It was not entirely the Old Madam’s fault. Chu Linlang had been married seven years, yet had borne no children. No matter how virtuous a woman, childlessness was the gravest fault.
Madam Zhao had never thought highly of Chu Linlang’s lowly background, but her son had insisted, and the family was in decline, so she reluctantly accepted her. Who would have expected that, though capable, this daughter‑in‑law could not conceive? For years, Madam Zhao had urged Zhou Sui’an to take a concubine, but he refused.
For this, Chu Linlang was deeply grateful. In secret, she sought doctors, prayed to gods, hoping to bear him a child. But the divine favor had been spent long ago; nothing changed.
Xia He, loyal to her mistress, sometimes wondered if the fault lay not with her lady, but with Zhou Sui’an himself.
Three years earlier, Zhou Sui’an had returned from a trip with a little girl, confessing with shame that before marriage, in drunken folly, he had fathered a child with a singing girl. The mother, now gravely ill, had entrusted the child to him.
The sudden appearance of a daughter shocked everyone—especially Chu Linlang, who had always believed her husband a spotless gentleman. Had it been at the start of their marriage, she would have raged. But seeing the girl’s resemblance to her husband, she fell ill, silent for three days. At last she spoke, bitterly: *So it is truly I who cannot bear children.*
Her husband’s folly was a debt from before marriage; no use quarreling. After ten days of coldness, hearing his repeated vows never to err again, she accepted reality and raised the girl, named Yuan’er, as her own. To conceal Zhou Sui’an’s youthful indiscretion, they claimed the child was a year younger, now six. His frequent transfers covered the truth.
Peace lasted only a few years before Madam Zhao stirred trouble again.
Chu Linlang finished washing, then began cutting cloth for her husband’s official collar. She instructed Xia He to divide her purchases—handkerchiefs and hairpins—into three portions: for Madam Zhao, her sister‑in‑law Zhou Lingxiu, and the guest Yin Xuefang.
For her daughter Yuan’er, there were no trinkets—only a box of books, paper, and brushes, as always.
Another maid, Dongxue, who was outspoken, asked bluntly: “Madam, don’t you see what the Old Madam intends? By treating Miss Yin so kindly, aren’t you agreeing?”
Chu Linlang, deftly sketching patterns on cloth, replied calmly, half to herself: “She has not spoken of it. How could I neglect a guest? I did suffer hardship after marrying into the Zhou family, but among my sisters, I married best. One must be content. My husband cherishes me and never takes concubines. I cannot be suspicious, nor shame my mother‑in‑law before others.”
Dongxue rolled her eyes. The Zhou family’s wealth was all Chu Linlang’s doing. Without her, they would starve even with an official post.
But Chu Linlang silenced her with one sentence: “Do you remember how I nearly despaired, bound and forced into a bridal sedan? Whatever happens, I am grateful to my husband.”
The maids fell silent. They remembered her misery as a girl—an illegitimate daughter, clever yet discarded, nearly sold off. Zhou Sui’an had saved her. Perhaps that was why she indulged him more than his own mother did.
Yet Zhou Sui’an, lacking filial piety, returned home seething. He kicked open the door. Chu Linlang, sewing a collar, pricked her finger, a bead of blood welling.
Normally, he would rush to comfort her. But today, he only vented his fury: “Chu Linlang, are you mad? You dared to seize the prince’s carriage, to speak recklessly before His Highness! Do you know you nearly frightened me to death at the yamen today?”
Chu Linlang sucked her finger, cautiously asked: “Didn’t His Highness say he would not pursue it? Are you angry about something else?”
She feared the forged account—if Situ Sheng had found it, disaster loomed.
But Zhou Sui’an thought she was dismissing the day’s calamity. He glared: “You dare ask?”
She met his eyes, pressing: “Is there truly something else? Tell me plainly.”
Seeing her unruffled, Zhou Sui’an sighed in exasperation: “You never listen! I told you not to go out. If not for His Highness’s mercy, you would have doomed us all. You spoke of kneeling in the ancestral hall—why are you still sitting here? Were your words in court mere play?”
Chu Linlang realized Situ Sheng had not mentioned the false account. Relief washed over her. Likely, he had found nothing or dismissed it.
She thought: *That page, half‑finished, if picked up by anyone, would serve only as scrap paper.*
Her heart eased. She even teased her husband: “Kneeling, yes—but with guests in the house, if you care for me, at least let me keep face. Wait until they leave.”
Zhou Sui’an looked puzzled. She added lightly, still sewing: “Father’s old friend’s family has come visiting—the Yins.”
She glanced at him.
At her words, Zhou Sui’an leaned back, cleared his throat, and said awkwardly: “Oh… Father was indeed close with the Yins. Mother… she didn’t say anything to you, did she?”
Chu Linlang’s needle slipped again, pricking her finger. This time, she made no sound, only quietly sucked at the wound, then lifted her gaze toward Zhou Sui’an with a look full of meaning. She had thought the Yin family’s visit was truly a chance reunion—her mother‑in‑law, knowing Madam Yin was newly widowed, had simply entertained some other thoughts.
But seeing Zhou Sui’an neither surprised nor unsettled, only faintly uneasy, Chu Linlang suddenly realized: perhaps Madam Yin’s visit was not a whim at all, but carefully planned. Perhaps even Zhou Sui’an had been informed by his mother, while she alone was kept in the dark.
At this thought, though she had tried to console herself earlier, a spark of anger rose again. Still, she kept her composure and tested him: “Since such honored guests have come, how could Mother spare a word for me? Tell me, when did you last meet the Yin family?”
Zhou Sui’an shifted slightly, his tone softening, but he did not answer her question. Instead, he said magnanimously: “Enough. Since His Highness has pardoned you, he will not pursue the matter. Do not go out these next few days. Wait until the guests have left.”
Chu Linlang pressed her lips together, then rose to help him out of his official robes and into casual dress. She stood at the window, watching as he went to pay respects to his mother.
Zhou Sui’an was three years older than her, his features proper, his build not tall but refined, with the gentle grace unique to men of Jiangnan. Though twenty‑six, he still carried the charm of youth.
Even in their hardest times, Chu Linlang had never let her husband lack for clothing. When Zhou Sui’an went out to visit friends, dressed in snowy white with fan in hand, he was admired everywhere as a clear‑browed, jade‑like gentleman. Had his family not fallen into decline, surely noble maidens would have vied to marry him early on.
Such a jade‑like young lord had once filled Chu Linlang with pride. She thought that even if she herself was worldly and practical, struggling to keep the household afloat, it was not in vain—for she had raised up a husband of great talent and learning.