“And who would be wanting her?” the woman asked, her voice neither friendly nor unwelcoming.
My mother, just behind me, answered the query. “Mrs. Crawford and her daughter, Sister Crawford. We knew her brother and her parents. Since we were in Cornwall while my daughter is on leave from her duties in France, we felt we ought to pay our respects.”
The woman regarded us for a moment, then said, “I’ll see if she wishes to receive you.”
I thought at first the woman was being rude. But she walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn where I could just see a staircase leading upward and to one side, a tiny dining room down two steps. A potted palm stood next to the entrance to the dining room, and a table with fresh flowers in a green vase added a spot of color by the side of the stairs. Nice touches, but even these couldn’t eliminate the depressing air of the inn.
The woman returned shortly. “She’s in room seven. Just knock at the door.”
We thanked her and walked farther into Reception before taking ourselves up the stairs to the first floor. Number seven was at the end of the passage, and we knocked lightly, as we’d been told. My mother gave me a conspiratorial look, then faced the door as it opened.
Sabrina Morton had always been the prettier of the two Carson sisters, but in the late evening light she appeared to be the elder of the two rather than the younger.
“Come in,” she said, inviting us into a room looking upriver and set out as a sitting room. A door into a second room was open just a little, and inside we could see a bed and a crib. “I can’t think why you should wish to call on me. Did Valerie send you? Or was it Julia, having a sudden change of heart?”
“Neither, as it happens,” my mother said. “You weren’t at the memorial service for your brother, and we were sorry to have missed that opportunity to offer our condolences. You were fond of Vincent, as I remember.”
“Once upon a time,” she said.
“Yes,” my mother replied, as if Sabrina had agreed with her, then turned to me. “I think you remember Elizabeth? She’s a nursing sister, Vincent may have mentioned it. She’s currently on leave from France, and as we had a few days before she goes back, we decided to visit Cornwall again. I remember coming to Fowey as a small child. It’s hardly changed at all, has it?”
Sabrina greeted me coolly, then offered us chairs. “I can’t offer you tea as well. I’m afraid the restaurant has closed.”
“Thank you, but we dined at our hotel,” I answered, resigning myself to a difficult conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Sabrina.”
“Is it? I don’t recall a visit from you after my marriage.”
“You hadn’t invited us to the wedding,” my mother reminded her with a smile. “We thought perhaps you’d excluded us when you excluded your brother.”
“He was a hypocrite. Vincent. Brother or not. He could have made our lives a little easier after our father died by offering me my inheritance. He kept it instead, you know. My sister was given our mother’s inheritance as well-as the elder daughter, that was fair enough. I didn’t quarrel with it. But it was cruel to deny me anything. I can’t forgive him for that, and I couldn’t in good conscience go to his service when I felt as I do.”
“He knew what his father thought about your marriage. Perhaps he found it difficult to go against his express wishes.”
“He chose to do that. He didn’t like Will any better than our father did. And what had Will ever done to my brother? Or even my father, for that matter? He married me because he loved me, and I loved him. My father married for love. Vincent as well. Where’s the difference?”
The bitterness in her voice touched me. There was no polite way to point out that her choice of husband, however much she loved him, had not been quite the same as Vincent’s marriage to Julia. Or Valerie’s to her 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.”