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When it came to the Prince of Hui’s private matters, Yao Huang didn’t reveal the true purpose of the female physician’s visit to her mother. She simply said that the physician had performed another physical examination.
Putting herself in someone else’s shoes, Yao Huang thought that if she had any embarrassing personal issues, she wouldn’t want others gossiping and speculating behind her back.
Seeing that her daughter looked as healthy as usual, Luo Jinhua let the matter drop and continued preparing for the banquet.
The Yao family didn’t have many close relatives, and for previous celebrations, setting up five or six banquet tables was usually sufficient. However, since the imperial decree granting the royal marriage had been issued, even distant relatives insisted on coming to present gifts. In addition, Yao Zhenhu’s semi-acquainted colleagues from the military, including centurions and superior officers, also arrived one after another, each more enthusiastic than the last.
The Yao family couldn’t refuse these gifts—once they accepted them, they had to send out invitations for the wedding banquet in return.
Adding in their close neighbors, the final count showed that the Yao family needed to prepare over fifty banquet tables!
Fortunately, the Ministry of Rites understood the Yao family’s financial situation and specifically petitioned Emperor Yongchang on their behalf for a sum of one thousand taels of silver to cover the banquet expenses. At the same time, Prince Hui discreetly sent another thousand taels in silver notes to the Yao family through Zhang Yue. The first sum, announced alongside the imperial decree, was well-known to the public, while the latter, delivered directly to Yao Zhenhu and his wife, remained a secret.
The Ministry of Rites also hinted to the Yao family that for the prince’s wedding, the banquet cost per table at the royal estate was approximately five taels of silver.
Luo Jinhua understood immediately: the banquet on their side couldn’t be more lavish than the prince’s but also couldn’t appear too shabby.
Thus, Luo Jinhua planned each table at a cost of four taels of silver. With over fifty tables, the expense totaled more than two hundred taels of silver for just one feast. Considering there were three grand feasts to host, plus two smaller meals, and additional costs for hiring cooks, renting utensils, and dishes, the silver granted by Emperor Yongchang dwindled quickly, leaving just over one hundred taels.
On the evening before Yao Huang’s wedding, Luo Jinhua prepared to hand over the remaining one hundred taels of silver along with the two silver notes sent by Prince Hui to her daughter.
Yao Huang accepted the silver notes and said, “We didn’t need to use the funds Prince Hui sent, so we should return them. As for the remaining one hundred taels, you should keep them. When the prince accompanies me back for the customary visit, we’ll need to prepare a lavish meal. Also, because of the extra social obligations brought on by my marriage, our family has to slowly repay those favors. You should also make a few more fine outfits to have ready—going forward, we’ll need to be more mindful of appearances when attending events.”
Luo Jinhua thought about it and agreed, deciding not to insist further.
Yao Huang, however, worried that the hundred taels might not be enough to maintain the family’s appearance as the in-laws of a princess. She whispered, “We can’t touch the dowry money for now. Once I’ve secured my position in the prince’s household, I’ll find a way to help supplement…”
Luo Jinhua interrupted, “Don’t. As a princess, your own expenses for food, clothing, and social obligations will only grow. The dowry provided by the imperial family is meant to cover those. You must manage it wisely and avoid developing wasteful habits.
“As for us, your father and I don’t believe in chasing empty vanity. We’ll ensure our family appears respectable when necessary but will otherwise live as we always have. Being upright and frugal is a virtue. We won’t bring shame to you or the prince.”
It was impossible for the Yao family to adopt the grandeur of high-ranking officials just because their son-in-law was a prince.
Such grandeur required wealth to sustain, and the Yao family neither possessed it nor intended to rely on their daughter, the princess, for support.
“Alright, we’re both good at managing money, so there’s no need for either of us to worry. Get some rest; tomorrow will be a busy day!” Luo Jinhua concluded.
April 21, Prince Hui’s Wedding Day
Morning and noon saw grand banquets hosted by both families, with the auspicious hour for the wedding procession set at dusk.
Prince Hui’s residence was located in Chongren Alley, on the west side of the imperial city, surrounded by the homes of nobles and high-ranking officials. Even the servants and attendants who stepped out to witness the wedding procession dressed with elegance and care.
When the wedding procession left the affluent district and entered the streets where ordinary people lived, the atmosphere grew much livelier. Crowds of onlookers gathered, buzzing with animated chatter as they eagerly observed the grand spectacle.
“Isn’t Prince Hui crippled? Doesn’t seem like it—look how straight he’s sitting on that horse.”
“Being crippled doesn’t mean his back is broken. Of course, he can sit upright. Look at the soles of his boots—they’re not touching the stirrups. His legs must be weak; someone probably helped him up there.”
“Such a shame. I still remember three years ago when Prince Hui led the army into battle, clad in armor, exuding an awe-inspiring presence.”
“With looks like that, the princess isn’t too unfortunate marrying him.”
The commoners were cautious not to speak too loudly about a prince’s disability, discussing it only in hushed whispers among close companions. However, as more voices joined in, the same remarks began to echo, carrying over to the wedding procession.
These whispers reached not only the groom, Prince Hui, but also the accompanying officials from the Ministry of Rites, and most notably, Prince Hui’s fiercely loyal personal guards.
The guards’ gazes turned sharp as blades, cutting through the crowd with precision, fixing on the sources of the murmurs.
The commoners who caught the sharp stares from the guards quickly clamped their mouths shut. Yet those who hadn’t yet experienced the intimidating gaze continued craning their necks, observing Prince Hui like they were watching a show, while their lips moved in soft murmurs.
The guards closest to the prince risked a glance at him. What they saw was the same as when they had set out—his face was calm and composed, devoid of forced joy or suppressed anger.
This demeanor reminded the guards of a tree, an old, withered tree that would never sprout new buds again. It stood unmoved in the face of wind and rain, unyielding to the climbing of mischievous children, quietly awaiting its inevitable decay and collapse.
One guard averted his gaze, his eyes misting over.
Today, the prince still wore a mask of composure. But those who knew him well understood that beneath this calm exterior, the real Prince Hui—confined to his quarters within the estate—wore a look of lifeless despair.