Ch 103: Reborn to Raise My Husband

The next morning, Xiao Yuanbao went to the Jiang household.

Jiang Tangtuan was sitting quietly on a bamboo couch woven with rattan, his posture languid. One hand held a book, the other toyed idly with a jade hairpin, rolling it along his cheek. Beside the couch stood a small red-lacquered flower stand, upon which bloomed a pot of white peonies, their petals full and luminous.

“How elegant,” Yuanbao said lightly. “Whose young master might this be?”

At the sound of his voice, Jiang Tangtuan lifted his head. Seeing Yuanbao, he quickly set aside the book and tried to rise, but a fit of coughing seized him. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, the pallor of his face turning unevenly flushed.

“Still coughing?” Yuanbao hurried forward and gently patted his back. “Haven’t you taken medicine or seen a physician?”

Jiang Tangtuan took his hand and drew him to sit. “It’s an old complaint of mine. If I stay clear of wind and chill, I’m fine, but once I catch cold, it never passes easily—half a month at least.”

“How can it be that bad?” Yuanbao said. He himself had been frail as a child, yet never so delicate as this.

Tangtuan smiled faintly. “You’ll laugh at me, but I was a mischievous boy. Once, climbing a tree with my brother to pick fruit, I fell into the lotus pond and nearly drowned. My brother was beaten soundly afterward, and while I lay in bed for days, he knelt in the ancestral hall for as long.”

“Since then, my health has been poor. I no longer dared to make mischief, and my temper grew quiet.”

Yuanbao drew a sharp breath. “That’s terrifying. Looking at you now—so calm and gentle—no one would imagine you ever got into such trouble.”

Tangtuan chuckled. “That was long ago.”

Then he sighed. “And now I’ve gone and burdened my brother again.”

“What burden? It’s that Lü family, petty and spiteful—never have I seen such narrow hearts.”

“They’ve already had their downfall,” Yuanbao said, reassuring him. “Don’t waste another thought on them.”

Tangtuan nodded. “It’s a relief that the matter ended cleanly. Otherwise, I’d still feel ill at ease.”

Yuanbao said, “Only your marriage may be delayed now.”

But Tangtuan seemed unbothered. He had never wanted that match with the Lü family. If not for his uncle and aunt’s insistence, he wouldn’t even have come to the capital.

“I’m in no hurry,” he said. “It was only because my elders praised that family that I agreed to the meeting.”

Yuanbao smiled. “You’re still young; there’s no need to rush. A fine ge’er like you will have no shortage of good matches. Why, I know someone—already older than you—who still hasn’t shown the least impatience.”

He teased Zhao Guangzong by implication, then suddenly remembered. “Ah—come to think of it, you must have met him before. He came to the capital with A’nan for the exams last time, though he didn’t pass.”

“You mean Zhao Langjun?”

Yuanbao nodded. “That’s right—you’ve seen each other then.”

Tangtuan thought for a moment, then smiled. “How could I not? We entered the city together halfway along the road, and we even ran into each other again at the announcement of the results.”

He pursed his lips a little, pretending to sulk. “But you—your mind must have been entirely fixed on Lord Qi’s success that day. You probably forgot it was our first meeting.”

“How could I forget?” Yuanbao laughed. “I remember it clearly—it was indeed our first meeting. When I saw you then, I thought I’d laid eyes on an immortal.”

That drew a genuine laugh from Tangtuan.

After a while, he pressed his lips together and asked, “So Zhao Langjun still isn’t engaged? He seems about Lord Qi’s age.”

Yuanbao nodded and told him briefly about Zhao Guangzong’s failed proposals and his current preparations for the official selection exam.

“I’d thought he was already married,” Tangtuan said in surprise.

Yuanbao replied, “A’nan says he’s like a block of elm wood—no blossom ever opens where marriage is concerned. It worries everyone.”

“With the exam before him, he’ll hardly have time to think of anything else,” Yuanbao added.

