Born to Be Either Rich or Noble - Chapter 45

Just as Qian Tong had predicted, the ring of ironclad soldiers surrounding the Qian residence withdrew that very afternoon.

Those who had gathered to watch the spectacle, and those secretly hoping the Qian family would follow the Cui family’s ruin, couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Second Master Lu had been sitting in a teahouse for days, waiting—hoping—to see the officials storm into the Qian estate, confiscate their property, and execute the entire clan. Yet the only news that reached him was that the troops had withdrawn.

Puzzled, he asked the servant who’d brought the message, “Did Mistress Qian return?”

The boy nodded. “She did, sir. Brought the Qian family’s son-in-law with her. They went straight to the docks early this morning.”

Before the words even finished echoing, a clear voice rose from downstairs:
“Limited stock, fixed price. No matter who you are, the rate’s the same! Tea’s scarce this year—be mindful, don’t hoard…”

It was Third Master Qian.

So the Qian estate was truly unsealed.

Second Master Lu had craned his neck to listen; before he could pull back, Third Master Qian suddenly looked up and caught his gaze. He froze, then smiled like he’d just spotted a rare guest. “Well, if it isn’t Second Master Lu.”

Lu had no choice but to show himself. Forcing a smile, he came down the stairs, pretending curiosity. “Third Master Qian, you’re out and about today? The soldiers around your estate have all left? What happened exactly? We were worried sick outside for days…”

Third Master Qian cursed silently in his heart: Dog-born hypocrite.

Worried? Worried that we hadn’t been seized by the authorities, more like.

Outwardly, he kept his voice warm. “Oh, the officials feared remnants of the Cui family might seek revenge, so they stationed men to protect us specially.” He then asked pointedly, “Tell me, Second Master Lu, compared to Cui family’s tea, does ours not smell a touch sweeter?”

Of course it did—it was stolen.

Judging from his tone, it seemed all was truly well.

Having gotten excited for nothing, Second Master Lu forced a grin. “Sweeter indeed. Shame there’s so little of it though. With such good market demand, Third Master, you should have Mistress Qian think of ways to secure more. Shu’s tea is gone, but Jian’s nearby still has plenty. Why not take advantage of the chance to make a tidy profit? Ah, to be you—an entire family thriving off one young woman’s fortunes. Life must be good.”

Third Master Qian didn’t take offense. Instead, he mocked lightly, “No need to envy us, Second Master. Your Lu family’s ladies have done their part too—busy bearing children and expanding the family line. A true contribution.”

Lu’s face stiffened. He exchanged a few polite words and left the teahouse in haste.

The moment he stepped into his carriage, his expression darkened. So that was a jab. Third Master Qian was mocking the Lu women for doing nothing but give birth.

The Qian family had no male heirs, and yet somehow that “witch” of a seventh daughter had turned everything around. How had she escaped the authorities’ grasp? Cui Wanzhong—a man that formidable—had gone to sea and vanished without a trace, and yet she alone returned unharmed.

Now that the Qians were free, the Lus had lost their chance.

The Lu patriarch had been busy currying favor with the court—who knew how that was going? He’d been missing for days. Second Master Lu impatiently lifted the carriage curtain. “Found him yet? How can no one know where the head of this family’s gone?”

No one knew indeed.

In truth, Lu Daozhong had snuck off to the docks, hiding from the officials, and only the servants aboard the Lu ships knew. Unfortunately, they were all gone now.

Frustrated and fuming, Second Master Lu returned home.

As soon as he entered, the steward greeted him, “Mistress Qian is here.”

“Who?” He blinked, taken aback.

“Arrived about half a stick of incense ago. The Second Young Master is receiving her.”

Of all the Lu sons, only Second Master had real influence besides the patriarch. The rest might manage day-to-day business, but lacked the experience to handle crises. Alarmed, Lu hurried to the reception hall.

Qian Tong was there, teasing a two-year-old boy on the second young master’s lap. “And who might this little one be? Seventh Young Master?”

The second young master flushed slightly, but pride glimmered in his tone. “Eighth, actually.”

Impressive, Qian thought dryly.

The Lu patriarch had more than made up for his brother’s bachelorhood—three sons, five daughters, all kept at home. None married out; instead, they brought in husbands by the handful. From the moment Qian entered, children’s laughter echoed nonstop through the halls.

How could one discuss business in such noise?

After a few token smiles, Qian lost interest and waited quietly for Second Master Lu. Sensing her distaste, the second young master quickly called for the nursemaid to take the child away.

Just as the door closed behind them, Second Master Lu strode in. Glancing at the gaggle of children playing by the threshold, he barked, “This is the main hall, not a nursery! How improper to be running about like that!”

The patriarch had always enjoyed showing off his many heirs, so the servants had grown used to parading the children whenever guests arrived. Second Master, however, had long been driven half mad by the noise. After shooing them away, he entered.

Qian Tong rose gracefully. “Second Master.”

It really was her—adorned in gold and jade, radiant, not at all like a woman recently under pressure. His heart sank further. “Mistress Qian,” he asked, “to what do we owe today’s visit?”

