Reminded by Yvonne Foster, Charles Clark suddenly looked as if he had just realized something and said, “Oh, so that’s what it was. I just thought Yvonne looked very pretty holding the copper basin, that’s all.”

But... pretty... that’s all...

Yvonne Foster’s small chest was already heaving violently, clearly furious, her silver teeth grinding audibly, both hands clenched into fists, and she shouted angrily, “I thought it was for treating my sister’s illness, but it turns out you were just teasing me. You scoundrel, prepare to die!”

Charles Clark had long been on guard against this girl. As soon as Yvonne Foster moved, he stepped back and shouted, “Oh no, Second Miss is trying to murder her own husband!”

Yvonne Foster’s face flushed with anger, her expression frosty as she said, “Nonsense! Still trying to talk your way out of it!”

Charles Clark chuckled and said, “Murdering your own brother-in-law—in short, isn’t that just murdering your own husband?”

The two of them bickered back and forth, mocking each other, which made Ethan Foster, sitting on the edge of the couch, laugh and say, “Alright, alright, the whole family is acting like enemies. Yvonne, your brother-in-law still has things to do later. Come keep your sister company with her embroidery.”

Yvonne Foster pouted and said, “What could he possibly have to do? Sister, you’re still not well—why bother with embroidery? Forget it, I’ll just go out for a walk. It’s too stuffy being cooped up in here.”

At the mention of embroidery, Yvonne Foster ran off at lightning speed, as if she couldn’t avoid it fast enough.

Chapter 009: I Am a Jinyiwei

Once Yvonne Foster left, the bedroom quieted down. Ethan Foster had a calm nature and asked Lily to bring her embroidery. While threading the needle, she moved her brocade stool to the table and said serenely to Charles Clark, “If you’re bored, husband, I can have someone fetch some books from the study for you to read.”

Charles Clark smiled and said, “I’ll practice my calligraphy. I haven’t picked up a brush in days, and I’m not used to it anymore.”

Lily brought over brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. As he dipped the brush in ink again, Charles Clark suddenly felt as if a lifetime had passed. In the past, he was reluctant to practice calligraphy—after all, ink and paper cost money, and for a poor scholar struggling to make ends meet, practicing calligraphy was a luxury. Usually, he only picked up a brush when writing letters for others, writing whatever they needed.

But today was different. He no longer had to write according to others’ wishes. Now, holding the brush, he actually didn’t know what to write.

“What should I write?” Charles Clark was momentarily dazed.

Ethan Foster looked at him with a gentle smile and said, “Why haven’t you started writing, husband?”

After thinking for a moment, Charles Clark simply began to transcribe the Four Books and Five Classics from memory. All of these were deeply ingrained in the memory of the former Clark the Scholar, so familiar that Charles Clark only had to think briefly before his brush began to move. On the rice paper, his calligraphy flowed smoothly, and he wrote the opening of the Analects: “The Master said: To learn and to practice what is learned time and again, is that not a pleasure...”

Charles Clark’s calligraphy was methodical and proper. Having once been a clinic doctor, he had plenty of patience; whether standing or holding the brush, he was never careless. When he wrote, he was completely focused, his clear eyes fixed on the tip of the brush, gradually entering a state of total absorption.

In this era, entertainment was scarce, so practicing calligraphy gradually became Charles Clark’s hobby. Writing in one go gave him a faint sense of accomplishment.

Ethan Foster simply watched quietly from the side, occasionally putting down her embroidery to grind ink for Charles Clark. When he finished a piece, she couldn’t help but pick it up to look, smiling as she said, “Why not have someone mount these? Your calligraphy is already quite presentable, husband.”

Charles Clark was rather embarrassed and said, “Better not to make a fool of myself. Let’s wait until I’ve really improved.”

Ethan Foster smiled in response, but carefully dried the ink and stored each piece in a brocade box.

After a while, fine beads of sweat appeared on Charles Clark’s forehead. Taking advantage of a pause, Ethan Foster wiped his sweat and said, “Once you’re done practicing, go take a bath.”

Charles Clark was so absorbed in his writing that he mumbled a response. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him: could he learn Dong Qichang’s semi-cursive script and incorporate Dong Qichang’s style into his own calligraphy?

Dong Qichang hadn’t been born yet at this time, and though his character was notorious in history, his calligraphy was the most accomplished of the entire Ming dynasty—truly the greatest master of semi-cursive script. His style blended the techniques of all the great calligraphers in history, creating a unique style of his own.

Charles Clark had studied Dong Qichang’s calligraphy in his previous life, though he hadn’t paid much attention then. Now, with his mastery of literature and calligraphy, recalling Dong’s style filled him with longing.

But Charles Clark quickly dismissed the idea—not because he disdained imitation, but because his current skill was still lacking in maturity. Only when his brushwork became steadier would imitation yield better results.

When Charles Clark worked, he was the type to forget to eat or sleep. If he didn’t practice semi-cursive, it was fine, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. Two hours passed, and he was drenched in sweat. When he finally looked up, he realized the day was nearly over. Ethan Foster, likely exhausted, had already gone to rest on the couch, and outside, the sun was setting, leaving the room much dimmer.