Oh, for the love of God. There must have been twelve pages here! She scanned each paragraph, looking for the keywords as she had been taught. The patient, neat handwriting rambled on about Rowley Arbiter, who lost three toes to an indignant snapping turtle, and Anne Tightwad, whose laugh was like a tinkling bell or the honking of an outraged goose, depending upon your mood at the time, and so on.
Finally, on the eighth page, the code word she had been looking for leapt out at her like a hungry tiger. Humphreys. Oh, God in heaven, Humphreys. The secret term for "Pay attention! Your assignment is . . ."
The widow Humphreys maintains a garden the likes of which is both orderly and free of weeds. She spoke with your mother, who told her about the terrible problem you've been having with one Most Troublesome rodent and begged me to send you the enclosed remedy so that you might do away with it AT ONCE. The widow looks forward with great anticipation to news of your successful hunt.
Her eyes blurred over with tears and a lump the size of a fat man's belly settled in her throat.
Oh, no. Please, anything but that.
She reread the paragraph again, hoping against hope that she had misunderstood. She hadn't. A most insidious someone had arrived on the same boat as this letter. And her contact, the wretched threatening local vicar, had informed her that she must make use of the strychnine to ‘weed out’—that is, to kill, as soon as possible—the local gardener, who could only be one Mr. Handy McHanagan. Dear, lovely, impossibly gorgeous Handy!
It took the better part of an hour and several healthy swallows of the scotch that she had hidden in the vanity table drawer to wrap her head around the instruction she had been given. After some serious pacing and pulling at her hair, she determined to give up such hysterical nonsense.
Hiding the strychnine in plain sight next to the other tonics and perfumes on her vanity, she looked at her tear-blotched face in the mirror. Her round, pale face, so like Mother's. Plain and sensible.
She did not like this order, but if she did not carry it out then the imprudent, chewing-tobacco-grubbing, sherry-swilling, loathsome, blackmailing vicar would see to it that his shadowy counterparts in the Royal Navy would put her out on her ear. The scoundrel might even do her in. Apart from her obvious desire to remain alive, she could not risk that anything would happen to her since her aged parents depended upon the salary she sent home to them for their very survival. This was the thing that must be done. No sense caterwauling about it. She was from stoic English stock. She could do this.
She would do this, no matter how terrible it seemed.
How does a person become a spy? Especially a thoroughly normal, distressingly regular, generally unadventurous English maiden such as Florance Barton? In the most ridiculous of ways, it turns out.
First, one has a disastrous love affair with a cross-eyed country boy who prefers the affections of sheep to oneself. One is unfortunate enough to catch said guttersnipe defiling the sheep on a surprise visit. Distraught by the sight of this abomination, one then rushes to the local vicar, hysterical and weeping with her tale of trauma. The vicar then listens carefully, sits Florance down at the humble kitchen table, and blackmails her.
Because, you see, it turns out that the vicars who emigrate from Norway can also be clandestine spies for their native land's version of the Secret Service Bureau and in search of operatives just when she shows up blubbering on the doorstep. He'd promised that he would make this unpleasant business stay completely quiet if she would just join the Royal Navy and provide him with a few little bits of information here and there on occasion.
Upon hearing this, Florance had rather unwisely shrieked, "Why on earth would a vicar need a spy?"
The vicar had then become cross and threatened Florance's reputation, which would be forever sullied if such a mortifying happenstance were revealed, and that was how one innocent but ill-fated English country girl became a spy.
Handy paced out measurements across from the galley, between the general workers’ dormitory and the wood shed, like he had done more than once over the past few days. The half-melted heaps of snow that occupied the space he examined seemed rather uninspiring. He paused to tear off his gloves and scribble something on the clipboard he carried. Whatever did he see? What was he planning?
Florance withdrew into the galley, collected her dinner, and made her way to the table she shared with the other women, who tended to stick together as closely as Chinese rice.
