Voyage of the Pleiades

By Amy Marie Turner

London 1885. Linnea Wren has spent her life defying Victorian societal norms, from masquerading as a male groundskeeper at Kew Gardens, to an expedition leader traveling the world. After a devastating and traumatic shipwreck nearly robs her of life and career, Linnea is offered the opportunity to travel to South America and re-establish

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fauve Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218168087

Amy Marie Turner

Amy is a Heartland Emmy-nominated writer who lives where the high desert is shadowed by the soaring peaks of the Sawatch Range, also known as Salida, Colorado. She is a third generation Coloradan who returned to the mountains after more than twenty years of living in an off-grid, waterless cabin in Alaska. Aside from a penchant for residing in places where nature is trying to kill you, Amy is a recovering environmental consultant who now appreciates plants while hiking or riding her bike. Amy's debut historical fiction novel, Voyage of the Pleiades was published in June 2023 (Fauve Press). She is editing A Garden of Shadows, the second book in the series, as well as working on other creative projects that explore our sense of place and identity. You can contact her through her website at amymarieturner.com.

Book preview

Prologue

The rough boards under my cheek were the only unmoving point in a boiling sea. Waves pummeled the edges, threatening to swamp and flip the wreckage I clung to. My hands were dark with blood, entwined with the rope that lashed the wood together. A few measly scraps of English oak between me and the bottom of the ocean. How many hours since the ship sank? How long ago did we sail into the storm? Surrendering to the darkness that beckoned was effortless. When I woke the sea was calm. The wood rode the gentle waves, mostly intact. I rolled to my back; one hand still coiled in the rope. The sky had cleared. Jagged searing pain forked through my abdomen and lights flickered before my eyes. Were the stars falling? I frantically blinked to clear my vision. The sun was rising. I squinted at a form flying toward me, high in the sky. Flutter, flutter, glide. It’s wingbeats carrying it closer. It was a kingfisher. It hovered aloft, undulating vibrant turquoise wings. It was the last thing I remembered.

England

Chapter One

October 1885

Chelsea Physic Garden, London, England

I nudged the dead badger with my toe. The furry corpse in the path halted my dash in the torrential rain. I could have summoned one of the under-gardeners to remove it, but having held that position at one time, I fetched my own shovel and bucket. By the time I returned from disposing of the badger, the rain had eased, and I returned to work. Entering the glass house transported me from damp England in the autumn, to the tropics. The air was heavy with the scent of rich, dark earth and the exhalations of vibrant plants. I threw off my heavy wool cloak and slung it over my arm. Approaching my workstation in the rear of the glasshouse, I saw that someone was already occupying my bench.

The badger murderer? I chuckled and smiled wide when I recognized the figure poking my specimens. How dare you man-handle my precious plants, I said in mock outrage, and Lord Hugh Martin, the Earl of Holloway’s eyes crinkled into the grin he reserved for me. I went to his side and kissed his clean-shaven cheek.

Lord Martin, who long ago gave me leave to address as Hugh, found me fifteen years ago when I was working as an under-gardener at Kew Gardens. I was nineteen and disguised as a boy with the aim of working my way up through the ranks. At the behest of my Uncle Liam, Hugh spent years searching for me. He hadn't expected to find a cranky urchin that smelled of night soil and possessed of a burning ambition to be a naturalist. Hugh employed me to accompany him on an expedition six months after we met and was my most ardent supporter and mentor. More than that, I claimed him as my family. 

Hugh rose from the bench and motioned for me to take his seat. I removed my sopping hat and hung it with my cloak in the small cloak closet.

I am delighted to see you, but why are you here? You could’ve waited until this evening to speak to me. I rarely go anywhere other than the garden and the cottage. I resided in a cottage on the edge of Hugh’s London property and was content in the role of resident hermit. My work was my life.

I have news to share, and I was too impatient to wait until whatever ungodly hour you deigned to return. Bright excitement lit his eyes. It had been several years since I’d seen him so enthusiastic. I sat straighter on the bench. The only time I observed this degree of elation was at the prospect of an expedition. I drew in a painful breath.

An expedition?

He nodded, brimming with zeal.

