Page 3 of Silk and Sensibility

Ailin’s hopes dropped like a fledgling who’d overestimated her ability to fly. She wanted so much to help her family. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Have you ever thought of selling your own art?” Uncle Chen asked.

Ailin blinked in stunned silence. Her own art? Was such a thing even possible?

“I’m quite serious,” Uncle Chen insisted. “There are many collectors in Nanjing who would appreciate the paintings of a scholarly woman. Successful lady painters are highly valued.”

Ailin considered his words. She respected the famous women artists in history—people like Lady Zhòngjī—but it was quite another matter to compare herself to them. She didn’t even know if her work was good enough to live up to her family name. Her words tumbled out too fast. “Do you think anyone would actually like my paintings? I’m afraid—”

Uncle Chen held up his hand. “When your father and I used to meet to play wéiqí, he said that you were the best painter among all his children, your elder brother included.”

Ailin could not believe her ears. “Surely he didn’t mean it.”

Ten years her senior, Junyou was a well-rounded gentleman who had achieved the rank of jìnshì and served as an imperial government official. The Four Scholarly Arts of zither, wéiqí, calligraphy, and painting were like breathing to him. Ailin’s talents could not possibly compare to his. She had painted for years but never shared her work outside her family. Painting had merely been a way to spend more time with Father when he was alive.

“Duan-xiōng showed me some of your work once,” Uncle Chen said matter-of-factly. “Your apricot blossoms looked so lifelike I could smell spring in the air, and your swallows were so vibrant I thought they would fly right off the paper.”

“You should try it, miss!” Begonia exclaimed.

Ailin appreciated her maid’s enthusiasm but was not sure about her own resolve.

Uncle Chen chuckled. “It looks like even your maid agrees, so I think the matter is settled.”

Ailin did not feel settled at all, but Uncle Chen moved with the speed of a coursing river. He called for servants, and the old man Ailin had seen earlier soon arrived with a younger servant carrying a wooden box.

“I will pay you in advance for eight paintings that your maid can deliver to Chen Manor when they’re ready. Is this amount enough for now?” Uncle Chen opened the box.

Ailin covered her open mouth as she struggled for a response. Inside the wooden box was not paper money or copper coins, but solid silver ingots. The metallic glint seemed to light up the room. Perhaps such a sight was quotidian for an established merchant, but for her, it was everything she needed and more. Uncle Chen was giving her this now on the promise that she could provide something of equal value later.

Was she talented enough to carry the weight of such a promise? The thought was as tantalizing as it was terrifying. If she succeeded, the deal would benefit them both. But if she failed, she would owe her father’s longtime friend more than she was worth, something her conscience would not allow, both for her own sake and for the sake of her father’s memory.

“I don’t know how long it will take for me to pay you back, sir,” she said honestly.

“Take all the time you need. I consider this a long-term investment.”

Uncle Chen offered to send Ailin and Begonia, his silver, and their unsold paintings home in a carriage, but Ailin declined, asking instead if Uncle Chen could hold the paintings until they could be retrieved discreetly later. The last thing she wanted was for Fulan or Junyou to know that she had gone outside for help.

Her relationship with them, never close, became strained four years ago when she declined a marriage proposal Junyou had delivered on behalf of a friend whose family was one of the wealthiest in the city of Hangzhou. Ailin had been fifteen at the time, definitely old enough to be married out and move to another province, but because Father’s health had begun to decline, her parents indulged her desire to stay home longer and turned down the proposal on her behalf.

Parental support meant Ailin was able to remain by Father’s side in his final years, but there had been a trade-off. Because Ailin had caused Junyou to lose face as his friend’s matchmaker, now she had to avoid conflict with Junyou and Fulan as much as possible.

As Ailin trudged up the hill toward Nuolan Garden with Begonia, the weight of her body and the half of the silver she carried pressed her feet painfully into the ground. Heavy silver is not a bad problem to have. She reminded herself not to be ungrateful as she gingerly stepped over a fallen branch.

Her undercover foray out of the house had ostensibly been a success. She had more than enough silver to resolve the immediate crisis. The challenge now was producing enough work to merit Uncle Chen’s generous advance payment. Eight paintings were owed, and, unlike the sketches she made to amuse her family, they had to earn the respect of real art patrons. She couldn’t let her work bring shame to the Duan name.

“It looks like it will rain soon, miss,” Begonia called to her from behind.

Ailin looked up through yellowing maple leaves to the gray clouds. A cold wind swept through the trees, chilling her skin under her thin cotton dress.

“Do you still have our umbrellas?” Ailin asked.

“Yes. They’re under my arm, next to the package.” Begonia’s effort to be subtle about the silver they were carrying made Ailin smile. Everyone had heard about the devastating Wōkòu pirate raids on the coasts, and while encountering bandits on the road was a possibility, the girls lived so close to the empire’s southern capital of Nanjing that it was unlikely for brigands to lurk about in broad daylight. A far more likely scenario was that they would run into a nosy neighbor who would recognize Ailin as a young lady out where she shouldn’t be, but even that was unlikely since rain was threatening.

Begonia suddenly ran up to Ailin. “Someone’s coming!”

Ailin strained her eyes down the hill and saw a man in sky-blue robes and a ribboned black cap leading a donkey toward them. The pack animal was saddled with bulging bags on either side and did not progress quickly. The gentle way the man moved meant he was unlikely to be a bandit, but Ailin still hoped to avoid talking to him. However, Ailin and Begonia’s pace was so slow that they were bound to meet.

“Act natural,” she whispered to Begonia. “He’s probably headed to one of the houses beyond ours. Once he passes, we’ll be safe.”