She preferred not to think that she was mooning after Handy like a love-struck puppy. No, this was most certainly not the case. She had urgent, important, incredibly world-shattering reasons to note his whereabouts and activities . . . and spy on him. While she had accepted the unfortunate necessity of killing him, she could not just run up and pour the strychnine down his throat. No, she had first to reconnoiter information about his habits, proclivities, and daily routine to study him for the best opportunity to carry out her mission. First, though, she needed an answer to the question that nagged at her like the shrill call of a worried parent—what on earth could Handy have done to warrant a death sentence?
"Would you look at that now? Just flouncing around as happy as she be. I declare, ladies in my day never would wear such a thing in the presence of gentlemen," proclaimed Margaret, her wrinkled lips pursed and disapproving clucking noises issuing from them.
Florance and the other three women gaped in unison at Electa, who wore what certainly looked like the latest fashion, a red skirt that must have come to two inches above her knee! How scandalous! The rest of her outfit consisted of white stockings, red elbow-length gloves, and a spotless white- and gold-patterned blouse. The galoshes she wore rather ruined the stylish effect, however.
"To be sure," agreed Hannah. "She looks like a whore."
Florance's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think? It's true that Electa does put on airs, but she is no whore."
"How do you know?"
"Because she doesn't make the boys pay."
That unleashed titters from the other women.
"Oh, Florance," Hannah said. "You and your wit. One day, it will do you in."
Florance smiled. "But not today."
Hannah rolled her eyes. "If you're lucky."
Handy had just come in from the outside and doffed his cap. Florance's smile dropped away as he approached Electa.
"Oh, would you look at that," Margaret said. "There goes another one. Poor thing. He'll be struck down, just like the others. Electa has her eyes on someone higher up the chain of command than our resident gardener, for sure."
Despite Margaret's prediction, Handy engaged Electa in conversation before they walked to the mess line and retrieved their dinners.
Florance pushed away her bowl of porridge, half-eaten.
Maybe killing him wouldn't be so bad, after all.
When Lieutenant Mercy mentioned that his housemate was looking for someone to wash his clothes, Florance opened her mouth to decline the offer. She already laundered for five men on her free time. Adding another one hardly seemed worth the amount of work. But then the lieutenant said something about ‘that half-cocked yard man’ and Florance hastened to gush about how delighted she would be to talk to Handy about washing his clothes. What luck! This might be just the opportunity she needed to get on with murdering the love of her life.
Twenty minutes later, she found herself standing in Handy McHanagan's quarters as he plucked soiled clothing from atop chairs, under his cot, and out of an odorous pile in the corner. The slovenly condition of the small, plain room made her note that he could benefit greatly from the attentions of a woman such as herself. She tucked that notion back away where it could do little harm and examined the tins of chewing tobacco, bottles of hair oil, boot laces, and assorted gardening trowels lying about. Disappointing. Nothing screamed traitorous oaf as she had hoped.
"Oof!" Handy exclaimed, tripping over a large brown parcel protruding from under the cot. He sprawled to the w
ooden floor planks with a resounding thud.
Without thinking, Florance extended her hand to help him to his feet. He took it, his palm warm and calloused, and oh, so delicious feeling. "Those cursed narcissus bulbs will do me in! I should set them afire just to get them out of the way."
"Narcissus bulbs?" she inquired.
"Oh, yes. Well, you know. They have such a lovely yellow color in the spring. Or at least, that's what the bellhop on the transport insisted. He was most persistent when he presented them to me. I did think I would find a use for them in Australia, but you know how that turned out," he said with an embarrassed shrug.
Oh, how close he stood! Close enough that she could smell the sticks of licorice in his breast pocket. She glanced up shyly. He had such lovely brown eyes. She could lose herself in them for hours. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips. His own were rather plump and lonely-looking. If only he would lower his head just a little—
He cleared his throat and shook himself. A charming pink blush colored his cheeks as he extended the cloth bag full of laundry to her.
