Chapter 137 — Before Departure (Bonus Update, Asking for Pink Votes)

At noon in mid-autumn, the sun was still fiercely hot.

Dou Yan felt sweat breaking out on her back.

She glanced at the courtyard, still somewhat cluttered, and smiled. "Everyone go have lunch first—there will be plenty of time to tidy up this afternoon."

The Dou family provided three meals a day.

Several old maidservants thanked her with cheerful smiles and followed Ganlu off to the kitchen.

Sujuan brought water for Dou Yan to wash her face and hands.

The water was faintly cool, and Dou Yan let out a long, comfortable breath.

After lunch and a short rest, she stood beneath the covered walkway, studying the courtyard and pondering how to arrange it.

Suddenly a voice came from behind her. "What are you doing?"

Dou Yan was not surprised.

If the man could find a way to move in here, then naturally he could find a way to speak with her.

"I want to plant a few flowering trees in the courtyard," Dou Yan said without so much as a glance at him, her eyes still sweeping the yard. "That way, when winter comes, the courtyard won't be bare and look so desolate."

Song Yan said nothing. He stood at the other end of the walkway, quietly gazing at the courtyard just as she did.

The wind passed through the ginkgo tree, and golden leaves drifted down over the ground, lending even the coming cold winter a touch of warmth.

"My third uncle died of illness..." he said abruptly. "He died of illness at Tieling Guard..." His voice was unhurried, as though he had weighed the words a long time before speaking, and his tone was grave. "My fifth uncle has lived off my eldest uncle's legacy all these years—he knows the Eight Great Alleys inside and out, yet if you ask him how many maidservants are in the household, he hasn't the faintest idea!"

Was that why Jiang Meisun had handed the Jiang family's intelligence network in the capital over to Song Yan?

"None of us dare tell Grandmother." Song Yan's voice was as clear and crisp as ever, but now it carried a trace of bewilderment, and one could sense how low his spirits were. "Father wants me to make an excuse of paying respects at my third uncle's grave and travel to Liaodong—to pay my respects to the Prince of Liao and ask him to look after my fifth uncle and my cousins... But a few days ago at the autumn hunt, I only came in second. I lost His Majesty's deputy commander of the Imperial Guard... His Majesty gave me a fierce dressing-down and even threatened to banish me to the Fengtai Barracks... A man binds up his hair at fifteen. But His Majesty has never cared for such conventions. Master Yan, fearing His Majesty might truly issue an edict sending me to Fengtai Barracks, advised me to shut myself in at home and reflect on my faults—which would also let us gauge His Majesty's reaction.

"I should be setting out for Liaodong in the next couple of days..."

Though Song Yan's words were vague, Dou Yan had been a marchioness for over a decade and knew well the daily routines of noble houses; she understood at once what he meant.

Something had happened to the Jiang family. And yet His Majesty still favored Song Yan so. In her last life, Song Sui had left the capital in utter disgrace, his name ruined.

Just as Master Yan said, at a time like this the best course was to shut oneself in and reflect on one's faults; going to Liaodong was no good choice. What on earth were the Duke of England and the Jiang family thinking?

Over there was a brother—but over here was a son.

Dou Yan could not help glancing at Song Yan.

Song Yan was staring blankly at the ginkgo tree in the courtyard, his face marked by sorrow and desolation he could not hide.

Yes—sorrow and desolation.

Just like the expression on his face in her last life when he had crouched down to speak with their daughter.

Back then, he held high office and great power, surrounded by beauties and ringed by guards.

And still he felt lonely.

In this life, he was in the prime of youth, his sovereign's favor undiminished, his name renowned throughout the capital.

And still he felt just as lonely.

The youth, still carrying a trace of childishness, and the mature, steady man gradually merged into one in Dou Zhiwei's eyes.

Or perhaps no one had ever truly understood him.

Whether in the past life or this one, whether in times of song and dance or after all prosperity had faded, he had been alone from first to last!

For no reason at all, Dou Yan's heart gave a pang.

She called out loudly, "Song Yan!" Then she said, "I've planted a great many chrysanthemums in the back courtyard, and they're in full bloom right now. I mean to build a chrysanthemum mountain in the courtyard. Will you give me a hand?"

"What?" Song Yan was taken aback.

He thought he had misheard.

No one had ever ordered him about with such self-assurance.

And yet, inexplicably, he felt a kind of straightforward warmth.

"I said, help me transplant the chrysanthemums from the back courtyard into flower pots," Dou Zhiwei said, her voice clear and pleasing, impossible to mistake. "Then carry the pots to the front courtyard and build a chrysanthemum mountain."

She repeated it, slowly and deliberately.

※※※※※

The ceramic pots, as thick as a man's embrace, were nothing to Song Yan; but once filled to the brim with soil and planted with a tall azalea tree covered in blossoms—all without damaging its flowers or leaves—they became rather difficult to move.

Song Yan could not help saying, "Weren't we transplanting chrysanthemums? Why are we moving azalea trees now?"

"If putting chrysanthemums on a cone-shaped frame were all it took to be called a chrysanthemum mountain, what right would Yang Jintai have to call himself a master?" Dou Yan, a blue cloth kerchief tied over her head, was crouched in the flower bed digging up chrysanthemums, and she answered without lifting her head, leisurely and unhurried.

Song Yan was choked with frustration.

One of his guards stepped forward at the sight, but Chen He held him back.

He shot the guard a fierce glare, signaling him not to act rashly.

Su Xin, standing quietly to one side, fixed her gaze on her nose and her nose on her heart, pretending to have seen nothing at all.

It was the old woman who worked the flower fields with Dou Chuqi who took pity on Song Yan. "Aiyo," she cried, "just look at those soft white hands—anyone can tell you've never done a day's work. Put it down, put it down! We'll carry it."

"He's a grown young man—surely he's not worse than you lot?" Dou Yan lifted her head to glance at Song Yan, then bent once more to digging up the chrysanthemums.

Song Yan ground his teeth and did as Dou Zhiwei bade him: when the azaleas were moved he carried the camellias; when the chrysanthemums were moved he raised the wooden frames. By the time the sun leaned toward the west, he was drenched from head to foot in sweat.

Yet the savage fury in his heart had been swept clean away.

He stood there, stunned.

Dou Yan—she must have known there was some unshakable rage festering in him, and so she had used the pretext of building a chrysanthemum mound to let hard labor draw the fire out of him.

Song Yan lowered his eyes.

When he heard the news of his third uncle's death, it had been as though some vicious beast within him thrashed and leapt until it nearly tore him apart, and yet he could not show the slightest sign of anything amiss.

His mother awaited his comfort, his father awaited his judgment, his younger brother awaited his guidance, Master Yan awaited his decision…

At first he had meant only to ride one circuit around the moat, just as he used to, until the anger in his heart burned itself out and all would be well. But when his mount could run no farther, he realized he had somehow already reached the post road to Zhending.

The capital was by then impossibly far behind.

Chen He asked him in alarm, "Does the Young Master mean to return to the capital, or lodge at the post station ahead?"