Royal Protocol by Christine Flynn Page A

called Her Majesty?”
    Mrs. Ferth’s gray bob bounced as she nodded. “And both were disconnected while I was telling them that she was resting. I pray they’ll realize things are a bit confused here at the moment,” she hurried on, her ruddy complexion even more so in her distress, “but I’m truly at a loss as to what to say about the dinner. Five hundred guests have been invited and everyone from secretaries of dignitaries to the royal pastry chef wants to know if it’s being postponed because of the king’s illness. The queen has given me no instruction. All she has said is that the only calls she’ll take are those regarding her husband and her children and that she wants to see you as soon as you return.”
    “Do you know if she actually is resting right now?”
    “I doubt it. Mrs. McDougal was in a bit ago to make up her room and said she was sitting on the settee in her salon staring out her window.”
    “Did she say anything else?” Gwen asked, speaking of the middle-aged chambermaid.
    “No,” Mrs. Ferth murmured. The woman favored cardigan sets and tweeds. Always with a silver chain and a single pearl. Today’s set was mud brown. “But I took it upon myself to cancel her appearance at the Children’s Hospital this afternoon. Oh, and she refused lunch.”
    The older woman’s pale-blue eyes suddenly narrowed on Gwen’s somewhat flattened French roll. “You got caught without an umbrella.”
    “I did,” Gwen murmured, not bothering to share how that had come to be. Before she’d come into the drawing room, she had hurried upstairs, changed her stockings and shoes and retucked her scarf. There had been little to do with Roberto’s handiwork other than smooth the slightly damp strands back into place.
    Had it not been for Harrison, she might well have been soaked to the skin.
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, grateful when the quiet ring of the telephone drew Mrs. Ferth’s attention. “I’ll try to get some answers for you.”
    The queen’s private secretary gave her a relieved nod as she headed for her desk.
    The beleaguered woman was still there, explaining to whomever she was speaking with that she would have to get back to them, when Gwen returned from the queen’s salon five minutes later.
    Expectation lit Mrs. Ferth’s face as she hung up and added the phone memo she’d written to the three-inch high stack of pink slips piled on her desk.
    “The dinner will be held. That means we need to continue with the preparations,” Gwen told her, as concerned about the queen as she was the decision she had finally, reluctantly made. “Rather than have Lady Brigham and Lady Galbraith answering Her Majesty’s mail today,” which was the usual task of those particular ladies-in-waiting, “you might ask them to assist you in returning calls. With so many guests, it might also be a good idea to have the press secretary mention to the media that the preparations are continuing. That should cut down on inquiries from those who haven’t called yet.”
    Mrs. Ferth never questioned her instructions, never hesitated to follow through. She simply, efficiently, did what the queen needed to be done.
    Sitting as straight as a pillar, she pulled her note pad toward her. “How does Her Majesty wish the statement handled? Will she be drafting it herself or does she wish to have it drafted by someone else for her approval?”
    “I believe it will be best to let the RET handle it. I’ll speak with Admiral Monteque.”
    The impact of the morning’s news about the king appeared to finally hit the sixty-something grandmother of four as she blinked down at her pad. Despite the assurances made to the world that morning that it was business as usual at the palace, it most definitely was not. “Yes. Of course,” she murmured. “And what of Her Majesty’s schedule?”
    “That will have to be changed. I think all she had today was the luncheon at the Children’s Hospital. There was nothing