WSMTATMC C45

Chapter 45

Spring awoke the earth—grass sprouted, orioles sang, and the heavy snows on the mountain finally melted. Wang Ying decided at last to begin building their new home upon the estate.

A house meant forethought and materials. Though only on country land, he would not be slipshod—who could say, perhaps they would live here long‑term.

Bricks and tiles could not be had from the village—they must be ordered from town. A good excuse, too, to go back and see family.

“Tomorrow, I’ll return to town. Will you come with me?”

Qingyan set down his book and shook his head. “I…do not wish to go back…”

Wang Ying understood—his heart still shrank from the town, from its tongues and gossip. He would not force him. The youth had barely regained himself; it would be folly to drag him back into whispers.

“Then I’ll go alone. The shop is quiet now. I’ll bring some of the children back with me for a few days to play.”

“Good. All in your hands, Brother.”

Ying melted into a smile, tugging him along into the experimental field. Inside that timeless space, Qingyan always seemed to breathe easier, as though the world’s malice could not reach him there.

Two months they had dwelt on the estate. From silence so deep he could not speak a word, Qingyan had slowly risen—able now for daily talk, though still stiff before strangers. Progress enough. Wang Ying had patience—there was time aplenty to heal him.

The peach trees now bore fruit—plump, round, dewy sweet. Not many, but enough. He had no intent to sell; he would pick a basket and take them to family in town tomorrow.

After harvesting, they sat together beneath the boughs, sharing fruit.

Wang Ying, head pillowed on Qingyan’s lap, gnawed a peach, then asked, “I’ll set men to build. What kind of house do you like?”

“Any kind.”

“No particular dream?”

He thought, then replied softly: “Could we build a hexagonal pavilion? In warm days we might sit beneath it, play chess, sip tea. In winter, wrap the stove and watch the snow fall.”

“Easy! I’ll even plant plum trees beside—so we may admire blossoms in frost!”

“A pity it is too cold for bamboo. With groves of green stalks, it would be finer.”

Ever since antiquity, gentlemen admired the Four Gentlemen: plum, orchid, bamboo, chrysanthemum. Wang Ying recalled that moso bamboo could grow as far north as Hebei—perhaps he might purchase and transplant a few.

Already Qingyan’s eyes brightened with anticipation—he even lifted brush to sketch a layout for his study. Wang Ying, seeing him so absorbed, at last unclenched the knot in his chest. A man with hope, with direction, would not sink again.

Next dawn, Dunzi drove the mule‑cart. With two baskets of peaches, they rattled toward town.

The road at last was dry and clear. Leaving before sunrise, they reached the manor gates by midmorning.

Porter Linzi spotted them at once, shouting with joy: “The Master’s home! The Young Lord has returned!”

But Wang Ying alighted alone. “I came myself only.”

Linzi ushered the cart in, delighted.

Madam Li and Aunt Chen hurried out. “Ying’er is home!”

“Mother. Aunt.”

“And Yan’er? Why not with you?”

“He did not wish to come. So I came alone.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Li’s face, but she masked it quickly, pulling him inside.

“How was it, these two months on the estate? Are you settled?”

“At first, uneasy. Hard to buy things, and the steward’s family fluttered always, slaughtering chickens daily to host us. I had to sneak coin into their pockets before they stopped.”

“Good heavens, what waste—”

“Exactly. But all is smooth now.”

Li ventured gently the question upon her heart. “And…your husband’s health? Has he…improved?”

“He is much better. No longer as before. But still, before strangers he stiffens—cannot speak.”

Aunt Chen clasped his hand. “That is well. We feared worst—that he might sink once more.”

“Rest assured. Country folk are simple, their lips not vile. Let him rest til his mind is whole, then return.”

“Good child. Will you remain a while?”

“A few days only. I must return. Spring’s here—I mean to build a house in earnest. Materials must be bought now, while farmers idle.”

Li brightened. “Splendid! Enough money for it? If not, I will give you some!”

“Quite enough. It takes little. Labor and supplies are cheap, and land is ours already. Seventy, eighty taels will suffice.”

“Then I’ll send Ershun to scout brick kilns and timber sellers. Have it all delivered to the country.”

“Perfect.”

By noon, they had news.

Since Wang Ying left, the vegetable shop had thrived. At first, Madam Li and Aunt Chen had gone to watch daily. But soon they saw the two children managing smoothly—so they let go.