Tangtuan smiled faintly. “Zhao Langjun is steady and earnest. I’m sure this time he’ll get what he hopes for.”

As he spoke, another cough seized him.

Yuanbao at once handed him a cup of warm water and touched his forehead—thankfully cool, only the lingering cough remained.

“You can’t go on like this,” Yuanbao said. “Let me make you a lung-soothing broth.”

He meant it too. Leading Tangtuan to the small kitchen, he asked the servants for fritillary bulbs, dendrobium, dried snow pears, and codonopsis. Knowing Tangtuan was weary of bitter medicine, he added two pieces of pork bone for flavor.

He soaked the fritillary and pears, washed them clean with the dendrobium, then stewed them with the bones until the rich fragrance of the herbs melded with the sweetness of the meat.

Tangtuan stood nearby, watching him move deftly about the little kitchen. “You came to visit the sick, yet I make you labor over a stove. I’m really ashamed.”

“You’re always saying you’re sorry for this or that,” Yuanbao said. “It’s because you think too much that you never get better.”

He smiled as he stirred the pot. “This recipe was given to me by an old friend—she’s a woman physician, quite remarkable. Once you’ve tried it, if you find it helps, I’ll tell your attendants to make it often for you. Proper nourishment will do more good than a dozen tonics.”

Jiang Tangtuan looked at him then, deeply moved by such care.

“I’ll be sure to follow the diet recipe you left for me,” Jiang Tangtuan said.

By late morning, the soup had finished simmering. Its surface gleamed with oil, and the scent made his appetite stir. Though it was brewed from herbs, the broth was light, sweet, and smooth on the tongue—far better than any bitter medicine.

He drank a bowlful and even picked out several small pieces of pork rib, eating with real relish. The older maid attending him remarked that his appetite was the best it had been in days.

At noon, Xiao Yuanbao stayed to share lunch at the Jiang residence before returning home.

Jiang Tangtuan personally saw him to the gate and stood watching as Yuanbao’s carriage departed before turning back inside.

The summer heat pressed down. Riding in the swaying carriage, Yuanbao soon grew drowsy.

When he arrived home, he went straight in for a nap, meaning to rest for a short while—yet he slept far longer than he intended.

When he finally awoke, Qi Beinan was standing by the side of the room, changing into his court robe.

Yuanbao sat up abruptly on the cool couch. “What time is it—you’re already back from duty?”

Qi Beinan turned, smiling faintly at the bleary figure on the couch. “Nearly the hour of you, I’d say.”

“I slept that long? And you didn’t wake me?”

Yuanbao rubbed his head and started to rise, only to see Qi Beinan remove not just his court robe but the undershirt beneath it as well.

His breath caught. The man’s bare shoulders and solid back were suddenly in view.

“It’s broad daylight—aren’t you the least bit ashamed?”

Qi Beinan paused, a towel in hand. “Ashamed? I can’t change clothes in my own room now?”

“You’re changing clothes—why strip down completely?”

Qi Beinan wiped at the sweat along his neck, looking wronged. “It’s scorching outside. I rode all the way back in that carriage—my clothes are soaked through. Can’t I take off the wet ones?”

Yuanbao faltered, realizing he’d misunderstood. His face flushed deeper. “Then—I’ll fetch you a towel.”

He slipped his feet into his shoes and stepped down from the couch. But before he could go far, Qi Beinan caught him by the arm and drew him in.

Yuanbao stumbled; his palm landed squarely on Qi Beinan’s bare chest.

He could feel the slick warmth of skin damp with sweat, the heat radiating through his fingers. The faint, spicy scent that rose from Qi Beinan now was not the polished fragrance of an official’s perfume, but the vivid, masculine scent of exertion.

Yuanbao’s heart thudded wildly. He tried to pull back, but Qi Beinan only tightened his hold.

Knowing how easily embarrassed he was made the teasing all the more irresistible.

Holding his hand, Qi Beinan asked, “Do I smell bad?”

