Chapter 23: The Fourth Miss’s Gambit

Madam Shen—the beloved aunt—was unfailingly kind to her nieces. Knowing that Yunniang and Wan’nian were of marriageable age, she had them both made up with delicate cosmetics. But when it came to entertaining guests, she did not ask them to join, saying, “Stay home and mind your health. Don’t let my visit upset your disposition. I’m perfectly content with my companions here.” With a wave of her hand, she included Yin Zhi among those companions.

Naturally, the other ladies were pleased to have their daughters draw closer to Madam Shen—after all, among all the relatives, she held the highest rank as a fourth‑grade official’s wife, and as the mother of the newly titled tanhua, she was the most celebrated guest Huaixi had ever hosted. In recent days, the household gate had been inundated with dozens of invitation slips from local ladies eager to pay their respects—and with generous gifts in return.

For these young women, it was a golden opportunity to shine. Yin Zhi, who had lived among them for many years, knew well that at their age, the greatest concern was one’s marriage. She noticed that Madam Shen had called forward the eldest unmarried cousins—those apart from Yunniang and Wan’nian—girls nearing the age of betrothal. She assumed these choices had been carefully arranged by the senior ladies.

Although her own betrothal remained unresolved, Yin Zhi did not think herself included. She believed that even if Madam Shen wished to help her nieces improve their prospects or settle marriages, she would not consider Yin Zhi—whose own prospects were known to be the most difficult. If she were to marry at all, it would probably be into a family less wealthy than the Yins', or perhaps to a widower.

Yet Yin Zhi felt no anxiety. By Yin family custom, when a daughter married, her personal maids accompanied her—so even in a less affluent household, she would still be served by her attendants and granted her own rooms, fields, or shops, ensuring a comfortable, independent life. And a mature widower might suit her modern sensibilities just fine.

Confident as ever, she remained calm.

In such a small town, the arrival of a tanhua was unprecedented glory. Carriages came and went in a constant stream; banquets were held day and night. In the outer courtyard, society ladies arrived in droves. In the inner quarters, Yin Zhi—the eldest sister—guided her marriageable cousins to sit with Madam Shen, greeting countless local hostesses in a whirlwind of social calls.

In just these few days, she had attended more gatherings than since the day she first arrived in this world. Yet these older cousins, all near marriageable age, required little guidance; Yin Zhi’s gentle presence was enough. She sat quietly, offering warm smiles rather than vying for attention—always spotlighting her younger cousins when the moment called for it.

Half a month passed in this brilliant social whirl, and Madam Shen watched with growing admiration. “Were she the one,” Madam Shen confided to her chief attendant, “our inner household would indeed be at peace.” Yet she still harbored one concern: “What of the Abbot’s verdict at Donglin Temple? What exactly did he foresee?”

Her attendant suggested, “Since we are all here, why not go to Donglin Temple ourselves and ask? After all, this concerns Jiyun’s entire future.” Indeed, a pilgrimage to the temple was a welcome diversion for ladies of the household—an excuse to escape the inner quarters and breathe fresh air.

Thus, Yin Zhi was summoned before her stepmother, Third Madam, and told, “Pack your things—day after tomorrow, you will accompany us to Donglin Temple.” Overjoyed at the chance to see her master, Yin Zhi eagerly agreed.

Third Madam warned her softly, “Keep your counsel—don’t mention this trip and incur jealous tongues.” Yin Zhi blinked. Third Madam explained, “Only Aunt Shen, I, and you will go. No one else.” Both thought that made perfect sense—two women and the named disciple made an unremarkable group. Yet it left the other ladies chafing with curiosity.

When news reached the eldest daughter‑in‑law—who oversaw the household arrangements—she quietly pressed her circle to stand down: “Only Third Madam and Fourth Miss go; the rest need not.” None wished to offend the guest by elbowing their way onto her carriage.

On the appointed day, Yin Zhi, brisk and composed, brought only Kui’er as her attendant. Third Madam announced, “You ride in this carriage with Aunt Shen. I will travel separately.” Third Madam happily approached to share Aunt Shen’s carriage—but Madam Shen smiled at Yin Zhi and beckoned, “Miss Zhi, come accompany me.” Third Madam blinked in surprise. “My lady has called you—go quickly.” Of course, the elder’s instruction was paramount. Yin Zhi obediently stepped forward. “Aunt Shen.”

Just then a man’s voice called, “Mother?” Yin Zhi turned and gasped, “Father!”

