Stella Bain Read Online Free PDF Page B

Still others sit in wheelchairs, two trousered stumps for legs. Have they come as she has to this building, not knowing why?
    After a few minutes, she understands that they are beggars, hardly any of them making a sound. Those in uniform stand or sit with dignity. Some have mothers or sons by their sides. Stella watches as passersby tuck coins into their hands and pockets, a way of saying, “I am sorry; my son came home intact.” Or “With these coins, I bargain; my child is still in France.” Do fathers give coins for daughters? A thousand daughters are losing their souls and sometimes their lives abroad. Does anyone think of them? Has she lost her soul? Is that what is missing, what has been taken from her? Is that why she cannot remember?
    The noise of the city grates on her nerves. Motorcars and omnibuses, cries for help, orders given, the click of gates. She approaches a guard, and by the way he watches her, she knows that her few steps are too many in his direction. He holds up his hand in the halt position.
    “Is it possible to go inside?” she asks.
    “Do you have a letter?”
    “A letter?”
    “Of introduction.”
    She has no letter of introduction. She does not even have a name. For what reason might a person want to enter the Admiralty? She feels certain that if she could get inside, a name would occur to her, a face would appear.
    “What is your business here?” he asks.
    She cannot answer his question. What is her business? A chill surrounds them, the air wet and cold.
    “I’m sorry,” she says and leaves the man, aware that a dozen pairs of eyes are upon her. Even the crippled know not to approach the guard.
    Fog from the river rolls in as men wearing greatcoats emerge from the building and put their collars up. The light dims, an oily film settling over Stella’s eyes. The wounded leave with their takings—enough to live on for another day? Gates open to let the motorcars out while some men walk. “Sister,” someone calls to her.
    His head is shrouded in a woolen scarf; perhaps the man comes out only in the fog. She can see one eye, a lipless mouth, two small orifices for a nose. Reaching into her pocket, she studies the coins in her palm and tucks several of them into the hand of the faceless man. Always look a patient in the eye.
    When the man slips away, Stella strains to see if the uniformed officers are still walking or getting into their motorcars. But either they have gone or they are now swallowed up by the mist.
    Reluctantly, Stella turns from the Admiralty into a brown opaque fog. Even in France, the mist was not this bad. She can hear a horse in the street but cannot see it. She takes out the map the newsboy drew; she will have to follow it in reverse. The question is no longer whether she will return to the Bridges in Bryanston Square, but whether she can find them.

O n a bright November afternoon, several days after Stella’s visit to the Admiralty, she follows Streeter up the stairs to the top of the house, a glass dome the size of a large room. Stella watches as a shaft of light travels along the rooftops of London, receding as if it were bowing.
    “Good afternoon,” Dr. Bridge says. He stands just in front of a faded yellow divan that describes a semicircle along the round room. “When my mother was alive,” he says, gesturing to the potted fruit trees that make up the other semicircle, “these produced a bounty of blossoms and some fruit—a basket of oranges, if we were lucky. Now the trees remain dormant most of the year, though we do get a bit of foliage from time to time. We have always called this the orangery.”
    For a moment, Stella feels as though she has reached the roof of heaven. She is not sure she has ever been this high.
    “The orangery was built in the last century and can’t be seen from the street below us. Only a chimney sweep could spy on us. It’s a magical place,” Dr. Bridge says. “I’ve been much in love with it since I was a child.”
    He