“No—no.”

Yuanbao’s lips pressed together, his eyes darting helplessly over the other’s exposed skin. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Though they had been intimate many times before, it had always been in the privacy of the bedchamber. Seeing him like this elsewhere made his face burn.

“Smell carefully,” Qi Beinan said, slipping an arm around Yuanbao’s waist and tapping a finger against the back of his head.

Yuanbao found himself pressed against him.

“Yes,” he muttered faintly, playing along, “you really do smell.”

Qi Beinan paused, releasing him a little. “Then why is it that on the bed, when I’m sweating even more, you never complain?”

Yuanbao’s face went crimson; he had no idea how to answer.

Qi Beinan’s voice grew lower. “Or is it that the sweat smells different there?”

“I—I wouldn’t know.”

“Then we should find out, shouldn’t we?”

With that, Qi Beinan lifted him off the floor and started toward the bed.

After a few steps, he stopped and asked with mock seriousness, “Would you rather the cool couch or the bed?”

Yuanbao was speechless—he hadn’t even agreed, yet Qi Beinan was already assuming his consent.

“I don’t—”

“Good,” Qi Beinan said at once. “Then not the couch. You’re light enough; half an hour in my arms won’t matter.”

At that, Yuanbao’s eyes went wide. It was still broad daylight—just the thought of it made his skin prickle with shame.

“The bed,” he blurted out in a rush.

Qi Beinan’s smile curved, and he carried him there.

Outside, the evening sun spilled through the lattice, filling the room with a haze of gold. Only the bed curtains, clutched tight by a slender white arm, kept the light from falling inside.

By the time dusk deepened, the room had gone quiet again.

Yuanbao couldn’t bear to step outside afterward. He had the evening meal brought to the outer room, hoping for peace—but it proved a mistake.

Qi Beinan, apparently possessed by some lingering mischief, returned twice before he was satisfied, leaving Yuanbao so flustered he couldn’t lift his head.

He had slept for an hour that afternoon, and he thought he wouldn’t sleep again that night. Yet exhaustion won out; before the city had fully settled, he was fast asleep.

Two days later, preparations for the juren official selection were complete.

From the Hanlin Academy, Qi Beinan was appointed to accompany the Ministry of Rites as an examiner and provincial inspector.

The post had originally been assigned to Lin Qingyu, but since his marriage had just been arranged and the Grand Duke had chosen him as a son-in-law, the Hanlin Academy could hardly send him away on field duty at such a time.

When Xiao Yuanbao heard the news, he couldn’t help asking, “How long will you be gone this time?”

“The Ministry has arranged four inspection teams, each responsible for six provinces. Even at the quickest pace, it’ll take two or three months,” Qi Beinan replied. “Each province will need at least ten days’ stay, plus travel time. It adds up.”

Hearing that it would be so long, Yuanbao didn’t protest—it would be unreasonable to—but his heart still sank a little.

He had long known that an official’s life wasn’t one of freedom, that duties and assignments from above would often send one far from home. Yet when it came to his own husband, he still felt reluctant.

Qi Beinan patted the back of his hand. “I’ll leave early and return early.”

Yuanbao smiled faintly. “We’ve been in the capital for a year now. I’ve gotten to know people, and the teacher’s here too. I’ll manage just fine. You needn’t worry.”

In early June, Qi Beinan departed with the Ministry of Rites’ delegation to the provincial administrations.

To avoid any suspicion of favoritism, he was not sent toward Linzhou but instead to the Jinling region.

Yuanbao stood on a high platform, watching from afar as the line of carriages and horses left the city gate, then turned home with a heavy heart.

Two days later, Jiang Tangtuan came to visit.

“So your cough is finally better? About time you stepped outside again,” Yuanbao said, welcoming him in. With Qi Beinan away, the house felt emptier than ever, and company was a joy.

“That food therapy recipe of yours works wonders,” Tangtuan said. “They’ve cooked it several times for me since, and I really stopped coughing. Still, the taste’s not as good as when you made it—I eat less of it now.”

