banker. They had come from the same circle, while William Morton had definitely not.
“I never met Will,” I said. “Do you have a photograph of him? I should like to see it.”
“We could never afford to have a family likeness taken,” she told me bluntly. “Even when he was leaving for France.”
“A pity. For your sake and your son’s.”
My mother said gently, “We came, Sabrina, because we remembered you as a child. What your father and your brother decided to do is not our fault.”
I thought then that Sabrina was going to cry. But she lifted her head and said, “You’ll go home and tell Valerie what I’ve come down to. Living with Will’s cousin in this inn that struggles to keep itself afloat financially. On a private soldier’s pay, I couldn’t contribute much to my keep, but I do what I can to help Constance.” She put out her hands, red and rough from a servant’s work. “Tell them about these too.”
“I have no intention of telling Julia or Valerie anything,” my mother retorted. “If they wish to know where or how you live, then let them come and see for themselves.”
There was a whimper from the bedroom. Sabrina said, “My son. I’ve just put him to bed. He’s begun to crawl, and I live in dread that he’ll fall into the river when I’m not looking. But I have nowhere else to go.”
It was self-pity, but as the lower doors to the inn must lead directly to that tiny docking area where the usual house would have a porch, such a tragedy could happen.
“Nowhere else? But what of Will’s family?” my mother asked.
“Will’s father and brothers live in the Welsh Marches, near Hay-on-Wye. They offered me a home, but I couldn’t accept. They were no happier than my own family when I married Will. If I must live on charity, I prefer to be here.”
The whimper settled into a sleepy grumble, and then there was silence.
Thinking to change the subject, I said, “How long have you lived here in Fowey?”
“Since just after Boxing Day. Where we lived in Woodstock, the owner of the cottage refused to give us any more credit. She kept most of our belongings as well. Except for the cradle. I wouldn’t let her take that. It was Will’s when he was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.”
“You couldn’t have known.” She took a deep breath. “My father would tell you that I have made my bed and should lie on it without complaint. It would be easier if I didn’t have a child. I could find work, with so many men gone to fight the Kaiser. I could support myself. But I don’t want to leave him. He’s all I have now, and I would rather accept charity than put him in the care of strangers. Or leave him with Constance, because she’s too busy keeping the inn from going under to watch him.”
I repeated, unwilling to believe my ears, “All you have?”
“An actor is paid to act, not to fight the Germans.” She turned to look out the window. The port wasn’t visible from here. It was upriver, where the ships that once carried clay and other goods docked. “Do you know, I’d been so afraid Will might contract influenza. I wasn’t prepared, after all this time, for the telegram reporting he’d been killed. It seemed so terribly unfair, somehow. As if God had spared him the sickness because he was destined to die in battle.” The unshed tears fell now, and she let them fall.
My mother took out a handkerchief and handed it to Sabrina. She murmured her gratitude as she took it.
“You’re a widow?” I asked. “But-”
“He died two weeks before Vincent did. I’ll always wonder if my brother killed my husband. They say this sometimes happens, that scores are settled on the battlefield. If this is true, then God avenged Will, and someone shot Vincent.”
She broke down then, and there was no comfort we could offer. I was still shocked by what she’d told us. After a moment she said, “Please go. Please.”
We took our leave, and my mother embraced Sabrina. She resisted at first, and then flung her arms around her.
We were back in the passage when I thought of something. It didn’t really matter now. But still, I felt I should ask, if only to settle a point.
I stepped back into the room. “Sabrina. I’d like to know. What color were your husband’s eyes?”
Her voice was almost inaudible. “Blue. Palest blue, like ice. Except when he smiled for me. Why? What does it matter?”
“I was hoping perhaps your son had inherited them. To keep Will’s memory alive.”
She smiled through her tears. “He has.”
I thanked her and rejoined my mother.
We reached the stairs and went down them. Constance was no longer there in Reception.
My mother said, “See if you can find an envelope or something in the desk over there, Bess, dear. I’d like to leave a little gift for the child.”
I did, searching through the stationery before finding a fresh one. But as I handed it to my mother, something fell on the floor, and I retrieved it to replace it amongst the other papers in an untidy stack.
And then I realized that the envelope on top was postmarked from France, and I opened it, telling myself that it was not snooping. But it was.
It was the letter from William Morton’s commanding officer, telling Morton’s widow how her husband had died-gallantly and without pain at the end, his mind on his wife and child, not his fate. That he had fought well for King and Country and inspired his fellow soldiers with his courage.
A standard letter, meant to make the grieving family feel that their sacrifice was not in vain, that their son or husband or brother had died as a man should, with courage and dignity.
No mention of the reality of dying in a filthy trench or alone somewhere in No Man’s Land, the rotting corpse brought in during the next collection of the dead and wounded. No mention of his fellow soldiers stoically watching as he took his last breaths or the orderlies racing to find and stanch the bleeding, the nursing sister shaking her head, accepting that he had died on the way to the aid station. None of the panic, the screams, the blood, the despair. Only comfort.
I looked at the signature, expecting to see Colonel Prescott’s name there. But a Colonel wouldn’t write a letter for a dying soldier. His Captain would, and this was duly signed by a Captain Forester, who may have been kinder because he knew Morton by sight and could even speak with some familiarity about how he had served.
I set the letter back in its envelope and put it in among the papers, then realized that the other sheets I held in my hands were copies of correspondence to a dozen or more charitable organizations for widows and orphans, begging for assistance. Sitting here at Reception, Sabrina had filled the empty hours writing these, swallowing her pride for her son’s sake. I could understand now how deep her feelings went against her brother for denying her what she felt was hers by right.
Her family had failed her, and it appeared that these organizations, overwhelmed by similar requests, were finding it hard to spread their funds thin enough to help everyone.
Sabrina had come a long way from the happy child racing through the orchard with her sister at her heels, the first week after we’d come home from India. Long curls flying out of their ribbons, no inkling of the future in store.
I put the papers back together as carefully as I could so that Sabrina wouldn’t have the added shame of realizing that we had seen them. Better by far to accept my mother’s gift for the child as it was meant, rather than wonder if it had been given out of pity rather than love.
The light still danced in the current as the river made its way to the sea, but the color had changed to gold as the sun cast long rays across the estuary. Upriver the shadows were already deep where the trees crowded down to the banks and shut off our view of the port. We stood there for a moment, looking down at the fortifications at the river’s mouth. They too were gold flecked, and I thought how lovely this setting was. And how much sorrow it encompassed.
My mother said, as we started back the way we’d come, “Well.”
I sighed. “It wasn’t Will Morton, was it? That letter from Captain Forester looked all too official, and there was the telegram as well.”
“No. It couldn’t have been,” she agreed.
“How awfully sad. Julia never mentioned that Sabrina’s husband had been killed. Nor did Valerie.”
“I expect she hasn’t told them.”
