A Marriage Proposal (1)

Zhang Jing acted swiftly. Just one day later, he brought his eldest son, Zhang Yu, to propose marriage in person. When Meng Jiang learned of their purpose, he was truly taken aback, for only a few days prior, Zhang Yuan had mentioned this matter to him.

Zhang Yuan and Zhang Jing held opposing views at court and neither would yield to the other. The ministers, both openly and behind closed doors, were well aware of this rivalry, which had only intensified since the passing of the late emperor. What began as a household affair had grown into a public matter, especially as the issue of curtailing the feudal lords became entangled with power and interests. This gave rise to two main factions—though, more accurately, there was a third: the so-called centrist faction. This group opposed both removing Prince Jingjiang, Liu Heng, first and leaving him for last. Their stance was against the reduction of the feudal lords altogether. Yet the new emperor was resolute, and the curtailment of the princes was a foregone conclusion, though the precise strategy remained undecided. Thus, the centrists became the target of much persuasion from both sides.

As Minister of Personnel, Meng Jiang was the head of the Six Ministries—a minister in high demand. Yet, when it came to the reduction of the princes, he maintained a silent, impartial stance. Having served the previous emperor for many years, he naturally had his own calculations. He understood better than anyone the dangers inherent in this campaign. While it was clear to all that the princes posed a threat to central authority and that their power would eventually be curbed, now—when the old emperor had just died, a new one ascended, the balance of power shifting, and the hearts of men unsettled—was not the time. The emperor, however, was determined. Others saw the task as simple, but Meng Jiang perceived the risks: the campaign might proceed smoothly, or it could shake the very foundation of the country, perhaps even threaten the regime’s survival.

He had to remain uninvolved, refusing to wade into these troubled waters.

But clearly, Zhang Jing was determined to drag him in. Over the course of a month, Zhang Jing and Zhang Yu came to the minister’s residence three times to propose marriage—each time more earnest than the last. Zhang Yu declared, “If your daughter marries me, I will cherish her with all my heart, keep her close and treasure her always.”

He also promised, “If I marry Miss Meng, she will hold the highest place in my household. Should she object, I will never take a concubine.”

His sincerity was such that Meng Jiang sometimes felt his refusals bordered on heartlessness. Yet heaven knew, Zhang Yu and Meng Lanyi had never even met.

On the third visit, Zhang Yu did not accompany his father as before; only Zhang Jing came. Upon seeing Meng Jiang, he grasped his hand tightly, eyes glistening with unshed tears, his voice choked with emotion. “My son has long admired your daughter. He cannot sleep at night nor eat during the day; he’s fallen ill for love of her. I beg you, Lord Meng, grant my son this wish.”

Meng Jiang knew well this was but a tactic, yet he could not bluntly refuse. He replied vaguely, “I must ask Lanyi’s opinion. If she agrees, I will have no objection.”

As soon as Zhang Jing left, Meng Lanyi emerged from the side hall. Her expression calm, her father asked, “What do you think?”

She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, seated herself gracefully, and replied in a level tone, “It’s nothing but a ploy of theirs, Father. There’s no need to pay them any mind.”

“But they seem intent on success, unwilling to give up. What should we do then?” he pressed.

Meng Lanyi sipped her cooled tea, her voice clear and light. “Their proposals are merely attempts to prevent you from allying with Zhang Yuan. They hope to use your daughter to bind you. Little do they know you have no intention of joining Zhang Yuan’s camp. In any case, you need only deny both sides.”

“But dragging this out is no solution either. If he comes again, it would be difficult for me to refuse outright. What do you think?” Meng Jiang probed.

“Then, Father, you mean…?” Sensing a hidden implication, she asked warily.

“Lanyi, you’re no longer a child. Have you ever thought about your own marriage?” Meng Jiang looked at his daughter intently.

She stiffened for a moment, then regained her composure. Her expression remained serene. “Marriage is a serious matter. I will follow whatever arrangement you and Mother make.”

Meng Jiang sighed softly. “Though you are a daughter, you have accomplished as much as any son. I have always been proud. Yet you should consider your own happiness. You say you are willing to sacrifice everything for me, including your marriage, but I would never use your lifelong happiness as a tool for political alliance. You are more capable than most men, but you are still a woman, and in time you must marry. I hope you find a good husband, live in harmony, and enjoy a happy life.”

Startled, Meng Lanyi looked up at her father, momentarily lost for words. All her life she had assumed her marriage was not her own to decide, that she would become a pawn in some political alliance. As the eldest daughter of the Meng family, with a brother too young to help, she had always felt compelled to act as a son would, assisting her father with affairs of state. She had never considered her own marriage, never thought of love. Yet now her father was telling her…

Her lips parted, but she could not speak. Only after a long silence did she ask, as if in disbelief, “What do you mean, Father?”