That afternoon, Qingyun dashed in, flinging herself against him. “Sister‑in‑law!”

“And me,” laughed Qingsong. “You’re back!”

“Just two days.”

“And Brother? No?”

“No. But soon, I may bring you to stay a spell at the estate.”

“Truly? Wonderful!”

Lin Qiu smiled wanly. “Let Sui go with you. I shall stay.”

“Why so?”

Li answered with a laugh: “Because his marriage is fixed—come tenth month this year.”

“So soon? With whom?”

“That same Cao fellow.”

Wang Ying was astonished. “Truly it’s settled?”

Chen Rong told the tale. “Last month, Cao Kun brought his mother and a matchmaker. By fortune, I knew her well—she is the cloth‑shop mistress, a good woman of fairness. She would never vouch for a rogue. So I agreed.”

Wang Ying grinned. “Then I must drink cousin’s wedding wine!”

Lin Qiu blushed crimson.

These last months, Cao Kun had seized every chance to come to town—six, seven visits in all. Always bearing gifts: city treats, hairpins, fine cloth. Though rough of age, he knew how to cherish. Compared to his own father, he was an utterly different man. In time, young Qiu’s guarded heart softened. He even admired that strength.

As for that father—Cao brought news too.

After the divorce, Lin Zhangbin had married the widow. Yet not half a month passed, and the woman reopened a brothel in her house, hanging the cuckold’s cap brightly upon his head.

The street all mocked. “How much tonight, Scholar Lin’s wife?”

Brawls erupted. She abused him: “You earn not a cent! The pots are empty, and you forbid me to feed the house?”

When he pressed her to weave, she raged—spinning no thread. So he was left scorned, raising a baby alone, penniless.

Hearing this, Chen Rong cackled: “Serves him! Let him rot!”

Wang Ying sighed inwardly. Truly Heaven’s wheel turned. Given good fortune, he ruined it with his own hands.

Then Madam Li spoke: “Another matter. The day after you left, news from Laizhou arrived. Your Fourth Uncle’s term ends this year. He may be reappointed to the capital. If so…he might plead for Qingyan, have the ban lifted.”

Wang Ying froze. “Possible?”

“We cannot say. But it is hope.”

Hope pierced his heart. “If so—then Qingyan could yet test once more!”

“Not a word to him,” Li warned. “It may fail—and break him again if dashed. Better we carry it first.”

“…I understand.” Hope, uncertain as it was, gleamed brighter than blank despair.

That evening, after supper, Wang Ying retired to his old room, neat and clean from daily care. Yet the quilts smelled strange without Qingyan’s warmth. He sighed—the heart yearning already.

Two days passed. Meanwhile, brick kilns and timber were contacted. Blue bricks cost less than a copper each; he would need fifty thousand to raise five rooms—sixteen strings of cash. Tiles, eight strings more. Timber was dearest: old fir, or cypress, stored a decade to dry—Chen Father had indeed gathered some.

By second morning, having secured carpenters and supplies, Wang Ying could bear it no longer.

He had meant to bring the children along—yet the small house at the estate was still cramped. Better wait for the new home before hosting.

So he rode back swiftly, heart drumming. Never before had he known yearning so fierce. In old shows he had scoffed—lovers parted a few days, pining as if years. How absurd.

Now he knew—an hour apart felt like autumn’s whole length.

In his mind’s eye—what was Qingyan doing, while he was gone? Reading, or sitting blank? Did he feed the little dog? Did strangers’ knocks still make him tremble?

Near the village, before the cart turned the bend, he glimpsed a shape crouched roadside, in that old stone‑blue robe—plucking at weeds like a lost pup.

“Qingyan!”

Startled, the youth raised his head. Then, robes flying, he raced toward the cart at full tilt, crying: “Gege!”

notes

• Four Gentlemen (梅兰竹菊): classic virtues represented by plum (resilience), orchid (grace), bamboo (integrity), chrysanthemum (purity). 
• Moso bamboo 毛竹: hardy bamboo species adaptable to northern China. 
• Blue bricks 青砖: traditional kiln‑fired bricks used in Chinese architecture. 
• Prices: one li ≈ 0.1 copper cash; one string (贯) = ~1000 coins. Figures given show how costly even modest homes were.