Chapter 133: Peeping
Cheng Zhao was exhausted.
Zhou Yuanshen held her in his arms, dressed her, and dried her hair.
“... Bring the hair-drying hood in,” he instructed the maid.
Cheng Zhao wanted to refuse. It was May, the weather was warm, and drying hair required a brazier, which would be too hot and dry.
It had been a while since their indulgence earlier, yet Cheng Zhao’s body was still burning; she couldn’t bear the heat of the brazier.
“Don’t bother. I’ll sleep for a while first,” she said.
Zhou Yuanshen replied, “You’ll get a headache.”
Cheng Zhao was speechless.
Now you know it’ll cause a headache—why didn’t you think of that when you were messing around in the bathtub?
You were practically done washing, couldn’t you have waited to leave the tub and go back to the room?
Cheng Zhao shot him a sideways glare.
His eyes were bright, and he lightly brushed her brow with his fingers before kissing her cheek.
Cheng Zhao felt the futility of throwing sharp glances at a blind man—he wasn’t intimidated by her, so she simply closed her eyes.
After a brief rest, she dozed off in his arms for a while, then woke up clear-headed.
Her hair was still half-dry.
The sunset had slipped past the treetops, and night had slowly blackened the sky. The bedroom was unlit, the light dim and shadowy.
Cheng Zhao rose from Zhou Yuanshen’s embrace.
“... Shall we go to Crimson Cloud Courtyard for dinner?” she asked.
Her in-laws surely had a thousand questions for Zhou Yuanshen.
Ever since Concubine Mu’s miscarriage, there had been upheavals at home and in the court. Her mother-in-law, in particular, was full of doubts.
“We’ll go tomorrow evening,” Zhou Yuanshen said.
“It’s still early,” Cheng Zhao said. “No need to put it off until tomorrow night.”
“Cheng Zhao.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
His dark eyes sparkled, bright with suppressed laughter. “In your current state, my parents will notice. Don’t get mad later.”
Cheng Zhao was stunned.
She shot him a resentful glare, got up, and looked at herself in the mirror.
She seemed to have a languid, rosy glow—a kind of contentment and satisfaction after a good meal. In simple terms, her face was radiant with the flush of romance.
Cheng Zhao remembered him calling her “good girl” earlier.
She flicked the curtain heavily and went to change clothes.
They had dinner just the two of them.
Cheng Zhao had nearly forgotten in her exhaustion, but now she recalled being called “good girl,” so she put on a stern face, trying to reclaim her dignity.
Zhou Yuanshen didn’t laugh, but his brows were relaxed, and his eyes stayed overly bright.
Behind his calm exterior, Cheng Zhao felt he was laughing to himself.
This only irritated her more.
This man was even more infuriating than her fourth brother, Cheng Chao, and even more eager to take charge of her—though their personalities were worlds apart.
During dinner, Zhou Yuanshen was hungry. He didn’t wolf down his food, but he ate with relish, which also whetted Cheng Zhao’s appetite.
She ended up overeating again.
Strolling in the courtyard, Zhou Yuanshen walked beside her. Dismissing the maids, he carried a small horn lantern for Cheng Zhao.
“... This year, the duke’s mansion won’t launch the painted boat for the Dragon Boat Festival,” Cheng Zhao said, bringing him up to date on family matters, her tone not particularly good.
Whether noble clans or commoners, everyone would be watching the Zhou family.
Even small changes could spark endless speculation.
Perhaps this was exactly what the Dowager Madame wanted: first, playing the victim by holding a memorial ceremony, and then, with the unusual behavior at the Dragon Boat Festival, airing the duke’s mansion’s grievances.
To salvage their reputation. To keep the nobility and commoners from branding them as “tyrants who forced a physician to death.”
For a high-ranking house to be linked with “oppressive power” would not last long.
They needed to spread an image of noble integrity, charitable deeds, and scholarly virtue to gain a good name and ensure the family’s longevity.
This wasn’t something Cheng Zhao just made up; it was recorded in historical texts.
The Dowager Madame had surely read many histories and received a traditional, scholarly upbringing. She was particularly infatuated with the concept of “pure nobility.”
