Shoban smiled at her. “Hello.”
The girl returned her smile politely. The staff at the Sripore palace were impeccably trained. Her braid was pulled tightly back much like Shoban’s, and her kurta was white like Shoban’s. But where Shoban’s was intricately embroidered with white thread and she wore it over blue jeans, the girl’s was severely simple and she wore it over a traditional churidar.
Shoban wanted to ask if she’d mind playing cricket with her, but she wasn’t sure if the girl would consider her too spoiled for assuming she had nothing better to do with her time. So Shoban simply asked what she wanted.
“Your father would like to see you, Tai-saheb,” the girl said in polished Marathi.
The formality of the address made Shoban want to laugh. The Rajes were royalty and still lived somewhat in the style of their ancestors. Shoban’s own family was only second cousins to the royal Gaikwads, and while Shoban was used to the pompousness at her uncle’s palace, her own mother had run a fairly laid-back household before she had died of cancer two years ago. Bram’s mother and Shoban’s mother had gone to boarding school together and been very fond of each other in that way adults claimed to be fond of one another based on childhood friendships.
They had rekindled their friendship only after Ma’s diagnosis. Until then Shoban hadn’t known the Rajes, only known of them. Throughout Ma’s illness Bram’s mother, who was one of the dearest people Shoban knew, visited her regularly, and after Ma passed away, the maharani had taken Shoban under her wing. Then last year she had coaxed Shoban to go with them to Switzerland because she’d believed it would help Shoban make her way out of her grief.
Maya Devi had been right. Switzerland was beautiful in exactly the kind of way that soothed grief, and Bram had kept Shoban entertained with his shenanigans.
“Did you want me to show you the way to the library?” Flora asked.
“I do know where the library is. Thank you very much, Flora.” Shoban took the wet wipes Flora handed her from a silver tray and cleaned her hands. She was about to run to the house but she didn’t want to appear ill-mannered, so she forced herself to walk.
“You’re sweaty, young lady.” Shoban was used to every conversation with her father starting with a criticism, and then pretty much staying in that general realm.
“I was playing cricket.”
As always, he acted as though she hadn’t said those words. If he had his way, Shoban would saunter around the house arranging flowers or painting watercolors or practicing the piano or doing something “ladylike.”
“With Bram?” he asked, proving that he had heard her.
“No, Bram is nowhere to be found.”
Her father outright smiled at that, and Shoban wondered if he’d been drinking in the daytime. When Ma was alive, his drinking had been restricted to one scotch before dinner. After her mother died, she had no idea what his routine was. She barely saw him a few times a month at the dinner table, where they tended to eat in silence.
“You’d better get used to keeping track of the young prince. I hear he’s not an easy one to rein in,” he said, still smiling in that way people did when a pet or a child made them proud. Shoban hadn’t seen him smile much since her mother’s death.
“Why would I—”
“Sit down.” He cut her off.
She sat. It was just the two of them in the library. The somberness of the place highlighted their usual awkwardness.
“How do you like the palace?”
“The Sagar Mahal? It’s beautiful. But I’ve seen it before.” She’d been here a few times. It was the very symbol of the Indian royal palace, and photographs of it were all over magazines and television. What was not to like?
“Is something wrong, Daddy?” she asked, because despite all her mother’s training to be seen and not heard in his presence, she had only so much patience for mysterious behavior.
He didn’t look angry, so it couldn’t be something she’d done. If Shoban recognized anything in the world, she recognized her father’s disapproval.
She was a great believer in knowing his moods, because information was power. If she knew what to expect she could work it to her advantage. Another thing her soft-spoken yet whip-sharp mother had taught her.
“I would say it’s the opposite of something being wrong.” A smile tugged at his mouth, making discomfort nudge at Shoban.
“Stop looking so worried. I have a feeling this is going to make you very happy.”
“Did you hear from Oxford?” she said excitedly.
He laughed. “Well, now even if you did hear from Oxford, I won’t be the one deciding if you go.”
What on earth could he possibly mean? She dabbed her sweating upper lip with the back of her hand.
“The Rajes have asked for your hand for Bram. This is—”
Her father was still speaking, but Shobi’s ears were ringing and she could only see his lips move.
“Asked for my hand?” she said. “What for?”
“Why, your hand in marriage, of course,” he snapped. “Are you feeling all right?”
Shoban jumped out of her chair. She was laughing. She had no idea why, but there was a maniacal panic in her chest and laughter was the only way to breathe around it.
Her father looked confused. She tried to tamp down her laughter. “Bram doesn’t want to marry me.”
Bram liked models and actresses, and wasn’t he going out with that tennis player from France? She was Shoban, plain old Shoban, with thick brows and oily skin and hips too wide. What interest would someone like Bram have in her?
“As a matter of fact, he does. This is his idea.”
The walls closed in on her. “I’m eighteen years old, I haven’t even thought about marriage.” What a liar she was. If Omar came to her door today, she would run out barefoot and marry him right then and there in the cotton kurta she was wearing. And he’d write a beautiful sonnet about the heartbreaking simplicity of it all, of her! Which explained why she would rather die than have this conversation. “I’m going to university this year.”
“I don’t think Bram will stop you from doing that. It’s just a betrothal.”
She was going to kill Bram. He’d always had a strange sense of humor, but this was going too far. This had to be a prank.
“I think there’s been a mistake.” She paced the room and tugged at her braid. It was too tight. There was a strand of hair pulling at her scalp and she needed to untie the whole thing so it would stop pinching like that.
Her father seemed to register that things were not going the way he expected them to. He studied her face with more than his usual disgust. She had to get her features under control or she was going to make a hash of everything.
What to do?
Shoban wanted to wring Omar’s neck too. She had told him that they should talk to Daddy before he left for England this time. He’d wanted to wait until he made something of himself. A stupid law degree was not going to help them now. What was she to do? “But I don’t want to get married!”
Her father’s only reaction was to lean forward in his wing chair and glare at her as she paced the library.
He had no idea about Omar. He probably didn’t even know that his estate manager had a brilliant son who was his daughter’s best friend, her everything. He barely even knew that his daughter existed.