The next morning, the official announces that he and his family will return to Nanjing the following day and asks Maoren to travel with them. I had been looking forward to having three months with my husband. Now I have only one more night. Our bedchamber activity goes well, but two weeks later, I learn that he has not planted a baby inside me. This news is met with a frown from my mother-in-law and a sly smile from Miss Chen. Six weeks later, a courier brings a letter letting me know that Maoren will return in another month’s time. He doesn’t say how long he’ll stay nor does he inform me of Widow Bao’s condition or that of her daughter. The former I can understand, but why wouldn’t he let me know about the daughter? “You’d better hope nothing’s gone wrong,” my mother-in-law warns me, which only builds my concern.
On the day appointed for Maoren’s arrival, I style my hair, apply makeup, and dress in a fine gown, hoping that his time away will have caused his body to dam his Essence, which will seek a flood of release. This time, though, I’m told to go to the Welcome Hall. When I enter, I find Lady Kuo in her chair, with my husband seated opposite her. She has always been forthright with me about her views on my fecundity, and I assume that all blame and responsibility will fall on me, but she surprises me by bringing Maoren into the discussion.
“Blood and Essence can’t create a baby unless the husband visits the marriage bed,” Lady Kuo begins, “which you, my son, do too infrequently.”
“I’m in Nanjing—”
“It is also a husband’s duty to make sure his wife experiences the same overflowing joy at the exact moment he does,” she goes on. “Are you looking to bring your wife pleasure? Do you make sure that the hundred pulses arrive together?”
The tips of Maoren’s ears turn red. No man wants to be questioned by his mother about whether he’s able to orchestrate bedchamber activities so that we both feel ultimate gratification at the same time. “I do everything I’m supposed to do,” he mumbles.
I consider Maoren to be a good man—and he is by most measures—but Grandfather was right about him. My husband was born in the Year of the Dragon, and he’s vexed by some of the Dragon’s worst attributes—especially refusing to accept failure with grace. Sometimes, as now, he’ll cast blame elsewhere. This is better than the alternative, which happens when he retreats into a cave of resentment because he hasn’t gotten his way. It must be difficult, I realize, for him to have failed the next level of the imperial exams multiple times and have everyone know.
“Making a baby is an internal contest between yin and yang,” Lady Kuo pointedly tells him. “It is up to yang to win over yin.”
My husband stares at the floor. I doubt he’s ever been so rebuked, but his mother isn’t done.
“Taoist scriptures tell us that if you want a son,” she reminds him, “then bedroom affairs must be conducted on the first, third, and fifth days after monthly moon water ceases. Please ignore the second, fourth, and sixth days, unless you want to sire another daughter. After that, you can forget all bedchamber activity, for the child palace will be closed for business.”
I’ve heard this theory before, but in the inner chambers some women believe that performing bedchamber affairs just before the appearance of monthly moon water will guarantee a son. Personally, I’ve always held to Grandmother’s advice: after the act itself, lie on your back with your knees up. To have a son, lean to the right so the baby may lodge on the yang side of the body; for a girl, lean to the left so she might nestle on the yin side of the body. Of course, I’ve followed these traditions and have yet to be given a son.
Before my husband can speak, Lady Kuo says the words I’ve been dreading. “Perhaps it’s time to buy one or more concubines to give me grandsons.”
I hope Maoren will dismiss this suggestion outright, knowing that a Dragon can be rude and rough in the way he speaks truth. Beyond that, custom says that if a man hasn’t given his wife a son by the time he reaches the age of forty, then it’s a wife’s duty to select either a concubine or a secondary wife for him. But my husband is only thirty! That’s far too young to bring in a concubine for this purpose. But when I glance at my husband and he refuses to meet my eyes, I see the other part of his Dragon personality come through. A Dragon likes things easy. A Dragon is privileged, spoiled, and used to getting his own way. He takes love and privilege for granted, because they are due to him as a Dragon.
“We must have a son to secure the family line,” he tells me later as I undress, as though I didn’t know this already.
We do what we’re supposed to do. We do it every night for a week. A couple of times we pursue night sports by day. And then my monthly moon water comes. Dragons like to take credit, but if they don’t win right away, they fizzle out. This is exactly what happens to my husband. Instead of coming to my marriage bed, he goes out to teahouses and taverns. There’s a drinking party one night, theater the next. Whispers of gambling reach me in the inner chambers. My Dragon husband—in his disappointment—seeks pleasure rather than responsibility. A life of amusements is easily attainable for the small-minded man.
I skip my visits to Grandmother and Meiling. I don’t want them to know my humiliation. I’m determined to hold on to Maoren and keep him to myself. I recall the illustrated books I saw before my wedding. On those nights that Maoren does come to my room, I surprise him with new twisting and turning. It’s exciting and different, but my monthly moon water comes again. A profound disappointment… We go back to the usual ways of most husbands and wives. It’s all so routine and sad that it takes a couple of weeks for me to notice that even my husband’s fascination with my feet has vanished. Then he begins to sleep in his library, saying he wants to put his effort into his next attempt at the imperial exams. That’s when I realize it’s only a matter of time before my mother-in-law will do her duty and bring in a concubine.
I feel myself slipping into the syndrome my grandmother always warns me about. I keep up with Ailan’s footbinding, but I lose interest in Yuelan’s and Chunlan’s embroidery and other domestic skills. Then the worst comes to pass. My mother-in-law finds a concubine for Maoren. I stay in my room, refusing to meet the girl. Poppy tells me she’s fourteen and exceptionally beautiful: “She’s called Snowpink, and her cheeks are as lovely as the pink of sunrise on freshly fallen snow.” I curl into a ball. Despair. Failure. I have only myself to blame. If Snowpink has a son, I’ll be able to adopt him as a ritual son, as Respectful Lady did with Yifeng and Lady Kuo might do with Manzi. But I want my own son, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having to accommodate a concubine of elevated rank. In my mind, I try to fight back. Who knows how Maoren will react to his mother’s gift? Maybe he won’t like the girl. But my battle with myself is doomed, because what man wouldn’t like someone fresh, young, obedient, and malleable?
A few days later, Maoren comes to my room in the late afternoon. He holds a letter sealed with wax. It’s addressed to me, but he opens it and scans to the end.
“Lady Liu has written to you,” he says. “She wants you to know that her mother is as mentally sharp as before her troubles began.” He looks to me for an explanation, but I don’t give one. “Lady Liu’s sister-in-law… It says here she suffered damage from weeping?” Again he peers at me, but I’d never tell him about what I discussed with Lady Liu and Widow Bao. “I’m happy to inform you that the sister-in-law is much improved after three months, just as you said she would be. She also thanks you for introducing her to Young Midwife. She writes that there will be news forthcoming in that regard.”
While this information lifts my spirits briefly, I’m too defeated to ask to see the letter myself. There’s more to it, though. Maoren gives me a wide smile. “As a result of this good outcome—as well as the effort and consideration my father and I have given—good opportunities will be coming to our family in the form of imperial contracts to provide silk to the capital.”
A Dragon can be cunning and manipulative, but I fear his ambitions and desires far outweigh his talents. Nevertheless, on this day, the letter has filled him with light, and we put aside thoughts of duty and responsibility and enjoy the gratifications of the flesh. In our most heightened moments, I feel sure he’s forgotten about Snowpink.