It’s not unusual for young ladies to enjoy planting flowers and tending gardens. After all, in a deep courtyard with light curtains fluttering, a few branches of lush green leaves and blooming flowers, butterflies dancing around, and a gentle fragrance drifting in the air—that naturally delights a young girl’s heart.
Yet Yingjie neither planted the rich, glamorous peonies nor the fragrant gardenias. Instead, she filled large pots and small bowls with a jumble of medicinal herbs, many of which neither flowered nor attracted butterflies, nor gave off any fragrance. At first glance, they were hardly distinguishable from ordinary wild plants.
Herbs have different growing habits, and taking care of such a herb garden is far more time-consuming and laborious than tending ordinary flowers.
“Qinghe, this jade bamboo can’t be exposed to direct sunlight, so be careful from now on. The newly planted centella is the most well-behaved; it’s easy to keep alive. Just remember, it likes more water than usual, so water it generously…” Yingjie instructed.
Though she wasn’t skilled at the guzheng’s musical scales, she could recite the habits of every single herb as if they were treasures.
Seeing their daughter so engrossed, Madam Lin could only indulge her.
After Madam Lin left, Yingjie finished tending the herb garden, tidied herself up, muttered, “Brother should be coming downstairs soon,” and cheerfully headed toward her brother’s courtyard.
Upon arriving, she saw Huai’er arranging his books neatly and resting on a chair.
“I had someone bring you some sweet tea from the study. Have you tried it yet?” Yingjie asked as she entered. “Mother said it’s quite good. How do you find it?”
“I’ve tried it.”
Late spring had turned subtly warm, and once the sun was out, the study became stuffy and hot. Reading aloud inside made one thirsty and weary, and nodding off from drowsiness was easy. That’s why Yingjie had someone fetch a few ordinary herbs from their family’s pharmacy—luo han guo, licorice, and summer chrysanthemum—added tea leaves, and brewed a pot of sweet tea. Once cooled, it was sent to her brother.
Huai’er commented, “Jin Di said it’s excellent, quenches thirst, refreshes the mind, and praised you for being more thoughtful. I think it’s good too, though for me it’s a bit too sweet. Next time, if you use plums or mint, chilled, it would be perfect for quenching thirst… marvelous.”
The siblings always spoke plainly and directly.
Yingjie snorted at her brother. “All other children love sweet things; only you are different, picky and complaining. How can tea not be sweet and still be called sweet tea? Next time, I’ll add a whole basket of plums and brew a pot just for you, so sour that even your evening pastries won’t be palatable.” She said this, but in her heart she silently noted that her brother preferred a sweet-and-sour taste.
“Don’t forget to chill it,” Huai’er said, pleased rather than annoyed.
“That’s not up to me,” Yingjie replied. “Mother always follows the principle of moderation; she won’t allow ice in summer. If you can convince her, even freezing the tea into blocks—I’d do it willingly.”
Huai’er sighed; his mother was very caring, but strictly monitored food. Fried dishes couldn’t be eaten too much, and fruits couldn’t be skipped.
Stepmother Shen treated Jin’er the same way. So during breaks, the two boys often sat together lamenting, “I wish I could eat crispy meatballs… little fragrant fish… roast goose…” Only to grow hungrier, imagining food that could not satisfy them.
Returning to the main point, the siblings joked for a while longer. Yingjie then asked, “While joking, I almost forgot—did you retrieve the seeds I asked for?” She had been thinking about that.
Pei Shaohuai took out a few small cloth bags from a basket and handed them to his sister. “Yesterday, Changzhou went back to the village to see his grandmother. I told him to bring these back when he returned to the mansion today.”
Changzhou was the clever twelve- or thirteen-year-old servant who attended Huai’er.
Yingjie was delighted to receive the seeds, holding them lovingly. “Tomorrow I’ll brew a pot of sour tea to thank you.” Saying this, she returned to her own courtyard and instructed Qinghe to fetch more ceramic pots, planning to plant the seeds before the peak of summer.
Seeing his sister happily doing what she loved, Pei Shaohuai felt glad too.
In the original story, this didn’t occur. It was written that Huai’er had been unruly from childhood, constantly in trouble, absorbing all of Madam Lin’s energy, while the daughter was often neglected.
Yingjie, understanding her mother’s struggles, had always been obedient and never demanded or complained.
Since Huai’er had been raised by his grandmother, the siblings rarely interacted, and their bond was faint. Otherwise, Pei Shaohuai would not have later considered sending his only sister away to repay debts.
Now, Yingjie had developed a strong interest in herbs. This was partly due to her own temperament, and partly due to Pei Shaohuai’s guidance.
When she was five, Yingjie had a fever and complained, “Mother, my head hurts.”
Madam Lin brought her medicine and soothed her, “Drink it and sleep; once you sweat, tomorrow it will be fine.”
Yingjie endured the bitterness, spoon by spoon, and slept deeply. The next day, her headache was gone.
For several days afterward, she asked repeatedly, “Mother, why did that black, bitter medicine make me well?”
“A bitter medicine cures the illness,” Madam Lin could only answer.
The family thought she was merely curious as a child, but Pei Shaohuai noticed her natural curiosity about medicine.
Once, Changzhou cut his hand badly. He crushed a few local ferns and applied them; the bleeding stopped quickly.
Yingjie, passing by, asked, “Changzhou, how can this ordinary grass stop bleeding?”
“I don’t know, Fourth Miss,” Changzhou said embarrassed. “My grandmother taught me as a child, so I remembered. My brother has started learning to grow herbs; maybe he knows. I’ll ask him next time.”