When do you leave? I asked, crestfallen. It was unlikely that I would join him. I had not been on a ship in more than two years after a devastating voyage. The impacts of that expedition wrecked chaos on my life. It was why I now worked at the Chelsea Physic Garden. Hugh reached across the table and captured my hand.

I’m not going on expedition. You are.

I was dumbfounded. My mouth gaped in an excellent imitation of a landed fish. 

Linnea, for several months I’ve been discreetly engaged in efforts to secure funds for an expedition to South America, for you.

My spirits soared briefly before plummeting to earth.

Do you believe I’m ready?

You are ready. Do you think I haven’t noticed you making notes on expedition reports? You are even sketching again. I have seen the illustrations you make when you think I’m not paying attention.

I fiddled with the plant markers on the counter. The last expedition stripped my self-confidence. Working here at the Physic Garden helped recover some semblance of who I once was. Some. Hugh placed his hand on mine and waited for me to meet his gaze.

She is still in there you know. The tenacious young woman who was offered an opportunity and committed so ardently, she became an accomplished and recognized naturalist in a short amount of time. She is part of you. You’ve been reclaiming her the last two years. You are ready.

I dropped hard on to the bench. I... hadn’t considered…. I mean…. I am so grateful for your faith in me.  But I’m not…. I fumbled to grasp the opportunity he offered. My stomach revolted at the idea of leading an expedition or returning to the sea.

Could I have some time to consider?

Of course. He said, straightening his cuffs and picking up his great coat from the bench.

We will discuss it later, but Linnea, he gripped my shoulder, you have my full confidence.

As he ducked through the door into the mist, I noted his stiff movements. Hugh was a tall man, well over six feet, but he was beginning to stoop a bit. The gleaming silver toucan on the head of his ebony cane, reflected the color of his hair. When we first met his hair was mostly chestnut with a few strands of silver. So many years had passed since he found me, and time had altered us.

My parents died when I was three in a tragic railway accident. My recollections of them were few, a vague sense of the love they possessed for each other and for me. A faint echo of a memory of my mother’s radiant smile and personality also lingered.  Their trip was meant to be a brief sojourn, so I was left at home with my nursemaid.

After their funeral, I was sent to live with my mother’s brother William. Uncle Liam was eleven years older than my mother and the sole remaining member of our family. He was a botanist at Kew Gardens and until I dropped into his life, rarely in England, he traveled the world searching for and collecting new specimens. As a confirmed bachelor who preferred not to remain in one place, he wasn’t well suited to taking on the responsibility of a small child. Fortunately for both of us, I was not a normal child. We spent the first years together in London while I settled in and learned the routine of my uncle’s life, and he learned how to adjust to needs of a child. After my seventh birthday, we took our first voyage together, to the West Indies.

The sensation of the warm wood beneath bare feet, the snap of white sails overhead, and the caress of the sea wind as it whipped my braids back, are seared in my memory and formed the cornerstones from which I built my adult life. I was an ecstatic participant in Uncle Liam’s studies and learned how to shimmy up trees or scramble under shrubs for the rarest of specimens. In the evenings, we retired to his quarters where Uncle Liam labeled our finds, and I learned my letters and entertained him by spinning stories. We returned to London three years later with crates and trunks full of wild orchids and vines, and alight with anticipation for our future adventures.

Unfortunately, it was our only trip. Uncle Liam contracted a fever on the journey, and it compromised his lungs. Shortly after returning from our expedition, we moved from London to Cornwall to escape the fetid city air. We settled in a small cottage not far from the sea. In lieu of exotic plants, we devoted ourselves to our cluttered garden. Many enjoyable hours were spent tending it together. Uncle Liam continued to join me in the garden even when he was so frail that his participation was to observe from his chair and test me on my studies. Upon my arrival in his life, he had assumed responsibility for my education which consisted of scientific subjects and texts. Uncle Liam was a big fan of Darwin’s pamphlets, and our copy of Voyage of the Beagle was well worn. All other subjects were given scant attention.

Liam’s weak lungs ceased to function when I was twelve, and I was sent to a girls’ school in Falmouth.

