“Kat, my love,” I say brightly. “Would you be a dear and finish up watering the flowers on the patio?”

The little girl leaves the room without a word.

“I see not much has changed for the child,” Mrs. Lewis says sadly.

“Actually, I see progress. ’Tis just a little bit at a time, but still progress. I think ’tis only a matter of time before she recovers from all that has befallen her.”

“Yes, well. I hope you are right.” She glances up at the mantel and sees my wedding photograph with Martin, the one I had to convince Martin to purchase. Then she looks back at me. “And you? Are you faring well with Mr. Hocking?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

Another stretch of silence hovers between us. Mrs. Lewis seems unsure how to proceed.

“Is there something you want to ask me, Mrs. Lewis?” I say.

The woman visibly relaxes. Then she leans forward, as though the house has ears and might repeat back to Martin what she is about to say.

“Before you came I was so worried about that child and her father,” Mrs. Lewis says softly. “Did you know he would leave her alone all day in their rooms, sometimes overnight?”

I stare back at the woman. Surely Mrs. Lewis is mistaken.

“Did you hear me? He would leave her alone all day and even overnight! I told him that was not safe and that I would look after her if he needed to be away. She’s just a little girl!”

“Are you . . . quite sure?” I finally ask. “Are you sure he didn’t take her with him?”

“She came downstairs for meals! And then she’d go back up again!”

I have no words in response. Mothers would know not to leave a five-year-old child alone all day long or, God forbid, overnight. Wouldn’t a father also know?

When I say nothing, Mrs. Lewis goes on. “He doesn’t hug or kiss her. He doesn’t worry about her or wonder why she’s not talking. It’s not right.”

I feel my mouth drop open as I realize I have also noticed this about Martin, that he doesn’t hug or kiss Kat. He doesn’t touch her at all. I’d decided it is because he is a man wrapped up in his grief, and maybe he is, but he is also a father. Even a grieving man remembers his child, doesn’t he?

“It makes me wonder if she is his true child,” Mrs. Lewis says. “I know I shouldn’t wonder such a thing but I do, and you’ve only been knowing Mr. Hocking for such a short while. I just . . .” Her voice falls away. “The child whispered to me once that it was her fault her mother was dead. She said she made her mother sick. And of course I asked her why she should say such a thing. She wouldn’t answer me. She never said another thing to me after that. Not one thing. I told Mr. Hocking she said that to me and he behaved as though he didn’t care.”