Page 84 of Claimed By the Maharaja
“He is fair,” said the weathered head butler named Ratan, who had worked at the palace for thirty years. He said it simply, without elaboration, as though fairness were rarer and more valuable than warmth. “Whatever Jogra maharaja promises, he delivers.”
They spoke of Bharat Jogra the way people spoke of legends—distant, imposing, untouchable, larger than life.
Yamini knew how hard it was to earn people's trust and loyalty. Right from her childhood, she had seen a revolving door of the meager palace staff who left because her father often treated them badly and didn’t pay their salaries on time. Only a few of them remained for lower pay because of her mother’s kind nature.
Yamini knew Bharat Jogra could afford high salaries for his staff.
But his staff seemed loyal to him beyond the money.
Yamini continued the palace tour, listening to the head butler as he spoke of the Jogra lineage of warriors and rulers and of various traditions, with the particular reverence of someone who had given his life to one house.
Yamini listened politely.
Her own family's history wasn't told this way. There were no butlers or caretakers left to tell it.
Standing here, surrounded by Bharat Jogra's centuries of accumulated power, she felt the difference. She recalled Rani Vasundara Devi's words.
“This girl’s family has the bloodlines but no powerful legacy worthy of a maharani.”
The words might be true regarding the power, but she had never been ashamed of where she came from. Just because her family's legacy didn't come with mountain palaces didn't make it any less.
She straightened her spine slightly and followed the caretaker.
She stopped before a large oil painting mounted along a stone wall.
“This was Maharaja Bharat’s father,” the man said. “Maharaja Vikram Singh Jogra.”
The resemblance was startling. The man in the portrait was broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome with the same sharp features, fair skin, and golden-brown eyes.
But when Yamini stepped closer, she noticed that the gaze was different from his son's.
Bharat Jogra's gaze was controlled and measured, but his father's eyes in the portrait held something else. A restlessness that was barely contained. As though the stillness of the canvas couldn't quite hold him.
“He died in an accident,” the head butler continued. “Fell from the snow cliffs during a winter hike.”
Yamini’s throat tightened. Bharat Jogra must have been very young when he lost his father.
Did he miss his father?
She felt a strange tug in her heart.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed away the ridiculous thought that Bharat Jogra could have a vulnerability. The man’s heart was made of steel.
The next portrait was of Bharat Jogra’s parents.
Rani Suchitra looked beautiful and quite young. It was a portrait made on the wedding day. Although the bride looked radiant in the traditional Jogra ceremonial clothing, there were shadows under her eyes, making her appear sad and poignant.
Yamini recalled her mother mentioning that Rani Suchitra had to marry the Jogra maharaja barely a few months after her first husband had died.
“Rani Ma comes here during the summer,” the head butler said.
“I see.” Yamini didn’t know whether to dread or look forward to the visit.
She desperately wanted to set things right with the woman she admired most in her life. But she wasn’t sure if Rani Suchitra would forgive her for the past humiliation.
Taking a deep breath, she continued to follow the head butler as he led her to the gardens.
She introduced herself to an elderly caretaker and the gardeners. But she didn’t spend much time outside as it was too cold.