The girls’ school was a nightmare for a wild, free creature. I was raised by a progressive man to express my opinions. I preferred breeches to dresses and digging in the dirt to learning the pianoforte. I hid my scientific texts in improving books meant to teach me how to be more lady-like. To escape the overwhelming grief at Liam’s death and the daily torment I endured from my schoolmates as an outsider, I fixated on my future. Uncle Liam believed that employment as a botanist for Kew Gardens was the pinnacle a career naturalist should aspire to. His stories of exploration and adventure combined with scientific endeavor gave me a goal to focus on while stuck at the girls’ school. I knew I couldn’t learn what I needed at the school, so I begged permission to work at the local apothecary. I assisted with the preparation of remedies when school was released for holidays. I set aside all my earnings to fund my plan: leave Falmouth and seek a position at Kew. By age seventeen I had saved enough money to hop a train to London. When I arrived, I cut and sold my hair, purchased boy’s clothes, bound my burgeoning breasts, and landed a job as an under-gardener at Kew.

Working at Kew was harder than I expected. I had to prove my knowledge of horticulture and botany without drawing attention to how I had developed that expertise. It was rare for a woman to work at Kew, the few who did were volunteer society ladies.

So, I disguised myself as a boy.

I was content to perform even the lowest jobs; I didn’t care that I was shoveling night soil or washing walkways. I was willing to work any job if I was learning and among plants.

It was complicated and expensive to secure lodgings while disguised as a boy, and I didn’t earn enough to live alone, so I slept in potting sheds or the remote areas of the garden. My favorite spots were in the shelter of the giant rhododendrons and tree peonies. During my time at Kew, I absorbed the soil through my pores, breathed air that was cleaner than anywhere else in London. I utilized the inner secrets about the workings of Kew that Liam shared, to work harder and more efficient than any of the other under-gardeners. After dark, I wandered the garden, transplanting and cleaning beds that I knew the higher-level gardeners were neglecting, which is where Hugh found me. 

March 1869

Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, Richmond, London, England

Two years of working at the garden had seen my ascension of the ranks, but I was still performing maintenance duties. Evenings were my favorite time to be in the garden. The visitors and other gardeners that were a constant presence in the daylight hours were gone leaving the vast space to me. That spring evening, I was thinning a bed of snowdrops and hellebores. The moon was full, and I was singing to myself as I worked.

You’re industrious for so late an hour. I was unaware that Kew had a night shift. A deep baritone voice rumbled over my left shoulder. Its resonance traveled up my back and made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I was acquainted with the dangers of working and sleeping in the garden and kept a small dagger in my boot for defense. There were some at the garden who were aware that I slept here, and that voice did not belong to any of them.

Discreetly resting my hand on the hilt of my dagger, I did not stop thinning the hellebores. The panic made my stomach churn, but I remained calm.

I am completing work that couldn’t remain undone. I stay until my tasks are completed for the day. I kept my voice quiet, to obscure the slight feminine tone.

I have observed you frequently work late.

Not to be impertinent, sir, but who are you to mark and comment on my behavior? I am doing nothing wrong. I serve Kew and this garden.

I believe you…miss.

Overwhelming dread flooded my body. I rotated on my heels, remaining in a defensive position. I should have continued my work and corrected him, but his observation caught me so off guard that my calm facade crumbled.

In fact, I believe I know who you are.

I was flummoxed. Instead of fleeing, I stared at him, my jaw agape, a humiliating state.

His dark eyes sparkled with humor, and he chortled at my reaction. I scowled, tightening my palm on the hilt of my dagger in anger. How dare he laugh at me? 

It is time I introduce myself; I am Lord Martin. I was a friend of your Uncle William. We met a few times when you were a child before Liam’s death. I’ve wondered for years what happened to you after Liam died. On Liam’s behalf, I searched everywhere for you.

I cleared my throat, anxiety restricting the function of my lungs. Involuntarily, my legs folded, dropping me to the ground. The impact jolted the return of breath. 

I was sent to a girls’ school, in Falmouth.

Oh dear, I imagine how that suited you.

My chin jutted in objection. What is that supposed to mean?

Well, you’re here, disguised as a boy, working at Kew.

I am following a plan, it was always my intention to work here, it is what I will dedicate my life to. 

The sparkle in his eye did not diminish if anything he appeared to struggle to suppress his mirth at my insolence.

True, but I have no doubt that you have talents that exceed hauling soil and thinning beds.

Forgive me, my lord, but you do not know me.

I crossed my arms.