His complexion was brighter, his spirits improved.

“It’s not the soup’s doing,” Yuanbao said, smiling. “You took your medicine properly, that’s why you’re better.”

Tangtuan shook his head. “No false praise—it truly helped. It’s mild, pleasant, and nourishing, far better than bitter herbs.”

“Then I’ll study more recipes like it,” Yuanbao said. “Might be of use one day.”

Tangtuan laughed. Then he added, “With Lord Qi away on official inspection, the house must feel quiet.”

“It does,” Yuanbao admitted. “No family here in the capital—it’s not like home in the county. Time’s harder to fill. But I’m glad you’re here to talk with.”

They chatted for some time. Tangtuan stayed for lunch, rested through the hottest part of the day, and only then went home, promising to send over some ice next time. He’d recently acquired a finely made ice chest and wanted Yuanbao to have one.

After he left, the house fell silent again, even lonelier for the brief liveliness that had just passed.

Toward sunset, Yuanbao went to check on the pickle shop.

“You’ve been coming a lot lately,” Jiang Fulang said with a grin. “Aren’t you tired of this cramped, stuffy place?”

He set down a small round stool and a bowl of shaved ice with red beans and glutinous rice balls. “Here, eat this.”

Yuanbao sat down, leaned forward, and stirred the ice with his spoon. He scooped up a spoonful and let it melt in his mouth—sweet, cool, and refreshing.

On a summer day, there was nothing more delightful than that.

“It’s cooler here than at home,” he said contentedly. “The breeze in the alley blows strong.”

Jiang Fulang, counting beads on his abacus behind the counter, looked at the young man sitting on a low stool eating sweets—soft and bright-eyed like a lamb—and was struck by how much he resembled his younger self.

He knew Qi Beinan was away on duty, and with no one at home to keep him company, the ge’er would drift here day after day. He didn’t tease him, only said gently, “If it’s cooler here, then come as often as you like.”

Yuanbao finished half the bowl of sweet ice, then ate two skewers of grilled lamb and four marinated duck feet, until his stomach rounded full.

He sprawled lazily in his chair. “The food in this city is incredible. Even the street stalls are delicious.”

“Of course,” Jiang Fulang said. “If they weren’t, they couldn’t afford these rents.”

“How’s business for our shop lately?” Yuanbao asked.

“Good,” Jiang Fulang said. “After costs, we’re clearing forty or fifty guan a month. People say our pickles are tasty and keep well—travelers buy them for the road, whole jars at a time. The best customers are merchant caravans; they buy in bulk. Even the peddlers take stock from us to resell in the outer districts.”

Yuanbao smiled, relieved and pleased.

“There’s even something funny,” Jiang Fulang added. “One big restaurant tried to copy our pickles after seeing how well we sold. They thought to undercut our prices—relying on their wealth to drive us out. But they couldn’t even afford the mushroom supply. Tried for less than a month and gave up.”

He chuckled. “Turns out, those cheap mushrooms they thought they’d gotten were grown by the same farmers we buy from in the suburbs of the capital.”

Xiao Yuanbao had deliberately sold the fragrant mushrooms to that rival restaurant, earning a tidy sum and, at the same time, teaching every merchant who had thought to imitate their youjiangcai business a quiet lesson.

By now, the pickle trade was running smoothly. The shops in Linzhou had all been leased out one by one; just recently, Tienan had brought word of eight hundred guan in rent collected. Counting all their properties together, the yearly rent alone would come to more than a thousand guan.

Add to that two or three hundred guan of income from their estate in the countryside, and they were comfortably secure. In the capital, unless there was some large expense, the profits from the Xiangdangdang shop alone could more than cover their daily use.

Through years of careful management—loosening here, tightening there—their accounts had finally balanced cleanly. Life was easy now; no need to pinch every copper.

They were not yet a grand household of wealth, but by any measure, they had risen to the level of a solidly prosperous family.

