Whiter Pastures: Icebound Tales

By Xina Marie Uhl

Behold dogsleds and penguins.

Howling winds and cold, pitiless wastes.

This is Antarctica, where the intrepid inhabitants of the frozen ends of the earth battle the terrain, and each other, to find love—in a past much like that of the early 1900s.

Reluctant spinster Florance Barton fled to the British Antarctic base to escape a scandalous love affair. Amidst the handful of other women there, Florance is the perfect chambermaid, meek, mild, and forgettable.

No one has a clue that she's also a novice spy.

When handsome young Handy McHanagan arrives at the base, he sets everyone agog. He's charming, artistic, and ... an accomplished gardener. His arrival may be a mistake on the part of naval command.

Or is it something more sinister?

Killer seals and subzero ice storms aren't the only danger in Antarctica: a enemy spy is on the loose. Florance has been ordered to choose between queen and country and her heart. Because penguin is off the menu now—and murder is its replacement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xina Marie Uhl
• Release date: Jun 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393272045

Book preview

Whiter Pastures

An Icebound Tale

Xina Marie Uhl

XCPublishing.net

Other XC Publishing.net titles by Xina Marie Uhl

Lady Law and the Texas DeRangers

All Mouth and No Trousers

The King’s Champion, Book 1 of the Land

The Cat’s Guide to Human Behavior

Necropolis

ISBN-10:1-930805-91-8

ISBN-13:978-1-930805-91-0

(c) Copyright 2017 Xina Marie Uhl

Cover art by Cormar Covers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental.

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Hope Bay, Antarctica, 1900

The coal pan in the bottom of the heater had jammed again. Florance had tried all of her usual fixes—shoving it in further and yanking it out quickly, shimmying it from side to side, and wedging the metal handle of her favorite scrub brush in it to pry it open—but nothing would work.

Must you make such a racket, girl? Electa's voice somehow managed to communicate boredom, disdain, and irritation all at once. She didn't bother looking up from her typewriter but continued to pluck the keys one by one, hunting and pecking for each as if she were a particularly choosy hen searching for the perfect piece of corn.

Florance gritted her teeth. Electa knew her name—Florance had informed her of it on at least three separate occasions—but she couldn't be bothered to call her anything other than girl. When she deigned to speak to her at all, that is.

It vexed Florance that people insisted upon referring to her as a girl when eternal spinsterhood was drawing ever nearer at twenty-nine years of age. Florance knew the reason for it, though. She was a rather quiet person, not a stupid one. The help always had to scurry hither and thither, seen but not heard, while the decent people carried on with the important work. The ability to be invisible was the very thing that had brought her to this frozen base to begin with, after all.

With a discordant screech, the coal pan slid free, unbalancing Florance so that she landed squarely on her bustle. Coal dust puffed up in a cloud around her. She sneezed. Electa rolled her kohl-lined, brilliantly blue eyes in exasperation.

Sorry, Mum, Florance mumbled before she could stop herself. She was trying not to mewl so much. It's just that her mouth sometimes functioned apart from her intentions.

Florance patted coal dust off her once-white apron, tucked that frizzy errant piece of hair back into her bun, and slipped on her trusty leather gloves before hurrying outside to the coal bin.

A gale had ended late last night, and this morning was clear and eye-wateringly bright, as usual. The atmosphere down here seemed thinner and drier than back in dreary old England, and