I don’t intend to remain a gardener forever; I’m savvy to the workings of Kew. They will recognize my contributions and reward them. I work harder than anyone else.

Do you intend to pursue those lofty positions while masquerading as a man?

I’ll do whatever it takes.

Well, Lady Wren, I’m here to offer an alternative.

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my hands around them. I knew it was a childish posture, but I wished to burrow deep inside and pretend this was not happening, that I could stop this conversation. If you know of me, then you are aware that I don’t use that name. I long ago gave up the expectation that anyone remembered I existed. I am the last of my family and being anonymous has served me well. I have no desire to step forward and claim any place other than where I am. I glared at him. What is your purpose here, Lord Martin?

He lowered to his knees.

You demand we speak plainly. I would like you to work for me. I propose you curate my private collection of rare plants. Study the books and journals in my extensive library. And with the assistance of private tutors, expand your skills as a naturalist and botanist. I will provide you with a small wage and a cottage.

I narrowed my eyes, skeptical of his motives.

It is a generous offer, my lord, but who am I, to you? What are your expectations? If I stay here at Kew, I can be promoted to head gardener.

You are aware that will take years? Then there is the matter of your gender masquerade to attain that position. You have no higher ambitions?

I gathered my tools, throwing them into the basket and rising to my feet.

I’m hoping when I attain head gardener, I’ll have the opportunity to accompany an expedition, or lead one of my own.

If you remain in my employ for five years, I will fund an expedition. I also expect you to accompany me on a trip set to depart six months hence.

I straightened from arranging my basket.

An expedition? In six months?

Yes, assuming you accept the terms of my offer and spend the next six months, and the subsequent five years, applying yourself to refining and expanding your skills.

Excitement rose in my chest at the possibility of my dreams coming true sooner then later, but I tamped it down. His offer was too good to be true. Nothing was given for free. Excuse me, my lord, but your offer is too generous. What advantage does this agreement bring you?

I require only your hard work and dedication. I’m fulfilling a promise I made to your uncle. However, my offer does come with conditions. It is not proper for you to continue to present yourself as a young man. Nor as a young woman, is it proper for us to live alone. One advantage is that you are not known in society, so we can spin whatever tale we need the ton to embrace. I propose we say I’m your godfather or guardian. That way there will be no perceived impropriety in our relationship. He scrutinized my reaction. I don’t mean to dishonor your family or your uncle. If I had known…. if Liam had admitted how ill he was, I believe he would have made more of an effort to secure your future.

I nodded; his observation mirrored my reflections on my uncle’s illness. My mind spun with the possibilities that Lord Martin was offering me, and how much quicker I could attain my goals if I accepted his generosity. However, I knew better than to blindly accept what he offered. I would agree to go with him but request a temporary leave from Kew in case he was luring me into some sort of trap. I dusted my hands on my breeches and offered one.

Lord Martin, I am pleased to accept your generous offer.

We shook hands on it. That evening changed the course of my life.                                                                                                        

Prior to that first expedition with Hugh, I dedicated my days to consuming every book in his library, perfecting my illustration skills, and the most hated of tasks: turning myself into a lady or at least the appearance of one. After several years in breeches, I suddenly had to accustom myself to the fashionable trappings of a nineteenth-century woman. I did not possess any clothing that was appropriate, so the first week of my arrival at Holloway House, Hugh arranged for a modiste to visit and measure me for appropriate dresses and under fittings. Including a corset. Within the week I begged the modiste to return. 

We scraped the original designs and modified them to include internal stays and pockets. If I had to wear dresses and skirts, they would damn well be functional. We created an entire wardrobe of expedition clothes for me, the designs of which I continued to wear for many years. I coped with the lady lessons because I knew the payoff was worth it.

