June 12th, 2025
Tonight I find myself scribbling in this notebook, trying to make sense of the tangled web that has become my love life. My name is Catherine Whitmore, the only daughter of Edward and Margaret Whitmore, modest but respectable farmers from the little village of Ashford in Kent. From the time I was a child, I was talked about as the prettiest girl for miles aroundround-cheeked, dark hair coiled into a thick braid, bright green eyes that seemed to tilt ever so slightly, and a naturally full set of lips that many a suitor admired.
All my life I have been a hard worker: rising before the rooster, tending the fields, milking the cows, and keeping the garden alive. Even now, at thirty, the sun still tugs at my skin and the weight of the chores never seems to dull my spirit. The village folk have always known me as the girl who never let a bit of hardship dim her shine.
When I was a teenager, boys from neighboring hamlets would line up at the crossroads hoping for a glimpse of me. My parents, welloff enough to send me to the teachers college in Canterbury, never rushed me into marriage. Each summer I would return to the Whitmore farm for holidays, pretending to flirt with a local lad while my mind stayed elsewhere.
One bright afternoon I was strolling down the lane, head held high, when a lanky youth named Thomas Whitby, who seemed to have just stepped out of the village smithy, tried to catch my eye. He brushed the soot from his nose, gave a cheeky grin, and waggled a finger as if nudging me into a dance. Catherine, come to the village hall tonight, therell be a reel and Ill see you home safely, he shouted, his voice full of boastful confidence.
I shook my head and walked past him, later recounting the encounter to Mother over tea. Thomas and his lot are always trying to win me over, I said, sighing. Yesterday, a clever chap from the neighboring parish arrived in his fathers old Ford, bragging about his friendship with the parish council. He promised me the world if Id give him a chance.
Mother, ever pragmatic, sipped her tea and said, Girl, youll soon have to choose. When you finish your training, a husband will be waitingwhether you like him or not.
I replied, All they are, is boorish braggarts, puffed up like peacocks. They smile with a grin that says theyll make me tumble, but I see only empty chatter.
Among the many admirers, one stood outnot for his looks, but for his quiet observation. Samuel Hart, a shy lad a few years older than me, worked behind the farms modest gate. He never spoke to me directly; instead, he watched as I passed, sighing softly. He never imagined love could be his; he thought himself as plain as a sack of potatoes.
One spring morning, as blossoms fluttered and birds sang, Samuels world was turned upside down. He saw me strolling through the lane, radiant as sunrise, and something inside him cracked like a twig. Determined, he went to my mother to ask for advice, fearing rejection.
Mother looked at him with a mixture of amusement and concern. Samuel, youre a good ladkind, honestbut youre no Prince Charming. Even if you were the handsomest man in town, I doubt Catherine would set her sights on a poor farmers son. Look at the other suitorswealthy, tall, handsome. Thats what the village expects.
Samuel, blushing, answered, I know my own worth. If you were a girl, which sort of man would you choose?
She chuckled, Were not asking for charity, dear. If I could choose, Id pick a man who gives a gift from the heartsomething not bought for three cows worth of silver at the market, but something that touches the soul.
Samuel stared, puzzled. What sort of gift, then?
She waved a hand, Thats a secret, love. Now, wheres my kettle? Im talking to you and the cows are already lowing.
Later, while rummaging through the pantry, Samuel remembered a whispered conversation his mother had once had with my grandmothera tale of a special bar of soap, imported from London, wrapped in a blue paper, said to be as soft as a cloud and scented like the fields after rain. He fetched it, cradling the halfwrapped bundle as if it were a treasure.
He presented it to Mother, who lifted it to her nose, inhaling a fragrance she described as delicately fresh, like spring lilies after a drizzle. She tucked the soap in an old newspaper, placing it on the highest shelf as if it were a priceless heirloom.
The worlds markets cant sell you such a thing, she muttered, and if you use it, youll feel younger, fairerjust as the old wives say. She smiled at Samuel and said, This might be a fitting present for Catherine.
Samuels heart leapt. He imagined Catherines face when she saw the modest bar of soap, how it might bring a smile that no handsome suitor could force.
Word spread through Ashford that I had chosen Samuelplain, slight, freckled, with a face that reminded some of a spotted calf. The villagers were stunned. How could a beauty such as I settle for a man so unassuming? He was shorter than me, thin, with a pale complexion and a smattering of freckles that made him look like a speckled stone. He was also poor; his father had died early, and his mother raised three boys on her own.
People gossiped, then soon forgot, even envied the simple happiness we seemed to share.
Now, years later, when I recount the story to my own children, I tell them how I once thought, What does a girl like me truly need? I recall the moment Samuel walked up, carrying that bar of Household soap, his eyes sparkling with a modest pride. He handed it to me as if presenting a crown of emeralds.
I thought it was a joke, I said then, but seeing the joy in his eyes, I realized hed given me something pricelesshis genuine heart. He whispered, Take this, Catherine, from my soul. It will keep your beauty safe for all your days, and if you wish, Ill bring you more.
I held the soap, its plain green label stamped with Household, and felt an odd mixture of amusement and affection. All those boastful suitors had never thought to give a gift that truly mattered. In that moment, I saw Samuels naturekind, witty, full of gentle humourand understood that life with him would never be dull.
Our marriage, though modest, has been a lifetime of partnership. Samuel never shirks a chore; he tends the children while I work the garden, never hesitates to help with the washing or the repair of the roof. We have lived in harmony, and the village still marvels at how I have kept my glow all these years.
Now, as I close this entry, I smile at how a simple bar of soap, bought for a few pounds, became the symbol of a love that was sincere, unpretentious, and truly from the heart. Perhaps that is the lesson: sometimes the most valuable gifts are those that cant be bought in any shop.