"Thank you so much for this, Miss Barton."
She startled. Heavens, she was acting like such a dreamy schoolgirl!
"It's no problem, really. I rather like doing laundry, even though the soap is hard on my hands. It is good to work."
Handy assessed her with a slight lift of his chin. "Yes, I agree. Idle hands are the work of the devil."
"Well, here, there's naught but the devil and the deep blue sea, and we must keep safe from both," she replied, then realized from the puzzled look on Handy's face that he did not quite understand her attempt at a rejoinder.
The silence between them drew out and heat crawled up her neck. She turned around to flee like a frightened rabbit, heart pounding.
"Miss Barton?"
She froze on the threshold, clutching his dirty drawers to her breast like precious pearls.
"Would you be so kind as to have at least the shirt and one of the pairs of trousers back to me by Wednesday morning? Miss Electa has agreed to accompany me to dinner the day after the unveiling, and I should like to look presentable."
Her stomach sank. "Yes, of course, Mr. McHanagan."
"You are coming, aren't you? To the unveiling?" he asked hopefully. "It is quite an event, I can assure you! Most everyone on the post will be in attendance."
"Yes, I would be happy to. I'd better be off now." She hurried out the door, praying that he wouldn't notice her distress.
She realized a bit later that he hadn't told her what he was unveiling and where. Oh, well. It hardly seemed to matter. If the gorgeous Miss Electa was her competition, she didn't stand a chance anyhow.
"What do you suppose he has behind there? And why is he doing it like that? What is this, a booth at a sideshow?" Hannah chattered in that high-pitched, endlessly questioning way of hers. She talked so much, and about such inconsequential things, that Florance paid no attention to what she actually said.
"He's practically a Scot! From the Newcastle area, he is. Maybe that's the cause of his eccentricity."
Florance started, shifting her gaze toward Hannah. The threatening looking storm clouds could burst upon the settlement at any moment now or dissipate entirely. Antarctic weather was fickle that way.
The tiny charwoman walked alongside her, red ponytail bouncing with her gait.
"Are you talking about Mr. McHanagan?" Florance asked.
"Of course, silly. Haven't you been listening to me? See?" Hannah pointed to an area between two buildings. Someone had stretched thick sailcloth between them and secured it by use of nails so that no one could see what lay behind it. "He put that up yesterday. And if you go behind the buildings, you'll see that he put another sheet of sailcloth up there so that nobody can see what he's making between the two. Come, I'll show you."
Florance and Hannah abandoned their route to the women's dormitory and instead backtracked to the medical building and the administration center.
"Yes," Florance said as they stood in front of the sailcloth. "It is just as you said."
Hannah made a tsking sound and shoved her shoulder. "You needn't sound so snide about it."
She sighed. Hannah accused everybody of sounding snide. It was one of those character flaws that one had to accept by keeping her company.
Florance tried to pry apart the sailcloth between two nails, but it would not budge.
"Does anyone know what he's doing?"
"A number of people have asked, but he is quite evasive. It's a mystery."
"A mystery, indeed, ladies," Handy said cheerfully as he approached them from behind. "One which will be revealed if only you have patience."
"Oh," Florance said. It seemed to be all that she was capable of saying at the moment.
Hannah suffered from no such disability. "Oh, come now, Mr. McHanagan. Won't you take pity on us? There are so few diversions in this place."
"I understand, miss, but you would not ask to see a soufflé when it was half-cooked, would you? That would ruin the dish altogether."
"Do you mean to imply that what you have behind there is half as delicious as a soufflé?"
"Perhaps I do, miss. Then again, perhaps not."
"Tease," she accused, twitching her nose like an adorable little rabbit.
"Good day, ladies," Handy said, unraveling the leather ties that secured the little door he used to enter his mysterious abode. "The unveiling will occur at midnight, should you wish to return at that time."
