17 Heartache
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In the study, Zhu An was grinding ink for He Zhiyu. Zhu An was slender, standing like a delicate bamboo stalk beside He Zhiyu’s desk. Upon seeing Meng Yunshao arrive, he brightened and said, “The young madam is here! The master came home early today with nothing to do and decided to practice calligraphy.”
Meng Yunshao glanced over and saw He Zhiyu bent over, writing a large character for “tranquility” on the thin, glossy paper from Chengxin Hall. Perhaps disturbed by her entrance, his final stroke was slightly crooked.
He Zhiyu merely glanced up at her without a word before lowering his head to continue writing, as if the task held paramount importance.
He balled up the flawed sheet and casually tossed it into the nearby wastebasket. Then he took another precious sheet from Chengxin Hall and began writing the character “tranquility” again.
Meng Yunshao remained silent, quietly watching him write.
He Zhiyu wrote four neat strokes in regular script, then seemingly annoyed, switched to a cursive style and completed the remaining strokes in just two swift motions. The character’s shape was a strange blend of stillness and motion—neither proper nor chaotic.
He looked up and asked, “What is it?”
His face was cold and distant like snow falling in a silent valley, yet beneath it lay a barely concealed irritation.
Meng Yunshao found it oddly endearing.
Though she didn’t understand what exactly had upset He Zhiyu—he had brushed off her encounter with an old lover with ease and even covered for her—he seemed to expect her to maintain the decorum of a proper wife and took offense when she showed the slightest displeasure toward others.
Yet, she found this version of He Zhiyu somewhat charming.
Much more so than the daily, solemn lord who always addressed her formally as Lady Meng, spoke of official duties and the Marquis estate, and carried an aloofness that made him seem unreachable even when close by.
Still, she dared not call him cute to his face.
She knew all too well that he occupied the position of her husband. Outwardly they respected each other like equals, harmonious as a well-tuned zither and lute; she was gentle and courteous, he ambitious and focused.
But it was precisely because there was little affection between them that this fragile harmony could be maintained, like a shared performance of a blooming spring.
If true love existed, there would be desire, anger, and attachment. There would be coaxing, sulking, and tenderness. They wouldn’t simply call each other “lord” and “Lady Meng” with such steady formality every day.
At this moment, she wanted to toss aside her soup and throw a handkerchief embroidered with orchids at his face, demanding to know why he looked so sour and acted so mad.
But she could not.
He Zhiyu was her real master and lord, the one who controlled her future and determined the quality of even her simplest meals.
He had the power to mistreat her, though he had never “abused” it outright, yet he “owned” that power nonetheless.
Talk of equality and love was nothing but a fool’s dream.
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She could only swallow her pride and coax him back gently.
She could not afford to gamble.
Meng Yunshao smiled softly and said, “I brought you some soup, my lord.”
He Zhiyu crumpled up the character he’d just written, took another sheet, and this time switched directly to cursive, drawing the strokes like flowers on the paper. Then he looked down and said, “I won’t drink it.” He added, “Not today.”
Zhu An had never heard He Zhiyu refuse soup before. Curious, he observed the young lord closely and finally realized He Zhiyu was not in a good mood.
Zhu An stepped forward and took the soup bowl from Meng Yunshao, trying to mediate. “My lord, this soup was surely made with great care by the young madam herself. It would be a shame to waste it if you don’t drink.”
He spoke sincerely, as if genuinely fearing waste.
Meng Yunshao agreed, “My lord, since you left the Pavilion of Rising Winds, I started preparing it immediately. It took three quarters of an hour to stew. The weather is cold, please have a warm sip. Today’s your favorite—fresh chicken with jujube soup.”
He Zhiyu hesitated, wanting to sulk and hold his ground until Meng Yunshao realized where she’d erred.
But as she spoke, an image surfaced uncontrollably in his mind: Meng Yunshao bustling about, carefully tending the fire, waiting for the soup to be ready, even burning her hand on the pot at one point.
