Chapter 9: guest of honor
Madam Shen enjoyed over two months at her natal home—more relaxed than ever. As a “guest of honor,” even her stepmother dared not treat her as before. With her father and brother-in-law there to protect her, she felt freer than when she was a young miss at the Yin estate.
But a new jinshi’s leave is limited, and her true home awaited. Tearful farewells to father, brothers, and sisters-in-law were followed by boarding the return boat with Shen Ti.
Accompanying them was Lady Zhao, another capital resident who had come to fulfill a vow at Eastern Forest Temple on her mother-in-law’s behalf. Lady Zhao and Madam Shen had been friends in Beijing, so they happily paired up for the voyage home.
One afternoon, the boats landed at a riverside town for supplies. Lady Zhao sent a messenger: “I have a fine potted flower aboard—please join me to admire it.”
Travel boredom can be oppressive, so Madam Shen accepted. On Lady Zhao’s deck, she found a pot of common Yulian blooms. Flicking Lady Zhao’s arm, she teased, “You summoned me for such pageantry! I thought it was some rare exotic. Where are the flowers—am I here only to peer at buds?”
Lady Zhao laughed, “Judge by how well it’s grown!”
Examining the plant, Madam Shen nodded appreciatively. Though ordinary, its stems and leaves were lush and its buds plump. “Indeed, it’s thriving. For whom did you cultivate it—your mother-in-law? You’re so thoughtful.”
Lady Zhao explained, “By chance. My sister-in-law and I stayed at Eastern Forest Temple for a few days; your niece was there in mourning. My sister-in-law, charmed by the child’s grace, had sweets sent to her. The girl, ever polite, returned this flower in thanks.”
“Perfect,” said Madam Shen. “My mother-in-law had once told me she missed the temple’s own Yulian growing beneath the courtyard walls. I wondered what to bring her—this is providence.”
“I told my sister-in-law so, and she generously yielded it to me. Look at these buds—some will bloom on the journey, and more once we reach Beijing.”
Madam Shen laughed, “What luck! It should have fallen to you.”
Then Lady Zhao remembered: “By the way, that child’s surname is Yin. I don’t know which branch of your family—she looks fragile, but my sister-in-law says she attends morning lectures each day, sitting calmly through every verse. She seems only seven or eight, yet she shows more poise than any of my nephews—aside from your Shen Ti, perhaps.”
At this, Madam Shen’s eyes widened—she had almost forgotten her own niece, “Fourth Miss Yin,” who was indeed at Eastern Forest Temple. She’d met dozens of nephews and second cousins at home, yet never this niece.
“Why, that is my niece!” she exclaimed. “I never managed to see her, and here you encountered her.”
Lady Zhao slapped her palm to her brow. “Had I known, I would have visited her more often. The child leaves as soon as the lecture ends—never saffles with the others. My sister-in-law and I never caught her for a greeting. Such a pity!”
Back aboard her own vessel, Madam Shen found Shen Ti reading. Setting down his book, he asked, “Aunt Zhao’s flower—how did you like it?”
“There was no flower, only buds,” Madam Shen teased. “She just invited me for company. But in so doing, fate graced me—remarkable, isn’t it?”
She recounted her brief encounter with Yin Zhi, and Shen Ti—surprised yet intrigued—nodded. “It really does sound like Cousin.”
Madam Shen laughed. “As if you two know each other well! You met her only once.”
Shen Ti adopted a solemn tone: “Though we part at first meeting, familiarity is instant.”
The sudden gravity of a child quoting classical lines made Madam Shen both laugh and wipe away a mist of tears.
He returned to his reading, but thoughts of his distant cousin lingered: her gentle demeanor, her filial devotion, her calm courtesy and understated grace—just as Lady Zhao had described. He wondered if, or when, their paths might cross again. With a turn of a page in the golden afternoon light, those thoughts drifted away—school and study were his true focus.
Time passed, and the New Year approached.
Monthly reports almost made the Third Madam forget that one concubine’s daughter still dwelt on the mountain.
“What’s this?” she exclaimed on hearing the latest news. “A registered disciple?”
The returning housemaid reported, “Yes, Miss personally requested—and met with the chief monk. He said she showed remarkable insight, so he took her on as a registered disciple. He bid me inform Master and Madam.”
Skeptical, the Third Madam scoffed, “That Fourth Miss?”
The maid pocketed her tip and praised lavishly, “She greets Buddha daily, copies sutras each night—moved the chief monk.”