Then he disappeared behind the cloth.
The sun shone orange at midnight. Hannah had gone to bed some hours ago, but Florance made herself stay up, courtesy of an extra cup of Earl Grey tea. It seemed obvious that whatever Handy was doing in secret had caused him to run afoul of shadowy international powers. Surely, it wouldn't hurt to wait to carry out her assignment until she discovered his crime.
A crowd gathered in front of the sailcloth, chatting and smiling. Events of all kinds were looked forward to with great anticipation since entertainment was mostly lacking here at perhaps the harshest base on the planet. Florance waited at the edge of the group, which must have contained almost everyone on the outpost, busying herself with rubbing her gloved hands together and straightening the moose fur hat atop her head. The rags she had tied into her usually limp and unresponsive hair had succeeded in creating a mass of rather fetching curls, if she did say so herself.
She checked the brass watch she wore on the chain around her neck. At 12:03 a.m., Handy emerged from the officers' quarters and strode briskly to the sailcloth-concealed area. Cheeks beaming and arms spread out with pride, he announced, "Behold, my fellow Antarcticans! You have been far too long without a ministry of culture. I can only assume that His Majesty's Royal Armed Forces took note of this fact and reacted appropriately with horror and disbelief. As such, they determined to remedy this state of affairs and assigned yours truly to that task. Stand back, if you would, ladies and gentlemen."
Handy deftly removed the nails with the end of his hammer, and with a flourish, he flung back the sailcloth.
The crowd gave a low murmuring. There before them stood a bear on its hind legs, crafted almost entirely from ice. It must have been ten feet tall. Two round pieces of coal marked its eyes, and small, carefully sharpened sticks of wood served as claws. It was frozen in mid-lunge, with gaping mouth and a fearsome posture, like a Greek marble statue.
Rosenberry, the senior meteorologist, squinted at it. "It's rather large. I daresay as large as some of the polar bears I saw swimming about the Arctic waters back in '98."
Martin, a mechanic who smelled perpetually of sour milk, scratched under his chin. "I don't think it's going to stay upright for very long. We get a devil of a wind here, Mr. Handy."
"And if we continue to have hot days like today," someone else said, "It will melt right away!"
Florance found herself standing in front of the group. She didn't remember moving forward. "That's not the point! It's here
now. Let's enjoy it."
The blank faces of her fellows greeted her.
"Everything fades. Everything gets blown over and snowed on and melted. Everything changes. You and I most of all. Do you not know that?" she shrilled on.
Surprise. Quiet.
"The purpose of art is not practicality! Nor is it permanence. It is here now, and we are here now, and it is for our enjoyment. So enjoy it."
When she finished talking, Florance could have heard a pin drop. Well, she hadn't really intended to cause a scene.
Handy stepped up beside her. His eyes, so warm and brown, glowed as he appraised her. "Yes. That's exactly right. Thank you."
She took a breath. Before, she might have stood here with her cheeks burning, refusing to look him in the eye. Now, though, she forced down her self-consciousness and plucked up her courage to meet his eyes without flinching.
The moment stretched, though in reality, it probably only lasted for a few seconds. Then the crowd started murmuring, and someone asked Handy whether he was going to make any more ice topiaries, and he said, "Of course! It's what I know. It is why I’m here."
The moment between them had ended.
Florance, tired and ready for bed, withdrew. As she strode back to her dorm room, someone fell into step beside her. Handy!
"Will you have the rest of my clothes finished tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yes." Irritation sharpened her tone. "I said I would, and I am good for my word. I'm sure they will be dry in the morning. I know that you have an engagement with Miss Electa."
He looked embarrassed. "No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I didn't intend to sound—oh, dear." He let out a sigh and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead. "That is, I was hoping that you would accompany me to dinner tomorrow evening . . . wait, it's after midnight. This evening, then."
Whiter Pastures: (Sweet and Sassy Historical) (An Icebound Tale) Page 2