Meng Jiang stood, moved to her side and said, “You are seventeen now, of marrying age. With Zhang Jing pressing me so, it is time you found a husband. They only wish to ensure you do not marry Zhang Yuan’s nephew. Once you are wed, they will cease their efforts, and I will be free of this concern as well.”

Once more, Meng Lanyi was struck silent.

That night, she sat at a round table of rosewood inlaid with clouds, her cheek resting on her hand, staring blankly at two plates of untouched cakes. Her gaze lingered on the burning candle, tears sliding silently down the lotus-shaped candlestick—like a handful of unshed grief. The candlelight flickered, casting her shadow on the folding screen painted with summer lotuses. A chill wind rose outside, nearly extinguishing the flame, and her silhouette seemed forlorn and lost.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind, leaving her with a strange emptiness. She was not like other girls in their boudoirs. She had neither elder nor younger siblings, only herself as the eldest child. From a young age, she had set herself the standards of a son—studying the classics, discussing politics, assisting her father with difficult paperwork. Her life’s purpose was to help her father, to prove that, though not a son, she could accomplish all that a son could. She never questioned why; she simply accepted that her marriage would be a political tool. Now, suddenly, her father told her she could choose for herself. Yet, instead of joy, she felt a hollow sense of loss.

Looking back, she realized her father had never imposed expectations on her—she had simply assumed he would. She had grown accustomed to sharing his burdens, finding satisfaction in proving that a woman was not useless. She had never thought about marriage; believing it would be used as a bargaining chip, she had not considered that she might, like other women, marry, manage a household, and raise children.

She should have been happy—finally free to be herself, to no longer worry for her father or family, to no longer suppress her own desires, to love whom she wished. Yet she still felt empty, unable to accept it.

She no longer knew how to be an ordinary woman. Her needlework was rusty, her reading limited to history and statecraft, her music long neglected. Thinking of these things was like recalling a distant dream. She found it almost amusing—she was only seventeen, yet she felt as if she had lived a lifetime.

As her father said, she was, after all, a woman, destined to marry. She had never thought much of it before—perhaps now it was time to start.

She rose and extinguished the candle. Darkness filled the room, broken only by moonlight spilling through the lattice window in scattered patterns, like a sky full of stars.

August had arrived; the weather grew cooler, the flowers faded, and autumn deepened. Sometimes, looking up, she could see migratory birds flying south in a perfect line across the clear blue sky. Leaves spun and danced in the wind, like a splendid dancer.

On this day, the sky was clear, an autumn sun hanging pale above, the air filled with the scent of osmanthus. The Ye residence was especially lively. After breakfast, Meng Jiang brought his daughter Meng Lanyi to visit, bearing an exceedingly rare gift for Ye Yuandao.

The household gathered in the courtyard, examining the present with great curiosity.

When Ye Yuandao saw it, his eyes shone with delight, his face beaming. Meng Jiang’s own face glowed with satisfaction as he said, “Well, Brother Ye, are you pleased with my gift?”

Ye Yuandao could not stop nodding, a smile lingering on his lips as he replied heartily, “Pleased? I’m overjoyed! This Mongolian wild horse is a rare find indeed. How did you come by it?”

“I once had a student who now serves in the northwest. He often deals with the Mongols and, seeing this horse as a rare treasure, arranged to have it sent to the capital. Knowing your fondness for horses, I brought it to you especially,” replied Meng Jiang, his round face lined with age, his beard twitching as he spoke.

Ye Yuandao’s moustache curled upward, his smile broadening. The two men exchanged pleasantries, while Ye Qianran, standing opposite her father, carefully studied the horse. At first glance, it seemed much like a domestic horse, but upon closer inspection, its features were distinct: a large, blunt head, a short, thick neck, a sharply tapered muzzle, ears smaller and more pointed than those of a domestic horse, spotted around the mouth and nose, a forelock almost absent, limbs short and sturdy, hooves smaller, higher, and rounder, and a long, thick tail nearly touching the ground, bound together at the end.

Ye Qianran knew little of horses, but sensed this one was fiercer and wilder than those bred at home. Her brother Ye An explained its rarity, ferocity, vigilance, and habits, describing the regions it inhabited, until her head spun with information. Not wishing to disappoint her brother, she did her best to ask a few questions, even ones she didn’t quite understand herself. This only made Ye An more enthusiastic, though he never once glanced at Meng Lanyi standing to the side, behaving as if he did not know her at all.

Turning her head, Ye Qianran saw that Meng Lanyi’s face remained calm and indifferent. She sighed inwardly—now, when the two met, they seemed like strangers, and she did not know what to do.