She had already explained to the second young master, but repeated calmly, “To buy cloth.”

“Buy cloth?” He blinked. “Wouldn’t the Lu shop outside suffice? Why come here?”

“The shop’s stock doesn’t suit me,” Qian replied plainly. “I heard you have a batch of fine white cotton in your warehouse.”

That wasn’t exactly a secret. The Lu family’s textile guild dominated Yangzhou; their monopoly kept out all outside merchants.

Some time ago, a shipment of superior white hemp had arrived from Jinling—finer than common cloth, yet still cheaper than silk. The Lu guild had bought up the lot and turned it into luxury mourning garments for wealthy households.

But how many people could die in a year? The goods had been sitting unsold, gathering dust.

They could be dyed, but that carried risk—if they didn’t sell, they’d only lose more.

What did she want them for?

Second Master Lu, not nearly as patient as Lu Daozhong, sneered. “So, Mistress Qian’s got her salt license and Cui’s teahouse—now she wants to meddle in textiles too? Quite the appetite you have.”

Qian smiled. “You misunderstand, Second Master. You said it yourself—I have the salt license and the teahouse, and more servants by the day. Plain workwear is fine for laborers, but it’s hard to tell capable staff apart when everyone looks the same. I heard this batch of white hemp feels different—I’ll pay your asking price and take all of it.”

“All of it?”

How many servants could she possibly have?

Tea production was down this year, and though she’d taken over the Pu family’s trade route, surely she wouldn’t settle for empty voyages. Salt shipments were limited too. Even with smuggling, she’d have little surplus.

Was she planning to smuggle cloth now?

Qian seemed unconcerned by his hesitation. She asked mildly, “When will your family head return? I can come again once he’s back.”

He wanted to know that too.

He’d expected the Qians to destroy themselves—but now the troops had left, and here she was, walking straight into his home. If she meant to smuggle, perhaps he could use that.

He smiled. “Since you’ve come in person, Mistress Qian, I can decide this much myself. The cloth is in our warehouse—you may collect it anytime.”

——

For days, Qian Tong busied herself with dyeing the fabric.

When the first batch was ready, she wore an apricot-colored short-sleeved robe and went to see the heir of the Song family. Behind closed doors, she asked him, “Do you think it looks good?”

They hadn’t met since the day he’d called her “Tong’er.” Each had been busy—she, plotting the Lu family’s downfall; he, true to his word, handling the paperwork for her new textile guild license. The ink on the document was barely dry when he looked up to see her.

She came closer, tugging playfully at her sleeve. “Look, this fabric’s from Jinling—fine and durable. And yet those greedy merchants hoard it for mourning clothes just to keep prices high. Is it any wonder everyday goods cost so much in Yangzhou?”

She spat out the word merchants as if she weren’t one herself.

He was about to answer her question when she finished her tirade. Then, simply, he nodded. “Mm.”

Thinking he agreed with her argument, Qian went on briskly, “I bought the entire stock and dyed it in different colors. The black cloth will be made into short jackets—summer’s coming, after all. Rough cloth chafes the skin; the workers in the salt and wine guilds need something cooler and sweat-absorbent…”

She continued thoughtfully, “Once this batch is done, we’ll buy more and distribute it among the refugees. Summer heat’s brutal—how can they survive half-naked on the streets?”

For once, her sharp edge softened into genuine kindness. It reminded Song of the compassion she’d shown the widows and poor in the past. His heart eased. “Good,” he said quietly.

Qian hesitated, cheeks tinged pink. “About this color I’m wearing…” She looked up, shy yet determined. “Mother has already chosen our betrothal date.”

Their engagement had been agreed upon earlier, so it shouldn’t have surprised him—but her bashful eyes did.

Though it was a political arrangement, this girl before him was the one he would spend his life with. The thought stirred something unfamiliar—a faint, restless warmth like feathers brushing against his chest.

He didn’t yet understand that feeling, recorded in countless old texts. It was simply—anticipation.

Her voice softened further. “Half a month from now—June sixth. It’s my birthday. Mother consulted the almanac—it’s an auspicious day. We’ll hold our engagement feast at the Qian residence. I want all the maids to wear this color. I want the people of Yangzhou to see that this fabric isn’t unlucky, as the merchants claim—it’s blessed. What do you think?”

“Good,” Song said again.

Pleased by his answer, Qian called out, “Fu Yin!”

The maid entered promptly.

“Have the tailors start cutting at once—use this fabric I’m wearing. Every maid in the house gets one. When my betrothal is held, you’ll all wear them.”

“Yes, my lady!” Fu Yin bowed and hurried off.

As she left, Qian turned back toward Song. “I’ll notify the out-of-town textile merchants too. We’ll buy every bolt of this material we can find.”

“Wait,” Song said, stopping her. He handed her the freshly signed permit from the table. “It’s done. And remember what I told you—strategy is fine, but never break the law or defy proper conduct.”

“Yes, yes…” she replied absently, taking the document and turning it over in her hands. Then her eyes lit up, filled with admiration. “You really are remarkable, my lord. For years, the Lu family’s arrogance came from holding just this one sheet of paper.”