“A truly wise decision,” Cheng Zhao remarked.
Even in her madness, the grandmother still had the wits to orchestrate things—that was the mark of a true old matriarch. If she were a little more fair-minded, she would be an elder worthy of admiration.
“These are all empty,” Zhou Yuanshen said lightly. “As long as she refuses to settle, the duke’s mansion will eventually collapse.”
He added, “The next dynasty’s landscape is something she cannot dictate.”
Cheng Zhao felt that the turmoil of the late emperor’s final years had seeded too much fear in the Dowager Madame.
She had been forced to leave the capital’s prosperity and endure eight bitter years on the frontier.
Eight years—long enough to grow thorns in a person’s heart. Cheng Zhao couldn’t fathom it.
She was only eighteen. She had lived too short a life; eight years seemed like an eternity, like a long “half-life.”
The Dowager Madame’s sons, because of those eight years, had taken the path of military officers, defying her expectations for them.
All her life’s plans had been disrupted.
Fortunately, she later managed to “correct the course,” and many things turned out as she wished.
Her only misfortune, perhaps, was having too few descendants. When the time came to rely on someone, only that stubborn Zhou Yuanshen could inherit the title.
Cheng Zhao also wanted to hold tight to what she had now. She could understand the Dowager Madame; she also saw herself reflected in the old woman and used that to reflect on her own actions.
But could holding tight truly secure it?
At this thought, Cheng Zhao shuddered.
She recalled the physician from Wu Commandery who had taken her pulse and said to her, “Young Miss, let water carry the floating log—just let yourself be carried.”
Perhaps life was like that.
What you tried to grasp would ultimately prove futile...
“Who’s there?” Zhou Yuanshen suddenly spoke, cutting off Cheng Zhao’s thoughts.
He strode toward the bushes nearby, and soon a woman’s sharp, fearful cry rang out: “Lord Duke, spare me!”
The voice was very young, like a little maid’s.
Cheng Zhao walked over and saw a young maid pinned to the ground by Zhou Yuanshen’s foot.
She had been skulking, following them all the way.
Zhou Yuanshen shined the horn lantern on her: “You’re from Glorious View Courtyard.”
His tone was certain.
Cheng Zhao remembered that he spent more nights at Glorious View Courtyard and knew it better—despite all the mysteries surrounding Concubine Mu’s pregnancy.
“Lord Duke, I was sent on orders. The Secondary Wife wants to see you. She says she’s dying,” the little maid said, terrified.
She seemed about to be crushed by the weight on her, gasping for air as she spoke.
“After the physician took the Secondary Wife’s pulse, did you fill the prescription for her?” Cheng Zhao asked.
The maid pleaded, “Young Madam, please save me!”
Cheng Zhao said, “Let her go first.”
Zhou Yuanshen lifted his foot, and the maid scrambled to her knees, kowtowed in gratitude to Cheng Zhao, and waited for her questions, crouching low.
“... What medicine was prescribed?” Cheng Zhao asked.
“I don’t know, miss. Nanny An is the one serving the Secondary Wife.”
Cheng Zhao recalled that Glorious View Courtyard had two palace matrons assigned there.
Back when Concubine Mu was pregnant, the Dowager Madame was overjoyed and immediately reported it to the emperor. The emperor was delighted, showered Concubine Mu with gifts, and ordered the empress to send two matrons to attend to her.
Imperial rewards and the empress’s appointees...
At the time, everyone in the duke’s mansion said Concubine Mu was being treated like a “princess.”
Cheng Zhao was young and had seen little of the ugliness in human affairs. Limited by her experience, she hadn’t thought much of it.
Now, looking back, her heart chilled as she glanced at Zhou Yuanshen.
Zhou Yuanshen’s face was expressionless.
“What about those two palace matrons? Aren’t they attending to the Secondary Wife?” Cheng Zhao asked further.
The maid said, “They went back to the palace to report and never returned.”
Then, as if trying to earn favor, she added to Cheng Zhao, “I was gathering the Secondary Wife’s clothes for a change. Her bleeding still hasn’t stopped.”
Cheng Zhao frowned.