Still, Yuanbao was not content to idle away his days as a comfortable gentleman.

The household might be relaxed now, but someday he and Qi Beinan would have a child, and children brought expenses. Raising and educating one was manageable; but when it came time for marriage, that was when silver flowed like water. Yuanbao had lived through it once before—he knew well what such costs meant.

After running the household accounts through his mind, he sighed. “I think I ought to find something new to do.”

First, it would bring in more income; second, with Qi Beinan away for three or even five months, the idle days were wearing on him.

Jiang Fulang looked up. “And what are you thinking of doing?”

“I don’t have much skill to boast of,” Yuanbao said. “Apart from the kitchen, I seem to have no other craft at all.”

Fulang hesitated. “I don’t mean to pour cold water on you, but the capital isn’t like our little county. Here, no one pays just because you can cook a good soup. I thought my own offal dishes were fine, but selling them by the street in the night market—business isn’t what it was back home.”

He wasn’t wrong. As Yuanbao himself had said before, even the humblest stalls in this city cooked well. Unless one had money to burn or a sideline that didn’t depend on food sales, a shop with nothing special would close before long.

Many never lasted to the end of their lease.

Jiang Fulang had lived in the capital long enough to see it with his own eyes, and the gossip of the market always turned to such matters.

“If it’s only about good flavor, without something unique to set you apart,” he said, “then starting a business here is hard indeed.”

Their pickle shop succeeded precisely because it was different—humble, inexpensive pickles made with costly mushrooms, rich in taste yet still affordable. That contrast was what sold.

Yuanbao understood the reasoning. Madam Feng had told him the same long ago: business couldn’t be built on impulse. The youjiangcai trade had taken him many trials before he settled on it.

“I think,” he said now, “I may have found an idea.”

Fulang leaned forward. “Let’s hear it.”

“In the county,” Yuanbao began, “when I lived with Sister Gui, Madam Feng—who taught me to cook—was often in poor health. The two of us used to come up with nourishing dishes for her to eat. She’d seen all kinds of food in her life, yet even she said ours were clever and truly effective.”

“I kept those recipes—soups to moisten the lungs and protect the liver, dishes to replenish yin or strengthen yang. Not long ago, when Tangtuan was coughing, I cooked one for him. His cough cleared, and he swore it worked.”

He continued, “Here in the capital, I’ve been watching the famous restaurants. Take the Anhua Pavilion—known for its extravagance. The building overlooks half the city, and they serve their dishes on gold and silver plates. There’s no delicacy under heaven one cannot eat there.”

“Or Chaoqi Pavilion—its hallmark is the twelve beautiful ladies and ge’er who keep patrons company over wine and food.”

One by one, Yuanbao listed the great establishments, all thriving for their distinctive appeal.

“In this city,” he said, “there are countless skilled cooks. But good taste alone isn’t enough. If I were to take wholesome food and give it the name of shiliao—dietary therapy—that would be my distinction. And not an empty one either—it truly has results.”

Jiang Fulang smiled. “That’s not a bad idea at all. The rich here have plenty of silver but poor health. If you opened a shop offering therapeutic meals, I daresay it would do well.”

Yuanbao’s eyes brightened.

“Only, I was never trained in medicine,” he admitted. “I know only a little, enough to put together ten or so recipes—but that’s hardly enough to open a proper shiliao shop.”

If only Sister Gui were in the capital; he could have worked with her to refine the recipes. Letters could still be sent, but correspondence was no match for face-to-face trial and tasting.

Still, a clear direction was far better than the aimless restlessness he’d felt before.

That very evening, back home, he wrote to Sister Gui, telling her of his plan to open a therapeutic food shop.

With this new purpose, his days no longer felt empty. He spent them poring over medical texts, copying notes, buying ingredients, and experimenting in the kitchen—testing how to blend nourishing herbs with meats and vegetables until the dishes were both flavorful and strengthening.

˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