Those words were so dense with implications, she was stunned. But she couldn’t deal with that now; she was too frightened, too preoccupied with what had ceased to be mere discomfort.
“Well, I don’t like it!” she spat out. “Get on with it!”
He let her know through the speculum that she was not in a position for rebellion. Eyes squeezed shut, she thought of Luke waiting in the next room, thought of screaming loud enough to bring him in here. He wouldn’t believe the Doctor was purposely humiliating her, hurting her, but his presence might stop the humiliation and hurt.
She fought against her own reflexes, felt small shifts of pressure in the speculum, heard the Doctor occasionally change position.
No. She wouldn’t call Luke. That would simply delay this game. She could only lie here and endure until the Doctor determined the truth.
But would he admit it if she were pregnant?
He’d have to. The truth would be evident to everyone at the Ark in a few months. Unless he exiled her. And if she weren’t pregnant?
She’d never have another chance at it.
She felt, through the instrument impaling her, a stiffening, heard the Doctor muttering to himself as the heat of the lamp shifted. Then abruptly he withdrew the speculum, threw it clattering into the basin. She lay gasping for air, only now aware that she’d been holding her breath.
“The Lord be praised!”
Mary found herself an incredulous witness to a metamorphosis, a transformation from anger and skepticism to joy verging on exaltation, a restoration of the Doctor as the revered patriarch, radiating benign strength. He offered his hands and pulled her up into a sitting position.
“Sister, forgive me for doubting you. Yes, you are pregnant. The Lord be praised, you are with child!”
Mary pressed her hands to her mouth to stop a cry of relief, of triumph for the life within her. She was pregnant, and that revelation put everything in perspective.
That the Doctor was capable of sadism didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the transcendent truth of this child’s existence. This child would outlive the Doctor, this child would prevail over his memory, prevail over the destruction of a civilization and the potential demise of humankind—this child and its children and its children’s children.
She began weeping and found in the tears a resolution. The Doctor was courteously solicitous. She should get dressed. She mustn’t get chilled. He’d go tell Luke about the baby. Was that all right? Or would she rather tell him herself?
No, she didn’t care who told him. The Doctor left the room, and Mary pulled her clothes on, still shivering, still crying. When she got dressed, she stumbled to the door, and Luke was there to hold her, to laugh and cry with her. Then the three of them knelt, and the Doctor prayed for the child, whom the Almighty in His wisdom had sent to join the righteous and to await the Lord’s coming and the sure ascent into His golden realm.
The Doctor didn’t object, nor even seem to notice, that Mary took Rachel’s sketchbook with her when she and Luke departed.
When at length Mary lay in their bed warm in Luke’s arms, the euphoria faded. She stared into the darkness, listening for the sound of the sea, hearing nothing but a ringing silence. The rain had stopped.
“Luke…”
He stirred, kissed her forehead. “Yes, Mary?”
“Will the Doctor forgive what I said tonight? I mean, before… before he found out I’m pregnant.”
Luke laughed sleepily. “Of course, he will. He told me when women are pregnant… well, it’s the hormones, he said. Sometimes pregnant women act a little strange.”
She found herself bristling at that, yet relieved. And she remembered the Doctor’s abrupt transformation, his patent joy. Hormones. Yes, that could explain her reaction to his examination. She’d probably imagined his antagonism, the purposeful infliction of pain and humiliation.
Some women like this.
Had she imagined that?
It didn’t matter.
But one thing she couldn’t dismiss so easily.
“Luke, what about Rachel?”
He propped himself up on one elbow. “I don’t know why he said such hard things about Rachel. He just didn’t understand. But he will. Let me talk to him.”
She sighed, vaguely aware of Luke’s hand moving under the covers, sliding up her thigh, pushing her nightgown with it.
“Luke, did you tell him about Rachel’s books—about the vault?”
“No. I… well, I just never got around to that.”
It simply wasn’t important to him. Mary shook her head, wondering if she should leave it at that. No. She had to be sure.
“I want you to promise me something.”
He leaned down to kiss her ear. “Anything you ask, little mother.”
“I want you to swear to me by everything you hold sacred that you will never tell anyone about the books and the vault—not even the Doctor.” Above all, not the Doctor.
“But… why not, Mary?”
“Please, just do this for me. Please, Luke.”
“If you ask it, I’ll do it. I swear by the holy blood of Jesus, who died for my sins, I will never tell anybody about Rachel’s books or about the vault. I swear it, Mary, on the life of our child.”
She didn’t doubt that he would keep his word. However friable the clay of her keystone, he wouldn’t knowingly break a promise to her.
And the Doctor wouldn’t live forever. Luke would take his place one day. And this child…
“Oh, Mary…” His arms encompassed her, making her feel small and safe. He kissed her, mouth open to hers, finally whispered, “This child is blessed, Mary. This child was conceived in love, as it should be. The Lord can only smile on such a child.”
She laughed, overwhelmed by sudden exuberance, imagining—feeling—the child within her. She stretched herself against Luke’s body, and he whispered, “Mary, can we… I mean, with the baby…”
“Yes, we can.” She reached down the taut length of his belly, feeling the coppery hair soft under her hand, heard his groaning sigh. We can. Tonight we must.
He was gentle and thoughtful, even playful, and she reveled in it, found delay sweet, teased herself and him through long slow minutes to delicious impatience, to the shivering edge of the euphoria she sought, until at last she lay panting and ready under him. Yet at the invasion of steel-rigid flesh, she recoiled in panic.
He didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to think about the explanation. She wanted him, wanted the euphoria again. She heard his husky whisper in her ear. “Mary… what’s wrong? Did I—”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She buried her face in the curve of his neck against the warm mat of his beard. “Don’t stop, Luke… don’t….”
Nothing’s wrong. Nothing.
Chapter 23
I am persuaded that diverse of you, who lead the people, have labored to build yourselves in these things; wherein you have censured others and established yourselves “upon the Word of God.” Is it therefore infallibly agreeable to the Word of God, all that you say? I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.