In the sunshine, two figures approached side by side: the stout, middle‑aged Third Master Yin, and the tall, lithe scholar in spring silks—Shen Jiyun. How wonderful youth was: delicate features aglow in light. Even the most florid romances could not outshine such natural grace—but unlike in dramas, this boy never averted his gaze from kin. Once a childlike pedant, his earnest maturity now carried a certain aloofness—charming, but perhaps best appreciated at a respectful distance.

Third Master Yin greeted Madam Shen heartily, “Fourth Daughter!” Yin Zhi almost spoke as well—until Madam Shen smiled, “Third Brother.” Ah yes—Madam Shen, like Yin Zhi, was ranked fourth among her husband’s wives. Yin Zhi quickly shut her mouth.

Shen Jiyun bent slightly, “Cousin.” Yin Zhi half‑bowed, “Cousin.” Having exchanged greetings, she stepped back to give them space.

Third Master Yin shot her a glance. “Are you not traveling with your mother?” Madam Shen answered, “Miss Zhi will lighten my journey with her company.” He grumbled, “Better we bring Fifth Miss—she chatters ceaselessly. Fourth Miss is a closed book.” Madam Shen laughed, “Your sister’s quiet nature suits me perfectly.”

They prepared to board. Yin Zhi reached to help Madam Shen up the carriage steps—but Shen Jiyun’s hand moved first, and she drew back swiftly. He murmured to Madam Shen as he steadied her.

Yin Zhi, momentarily amused, caught her father’s eye. “Father, you’re coming too?” Third Master Yin answered, “Your mother and I will accompany you.” Third Madam had omitted him—and the carriage assignment was at last resolved.

Yin Zhi climbed into Madam Shen’s carriage. Madam Shen parted the window drape to look back; Yin Zhi saw Shen Jiyun and Third Master Yin in the adjacent coach. Carriages were far more comfortable than riding—especially for an older gentleman like Third Master Yin. She had expected the scholar to ride after his triumph, but found him in a carriage, too.

Madam Shen noticed Yin Zhi’s surprise. “What is it?” Yin Zhi laughed, “I had hoped to see our triumphant scholar riding swiftly—like in the poems: ‘Spring’s young lord upon his steed beneath the sun…’ Yet Cousin rides in comfort. Sigh.” Her tone was purely affectionate—she viewed Shen Jiyun as a brother and kin, free of any romantic impulse.

Madam Shen, ever observant, had watched Yin Zhi’s measured greeting before boarding—the way she courteously yielded, eyes never flitting, words never stammering, even that fleeting hesitation when her hand withdrew. Every detail signaled impeccable breeding. She said warmly, “Then we shall ask him to ride before us one day.”

Turning her attention to the scholar, Yin Zhi said, “You must ride more often—get sun and exercise. A scholar spends so many hours at his desk; only by physical effort can one grow strong and live long. I worry you are too thin.” To any other listener, such concern might seem odd—after all, Shen Jiyun’s slender youth was part of his scholarly charm. But the one most alarmed by such words was his own mother.

Madam Shen sighed with relief, “Exactly! I have begged him to eat more; he only lectures me on health regimens—just like his father.” Thus mother and niece fell into an animated conversation about nourishment.

In Yin Zhi’s household life, she seldom chose her own meals; a request for a rare treat meant coaxing the cooks or sending a servant with money to buy it. But Madam Shen, mistress of her own home, ate what she pleased. Over this ride, she shared tales of capital delicacies—and Yin Zhi matched her recipe for recipe, reviewing flavors and techniques as if she herself were a connoisseur.

Madam Shen asked, “Where did you learn so much?” Yin Zhi smiled, “I’ve read all manner of miscellanies—on foods from south and north alike.” Being a true gourmet delighted Madam Shen. Yet she could not help defending her son: “He’s weary of constant greetings—hence his reluctance to ride among the crowds.” “Ah,” Yin Zhi said, enlightened. “I understand.” They both laughed, then Yin Zhi remarked: “I also heard from the gatekeepers that local ‘men of talent’ flocked here to prove themselves against the tanhua—only to leave white‑faced and speechless.” The image was so amusing, they laughed together again.

Yin Zhi reflected on how Shen Jiyun, though fierce in scholarly contests, comported himself simply as kin before relatives. That spoke of excellent upbringing.

By the time they alighted at Donglin Temple, the Abbot and the Patriarch of the Hall personally greeted them. After the respectful bows, Yin Zhi stepped forward and said with quiet reverence, “Master.” The Abbot, mindful still of her unresolved betrothal, could only sigh at her arrival.