The grandparents managed a medicinal garden in the countryside, so they naturally knew some herbal remedies.
This convinced Pei Shaohuai that his sister was genuinely interested in Chinese herbal medicine. Perhaps Yingjie didn’t even realize it herself; she asked simply out of curiosity.
Knowledge is priceless.
Herbal medicine is a field of study.
Pei Shaohuai, not trained in medicine himself, decided to guide rather than instruct directly.
By the time Yingjie could read, he retrieved some medical texts from their father’s study and gave them to her. He also instructed Changzhou to frequently bring back easy-to-grow herbs from the village and report their habits.
Yingjie gradually became fascinated with the tiny plants, as if peeking through a small crack and discovering a world where life could be more than embroidery, music, chess, calligraphy, and raising children.
Pei Bingyuan, since entering the Imperial Academy, could only return home for two days every fortnight. His family noticed that he had grown even thinner than before, showing he was diligently studying, not just passing time to graduate or secure a post.
Madam Lin, worried, frequently sent nourishing foods to him so that he could consume them upon returning to the Academy.
Though married for years and with children, their relationship had been more formal than intimate. Now, living apart, their mutual consideration brought them closer.
Seeing this, Pei Shaohuai reflected that despite the grandeur of their mansion, long-term life there could feel like living on an isolated island. Venturing outside now and then was healthy.
Both the eldest sister, Pei Ruolian, and their father, Pei Bingyuan, were faring better, bit by bit.By now, Pei Shaohuai was over six, more than three years since the eldest sister’s marriage. The second sister, Pei Ruolan, was approaching adulthood.
The mansion became busy again.
Madam Lin, experienced now, managed the household well. The family’s finances had improved, so arranging Ruolan’s coming-of-age ceremony posed no great difficulty.
Still, Madam Lin had other plans. Smiling, she told the matriarch, “With the theater expansion and the harvest at the villages, I can’t manage Lan’s coming-of-age alone. Let you supervise, and have Stepmother Shen and Zhu Jie assist. That way, we can plan together as a family.”
Pei Shaohuai, accustomed to his mother’s ways, understood her careful planning.
Madam Lin knew when to loosen her grip: if she tried to control everything tightly, she’d only let sand slip through her fingers. Delegating minor matters ensured the household ran smoothly.
Stepmother Shen had been disciplined and capable, and the children well-raised. Zhu Jie and Jin’er were growing—why should she only monitor petty daily accounts?
Also, Ruolan’s relationship with Madam Lin remained tense; it was easier to manage her through Stepmother Shen.
Pei Shaohuai saw his mother’s plan as mutually beneficial.
The matriarch approved, praising Madam Lin’s capability. Stepmother Shen agreed humbly, and Zhu Jie expressed eagerness to learn.
After two to three months of preparation, Ruolan’s coming-of-age ceremony proceeded as planned, grand and elegant, on par with Ruolian’s. Attending noblewomen noted the mansion’s excellence and Ruolan’s poise.
After the ceremony, on the first day of the lunar month, Pei Bingyuan returned home for a short break. The family dined together, and Madam Lin suggested, “You’ve met many colleagues at the Academy; perhaps you can discreetly find a suitable match for our daughters. They’re not young anymore.”
Ruolan, displeased, said coldly, “No need to rush; many noble girls in the capital only marry at eighteen.” Her words dashed Madam Lin’s intentions, leaving her embarrassed.
Pei Bingyuan scolded, “Older and wiser, yet more stubborn.”
The matriarch smoothed things over: “Your mother only meant well. You should look carefully at matches at the Academy.”
Pei Shaohuai, seeing his mother wronged, felt angry at Ruolan’s disregard for others’ intentions. Yet he resolved that no one else in the household should suffer for Ruolan’s mistakes.
He communicated silently with his sister, Yingjie, who tactfully told Ruolan, “Don’t be so sensitive. There are other unmarried daughters in the household; Mother may be planning for all of us.”
Ruolan, silenced, sulked back to her quarters, cooling the previously warm atmosphere.
Snow melted, spring winds softened, drizzles brought a slight chill. Winter plum had ended, and willow buds were turning green.
Another spring arrived.
Huai’er and Jin’er were both seven.
Before lessons, the brothers read Tang poems to pass time. Upon reading, “In rain, the grass green enough to dye, above the water, peach blossoms almost flare,” they were enchanted and decided to go enjoy the spring scenery the next day, which was a holiday.
“Viewing alone isn’t enough; we must bring crispy meatballs and little fragrant fish secretly,” Huai’er suggested.
“Bring a pot of sweet tea from Fourth Sister too,” Jin’er added.
“Let Xiaoniang also prepare boiled peanuts, two packs,” Huai’er continued.
“Then I’ll have her make some pastries,” Jin’er said eagerly. “That should be enough, right?”
Huai’er nodded. “As long as Third and Fourth Sisters don’t know, it’s enough for us.”
Jin’er frowned. “We can’t hide it from them; let’s bring more, so we don’t starve while they eat well.”
“Agreed.”
They planned until the lesson hour, yet Mr. Cao hadn’t arrived. Always punctual, this was unusual.
Huai’er asked, “Did Mr. Cao say yesterday that today would be a holiday? I don’t recall him saying so.”
“No,” Jin’er confirmed. “Perhaps he simply forgot.”
They continued reading, waiting. Another quarter hour passed, and instead of Mr. Cao, their grandfather appeared, worried.
Pei Shaohuai asked, “Grandfather, where is Mr. Cao?”
“He just resigned, alas—” the old man sighed, unsure whether to be pleased or worried. “He said he isn’t capable of teaching you two properly, and advised me to hire someone more skilled.”