The next several months were arduous. I believed I was accustomed to drudgery, my days at Kew were full of demanding labor, but this was mental work at a level that I’d never previously encountered. I didn’t have access to scientific journals while I was in Falmouth, or as an under-gardener at Kew. My practical knowledge of identifying and caring for plants was extensive, but my comprehension of recent discoveries and debates in botany, were woefully out of date. Most days were spent in Hugh’s library reviewing journals and expedition accounts. Hugh brought in an artist friend to tutor me in my illustration techniques. I started with drawing still lifes and participating in a figure drawing class. I showed natural aptitude for illustration and graduated to charcoal and pen illustrations of the plants in the garden. In the hours I wasn’t drawing or reading, I worked in Holloway House’s extensive gardens. Hugh’s head gardener expanded my expertise for seasonal plantings and how to care for the tropical specimens during England’s cold, rainy winters. Many of the established plants on the grounds came from cuttings Hugh and my uncle collected on expeditions, including some from our West Indies voyage.  I often found myself thinking of Uncle Liam and how he would feel about me being here with Hugh. I rarely stopped for the day before I collapsed into bed, I even took to conjugating Portuguese verbs while weeding, so I was prepared for our arrival in Brazil.

The loamy smell of tropical soil and wet wood returned me to the present. I shook myself from the hold of the memories. Rain drops streaked the glass walls turning them opaque and making the expansive space isolated. Meeting Hugh and our first expedition seemed a lifetime ago. Ten years had passed since I departed on my first solo voyage. The two years since the shipwreck were the longest period I’d been on land. I hungered for the sea and the excitement of discovery, but could I move past my fears and board the ship when it came time?

       In a distracted haze, I tided the work bench, stacking the labels and the pots. I watered the transplanted Pelargoniums that lived in the glass house and collected my hat and cloak. I was being offered the opportunity, yet again, to change my life. Was I going to take it this time? Or stay where it was safe?

Chapter Two

Following dinner, Hugh and I retired to his study. He didn’t wish to discuss his proposal during our meal, and I picked at my food. I was unable to eat while my stomach was clenched with apprehension and anticipation. Folding myself into one of my favorite chairs, a wide leather and wood affair that accommodated my preferred cross-legged position, I tried to appear nonchalant. Shifting forward, I perched on the edge of the seat, recognizing that Hugh was not fooled by my act. He filled two glasses with whisky and handed me one, devilish glee sparkling in his eyes.

Enough, Hugh, you’re feeding my anxiety, give up the details. I cajoled, impatient. He scoffed at me as he swallowed.

All right, all right, I suppose you’ve been tortured enough. I have secured funding and a ship to lead an expedition to South America, with the ultimate destination, Chile. You expressed an interest in following in Darwin’s footsteps and exploring Chiloé Island, and that is a location that others also deem valuable to our understanding of the Southern Hemisphere. I took the liberty of communicating with interested naturalists. The vessel is a merchant ship called the Cormorant; it will also be transporting goods to the usual ports along the route. I know the captain, Captain Hastings. Hastings is a good man. Not given to prejudice.

My throat closed in excitement and trepidation. I took a sip of whisky so I could form words.

When do we depart?

That’s the tricky bit. The ship must depart from Portsmouth by the end of December to catch the favorable weather.

December? I exclaimed, setting down the glass before it spilled. It is already late October.

It will be a challenge, but you’ve led five voyages on your own and two with me. Overseeing this trip won’t be any different.  You’ve proven yourself capable of arranging the details in that amount of time. The crew is already in place, it is only a matter of you meeting the naturalists and determining your needs.

I covered my eyes with my palms.

This is too much, Hugh. I don’t know if I’m able. After everything that has happened. And with a deadline of less than two months.

I’ll assist you; I have faith that it will come together. You need to lead this expedition, Linnea. The work you’ve done at the Physic Garden is valuable, but you are capable of so much more. Seize this opportunity! I cannot guarantee there will be another.

We were silent as we communed with our drinks. He opened a locked drawer of his desk rummaged within, and handed over a well-read letter. 

I’ve been waiting for the right moment to share this letter with you. Please read it tonight. Your uncle wrote me when you were on expedition together. Those that love you have always recognized your potential, Linnea.

I accepted the letter, mindful of its irreplaceable value.

"I’m not the same person I was two years ago. May I have tonight to consider and give you an answer in the morning?’

He laid his hand on my shoulder.

Of course, but we both know what your answer will be.

He gave me a smug smile and swallowed the last of his drink.

Goodnight, my dear.

I retreated to my cottage to mull over my decision. Ten years ago, when I began my solo travels, I was hopeful and naive. In my arrogance, I was convinced that focused, dedicated work was all that was needed to achieve my goals. I was willing to sacrifice whatever necessary to travel the world and become an admired naturalist. My imagination didn’t venture beyond that fantasy. I had no time for companionship or love. Nothing matter except the logical career goals I set myself. For many years, it was enough.

