When Xing Muzheng inspected the military camps, Qian Jiaoniang rode alongside him. After finishing business, he accompanied her to the polo field. When she went to the cloth and embroidery shops, he went with her; she picked the finest fabrics to make him clothes.
Once, Xing Pingchun caught sight of his mother smiling as she sewed a man’s outer robe, and recalled she had promised to make him a jacket earlier. Jiaoniang smacked her own forehead—she had completely forgotten her son’s clothing. At once, she had someone select fabric, re-measured Xing Pingchun, and handed the work to the embroiderers.
Xing Pingchun silently accused his mother with his eyes of favoring one over the other—he felt he had fallen out of favor.
Qian Jiaoniang felt a little guilty, but cleared her throat and said, “Mother has made you so many clothes already, but hasn’t properly made a few for your father. I fear if your father finds out, he’ll be displeased.”
The maids secretly laughed. The lady was clearly neglecting the young master for the Marquis, yet she refused to admit it.
Xing Pingchun thought about it and grew sheepish. Glancing around, he whispered, “Then you make them for father… just don’t tell him!” After all, she had already made him so many clothes.
“Don’t tell me what?”
As if on cue, Xing Muzheng stepped out from behind the screen.
“Nothing!” Xing Pingchun quickly said when he saw his father return. Smiling, he stood up and properly bowed. “Father is back.”
Xing Muzheng gave a faint response, his smiling gaze fixed on Qian Jiaoniang. Qian Jiaoniang also looked back at him, lips curved in a quiet smile.
As though no one else were present.
The accompanying maids and servants hurried to their feet. By now, they were far too familiar with the two masters’ ways—no doubt before long they’d be ordered out. It had been more than half a month since his return, yet the two of them were still inseparable, not like an old married couple at all, but more like newlyweds still in the glow of affection.
Sure enough, as soon as Xing Muzheng sat down beside Qian Jiaoniang, he asked Xing Pingchun why he was home. Xing Pingchun said innocently that it was a rest day.
The excuse was proper enough, but Xing Muzheng still had something to say. With a stern face he scolded: “If it’s your rest day, then go outdoors and roam. What are you lingering around your mother for?”
As a son, he was naturally afraid of his father’s cold face. The moment Xing Pingchun heard that, he hurriedly answered and dashed away.
Once he was gone, Xing Muzheng waved for the maids to withdraw. Those extra attendants had long since caught on, and each left with a knowing smile.
With the idlers all gone, Xing Muzheng pulled Qian Jiaoniang into his arms, kissed her cheek, and leaned close to her ear to ask affectionately: “What are you working on?”
The smile at the corner of Qian Jiaoniang’s lips did not fade. She ignored his teasing and kept moving her needle. “I’m making you a new robe.”
Hearing that she was making clothes for him, Xing Muzheng’s smile lifted high in satisfaction. Before, she had sewn for so many others, yet never for him. At last, she was willing to place him in her eyes. “And what was that the brat said you shouldn’t tell me?”
Qian Jiaoniang laughed out loud. “I had intended to make him a jacket, but when I started yours, I forgot his. Today he was pouting at me. I told him I’d already made him plenty, but hardly a few for you. If you knew, you’d be unhappy.”
So in her heart, even their son ranked below him. Xing Muzheng was secretly delighted. Still, he said aloud: “You weren’t wrong. That boy’s clothes have all been made by you since he was small.”
Qian Jiaoniang snickered, tilting her head to cast him a glance, then traced his cheek with a finger. “Really now, competing with a child—don’t you feel ashamed?”
“But it’s true,” Xing Muzheng muttered. “From now on, don’t make his. Only make mine.”
Qian Jiaoniang couldn’t stop laughing. She never thought Xing Muzheng would say such childish words. “Alright, alright, I’ll only make yours.”
Xing Muzheng was satisfied. He stroked her hand gently. “But don’t tire yourself out. Embroidery strains the eyes. Only an hour a day—no more.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s heart felt warm. “I know.” She nodded obediently.
Xing Muzheng leaned in to kiss her again. “The golden osmanthus in the rear court has bloomed. I’ve had refreshments and wine prepared—come enjoy the flowers with me.”
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