“I always thought,” the Third Madam clicked her tongue, “that girl was slow of wit. How does she suddenly show such insight at the temple?”
When Master Yin returned home, the Third Madam told him, half envious, “That ditzy child has some blessed luck.”
“Blessed, indeed?” Master Yin nearly laughed off his chair. “They monks just found another excuse for more incense donations.”
The Third Madam retorted, “Mind your tongue. We mustn’t offend Buddha.”
“I do not offend Buddha,” he replied. “I mean only the monks—they are but mortal.”
“Still, watch your words.”
Master Yin asked, “Will she not return for New Year?”
“I told you last month,” the Third Madam answered. “I offered to fetch her down; she said, since she’s mourned so long already, she’ll stay the full term.”
Grief thins with time—and with Lady Yan gone ten months, and a new young concubine in the patriarch’s favor, any residual sorrow had faded. Fourth Miss Yin’s continuing seclusion barely stirred their hearts now—“the child’s decent enough,” they sighed.
“Very well,” Master Yin said. “Let her complete her mourning.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “But now that she’s a registered disciple—what then?”
Men, accustomed to public affairs and mingling, trusted less in personal bonds. Women, confined to domestic life with few broader experiences, were more easily swayed by religious promises.
The Third Madam, ever practical, said, “Naturally, we must send temple offerings—incense money and tribute.”
Her generosity had nothing to do with concern for Yin Zhi’s welfare.
“Fourth Miss is one of their own now,” she added. “At Buddha’s birthday, we’ll secure a courtyard niche for our family’s commemoration—others won’t even manage it. Sure the Old Madam will think highly of me.”
A concubine’s wife lives precariously under a first wife’s hand.
Master Yin recalled his sister’s tearful plea before leaving—“Please be kinder to her.” He nodded. “Make the arrangements—and more than before.”
He added, “Also prepare gifts for Fourth Miss herself.”
“Leave it to me,” the Third Madam promised.
Meanwhile, at Eastern Forest Temple, Yin Zhi waited eagerly. Within days, the Yin household’s tribute arrived. Incense money and silk were for the temple; new robes, a kasaya, straw sandals, and fine paper were for her to present to her teacher.
She carried them personally to the chief monk.
Kneeling had grown almost natural to her. Rising into full reverence, she offered, “Master, a humble token of devotion.”
Deep in her role, the monk smiled and instructed the novice to receive the gifts. Turning to Yin Zhi, he said kindly, “Your family cares for you well.”
“You need not worry,” he added, “Blood ties endure.”
Yin Zhi had orchestrated her acceptance as a registered disciple carefully. Noticing the female patrons’ superstitious zeal—herself the daughter of one—she had determined to win over the lecturing abbot with her diligence.
The chief monk, long unshaken by worldly schemes, found himself moved by the piety of this little girl. Women, destined in this society purely to be brides, could ask for few worldly favors—and so he asked plainly, “What do you wish?”
Surprised by his directness, Yin Zhi dared not avoid the question. “My mother is gone. I know not whom I can rely on.”
“I am but a monk,” he replied, “I do not meddle in worldly affairs.”
“But my stepmother and grandmother are devout Buddhists,” she persisted. “Your words carry weight with them.”
He looked at her curiously. “What can I speak for you?”
“My elder sister was unhappy in marriage,” she blurted.
He shook his head. “I cannot undo your sister’s fate.”
She lifted her chin. “You cannot make me marry someone I do not choose, can you?”
Having thought it through, Yin Zhi knew that, in this world, marriage was unavoidable for a girl. But she feared being bargained off as a concubine to some powerful old man. If she must marry, she would prefer a marriage of equals, or at least a modest bridal dowry and a husband of her own choosing.
Terrified at the prospect of becoming a political pawn, she sought some guarantee.
The monk paused, then chuckled: “You little one think far ahead. How old are you?”
“Age matters not,” Yin Zhi said gravely. “When mother is gone, one must grow up at once.”
“Amitābha,” he said, softening. “So be it—I will accept you as a registered disciple.”
And with that, Yin Zhi became the chief monk’s ward.
He reported to the abbot in his chambers, who smiled and murmured, “A clever little sprite.”
Yin Zhi, overhearing, curved her lips in a sly smile. “Who can say what the future holds?”
“If your teacher is no longer needed,” the monk said, “it will be by Buddha’s mercy.”
“If I do need him,” she replied earnestly, “it will be by his.”