I did find the occasional distraction in affairs, but eventually I would slink away, preferring a solitary existence.  My obsession was my whole life, and nothing came between me and my goals. It was an exhausting way to live. Even prior to the shipwreck in Santo Domingo the shine was off the hard diamond of my life. When the ship sank, it took my motivation with it. The loss of my purpose in life created a vacuum that I yearned to fill with oblivion. My unmoored confusion sent me into apathetic dissipation until once again Hugh found me. It had taken the last couple years of relative solitude and the rewards of meaningful labor at the Chelsea Physic Garden to build my confidence, to transform the wreck into something functional. This Linnea, she shared little emotional resemblance to the old one.

As I had surfaced from the swath of devastation I attempted to make of my career and life, I fought the itch that surfaced, a persistent yearning for the sea and travel. Even though I was still haunted by nightmares of the shipwreck, I also ached for the sharp tang of sea air and the rough texture of ship boards under my soles. When my cravings threatened to overwhelm me, I retreated to the garden. I wandered in my bare feet, penitent in my selection of chores. Weeding a dense, thorny border or scrubbing the scum from the bird baths usually provided adequate distraction to draw my mind away from the sea.

For two years I denied myself the dream of returning to sailing. Succumbing to that flicker of hope that someday I might have the opportunity again, was treacherous. Hugh’s offer at first glance was a dream come true, but it came with serious doubts and misgivings.

I traversed the cottage to the wall of rickety bookshelves that I built. Climbing the step stool I reached for the volumes on the top shelves, my first expedition journals. I carried them to the table and spread them open. It was humbling to read my reflections. I was envious of the mawkish enthusiasm I had in those early years. Fortunately for me, Hugh guided with a firm, but gentle hand. I may have been born to be a naturalist, but Hugh taught me how to be an effective manager of people, and on an extended voyage that is as important as the scientific endeavors. As an expedition leader one lives at the crossroads of many demands: the investors, the drive of discovery and research, the ship crew, and the dramatics of the expedition staff. Hugh was a master at balancing the demands while maintaining authority and a sense of humor.  I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor and friend.

Poking at the coals to coax the fire to life, I settled into the armchair in front of the hearth. Unfolding Liam’s letter, I sniffed, hoping for the lingering smell of his bay rum cologne or the vanilla scent of his favorite pipe tobacco. Any traces of him were gone, all that was left were his words. 

East Caicos Island

Sent from Nassau, Bahamas

18 January 1855

Dear Hugh,

We’ve reached the Caicos Islands, as usual it is disconcerting to cross an ocean and find yourself in a place overrun by stiff British compatriots. Independence for these island nations seems more of a possibility now than the last time I visited. I am heartened that it appears as if the slave trade has been abolished from these shores. However, I am not writing to rehash the history of Turks and Caicos, but rather to share my impressions of traveling with a child.

The first couple days of the voyage I wondered what the hell I was thinking. Linnea is stalwart and her enthusiasm is infectious, but also exhausting. I had no idea what it would mean to attempt to confine that enthusiasm to a ship, but as usual, I underestimate Linnea. She settled into ship life like a seasoned sailor, and she hardly keeps her feet on the deck and out of the lines. One morning I found her perched on the small ledge under the figurehead, cackling in joy as the sea spray pelted her face. I almost had an apoplexy when I looked over the rail and found her below, but her laugh vanquishes my irritation every time. Do you remember ever being that young and besotted with the world? I had forgotten how to view the world in that way until Linnea came into my life.

I admit that in those early days with her, I resented what I had lost and how life was forever altered, especially my life with you my dear friend. On the whole of it though, I have gained something priceless, and I could never regret it. Linnea has taught me not only how to love her, but also how to love the world again. I fear that before she came into my life I was ruled by resentment. Resentment that the world we live in does not allow us to be together, that I could not have everything: my career, my love, whatever it was I believed was withheld or owed to me.

Yesterday Linnea and I spent the morning exploring the tide pools, she marched to the shoreline with that determined expression on her tiny face, clutching her field notebook in one hand. She confronts the world head on and damn anyone who dares get in her way. We spent several hours poking in the pools and sketching. I was absorbed in my own efforts