He Zhiyu was speechless for a moment, furrowing his brows as if resigned. “Then put it back on the stove to keep warm.”
Zhu An smiled and said, “Got it,” placing the soup on a small stove.
Seeing he didn’t object, Meng Yunshao took the opportunity to ask, “It’s dark now, my lord. After you drink the soup, why not come back to the Pavilion of Rising Winds with me?”
He Zhiyu resolved silently not to agree this time—he had already indulged himself too much. Steadying his voice, he said, “No. I’ll rest in the study.”
Zhu An tried to persuade again, “My lord, the snow makes travel difficult and the roads slippery. The young madam came alone. Why not escort her back and rest in the Pavilion of Rising Winds as well?”
He Zhiyu’s heart softened instantly, picturing Meng Yunshao struggling through the snow, carrying her food box alone.
He glanced at her—she hadn’t even donned a cloak. Her glossy black hair was damp, still dusted with unmelted snowflakes.
He felt a pang of pity but silently reminded himself to keep some discipline. This time, he must not yield. He said firmly, “No means no.”
Meng Yunshao didn’t mind. Smiling gently, she said, “Then you must be busy. I’ll wait for you.”
He Zhiyu looked at the hastily written cursive “tranquility” on his paper, unsure what exactly he was busy with. “I said no. Wait if you want.”
He bent down to tidy his brushes and ink without another word.
This time, Meng Yunshao didn’t insist. She bowed softly to him and turned to leave.
After she closed the door, Zhu An scolded the young lord with a hint of frustration, “Master, I heard the young madam was being troubled by your sisters-in-law today, so I rushed to the government office to report it to you. You came back in such a hurry you didn’t even put on a coat. I say, why must you do such things?”
He felt a bit guilty for speaking to his master like that but couldn’t hold back, lowering his voice. “Why go to such lengths?”
He Zhiyu frowned, burdened by official matters. “I said I came back early because nothing was wrong today. It has nothing to do with anything else.”
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Zhu An glanced upward and said, “Oh? Then if nothing’s wrong, why not return with the young madam?”
He Zhiyu didn’t understand why even his closest attendant was turning against him. “If nothing’s wrong, I can lie down and rest, or read some poetry. Why must I return to the Pavilion of Rising Winds?”
Zhu An rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, but said nothing further.
Having spoken, He Zhiyu truly went into the inner study and lay down on the bed. He even took a poetry book, opening it to cover his face to block out the distracting light outside.
He actually dozed off, though fitfully.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept until Zhu An woke him.
Drowsy, he seemed to see Zhu An’s terrified expression and then heard words sharper than a splash of ice water: “Master, wake up! The young madam has been kneeling at the door waiting for you. She refuses to get up and is nearly frozen stiff!”
He Zhiyu looked at him in disbelief. Seeing Zhu An’s panic was genuine, his mind went blank. He jumped up and rushed out of the study.
The study door slammed open behind him, rattling as it shook.
Before him knelt a fragile figure in the snow.
Her entire body was covered with snowflakes. Over a moon-white, subtly embroidered plum blossom robe, she wore only a thin rabbit fur cotton jacket, no match for the harsh wind and snow.
Yet she knelt upright, stubborn and calm—different, yet somehow the same, as when he had once seen her standing beneath the phoenix tree.
He Zhiyu took a few swift steps toward her.
Meng Yunshao was nearly faint from the cold, her lips pale but her eyes shining bright like stars at night. She lifted her head and whispered, “My lord…”
He Zhiyu’s face was ashen. Without a word, he swept her up in his arms.
Meng Yunshao was startled, weakly trying to protest, “My lord, please don’t…”
He Zhiyu cut her off coldly, “Silence.” Turning, he carried her back into the study, heading for the inner room.
She still remembered the rules, her slender wrists encircling his neck, her voice faint, “My lord, I cannot enter the inner study. It would be improper by the rules. If mother-in-law knew…”
He Zhiyu looked at her, his gaze icy, and interrupted, “Here, I am the rule.”