I have often thought back on the days when Mabel Whitby was the pride of our little Yorkshire village. Even though she toiled from sunrise to sunsether hands forever in the mud, her back bent under the weight of a large family, a herd of cattle and a garden that seemed to grow faster than the seasonsher face never lost its fresh glow, even in the winter of her years. After decades of country living she never let her stature slip.
In her youth Mabel was famed beyond the neighbouring hamlets for a beauty that was both modest and striking: a round, wholesome figure, a thick braid of dark curls, bright green eyes that were ever a little slanted, and full, naturally pink lips. Suitors came from all directions; even lads from the next valley tried to win her favour. Her parents, James and Margaret Whitby, were reasonably welloff and did not hurry their only daughter into marriage. Instead they sent her to Leeds to train as a schoolmistress. Each summer she returned to the Whitby farm, playing the part of a girl still looking for a local match.
One fine morning she walked down the lane in her Sunday best, when a young man, as if by chance, appeared on the same road. He had just managed to pull on trousers without a hole and brushed soot from his nose. He flashed a bold grin, winked, and tried to block her path.
Miss Whitby, why not come to the village hall tonight? Therell be a dance, and Ill see you home afterwards. Youll be pleased, he called.
Mabel shook her head, sidestepped the wouldbe suitor, and later, at the kitchen table, discussed the days encounter with her mother.
Today the elder son of the Selby family stuck himself onto me againwhat a fool, Margaret sighed. Yesterday a clever lad from the next parish rolled up in his fathers Ford, bragging that he was friends with the parish council and would soon be working under him.
Mum, isnt there anyone who truly catches my eye? When I finish my studies Ill have to choose, Mabel replied, a note of frustration in her voice. All these boys are as empty as a hollowed-out barrel, swaggering about as if they were knights. It makes me sick.
Albert Hargreaves, a shy farmhand a little older than Mabel, had watched her from the edge of the Whitby yard for many seasons. He never dared to speak of love, but one spring morning, as birds sang and blossoms opened, he saw Mabel strolling past, radiant as sunrise, and something inside him cracked like an old hinge.
He resolved to win her favour at any cost. He went to Margaret and asked how to avoid being laughed at or sent away on the next coach. Margaret looked at her son, shook her head, and said, Look in the mirror, Albert, and feel the weight in your pocket. Youre a good lad, kindhearted, but youre not a prince from a storybook. Even if you were striking, she wouldnt set her eye on a pauper. Youve seen the kind of suitors that crowd around her.
I know my own worth, Albert replied. But tell me, if you were a young, pretty girl, what sort of lad would you pick?
You never asked me, did you? I married the man my father chose. We lived well, Gods blessing on us. If I had a say, perhaps Id be the daughter of the village headman Id choose a gift that touched my heart, not something that cost three cows at the market, but something sweet for the spirit, something you cant buy in any shop.
What do you mean, Mother? Albert asked, his brow furrowing.
Ah, youll see soon enough, Margaret chuckled, waving a hand toward the stable. Your aunt brought home a piece of extraordinary soap from the cityonly the gentry use such stuff. Look how it glistens, how it smells! This is no ordinary washing liquid. Its as white as fresh snow after a frosty night, and it makes the linens glow. Take a slice; its a piece of my heart. Try it in the bath.
She unfolded a gray bar of soap, wrapped it in an old newspaper, and placed it on the highest shelf as if it were a treasure. She whispered that she would try it on the next village washday, hoping it would keep the house fresh and the mice at bay.
Wouldnt you give that up for a few shillings at the market? Albert muttered, watching his mother. He realised then that this humble bar of soap was the kind of gift that could delight a soul and a heartsomething no city shop could offer, and, in his mind, the perfect present for Mabel.
He swore he would find a way to procure such a bar for her, to win her heart with something truly from the heart.
Word of Mabels choice spread through the village, and many were baffled that a lady of such beauty would accept Albert, a modest, thin lad with a freckled face that looked as if a cow had sneezed upon it. He was considerably shorter than her, skinny, and his looks were plain. He was also poor; his father had died early and his mother struggled to raise three boys alone.
Soon the gossip faded, replaced by a gentle envy of the happy couple. Their marriage became a legend told at every hearth, even as the Whitbys grew old.
I remember the day Albert walked up to me, all solemn as if he bore a banner on Red Square, Mabel recalled, a smile tugging at her lips. He never gave me a glance before, and among all those courting lads he seemed invisible. Yet he came forward, steady as a flagbearer, and handed me a simple piece of household soap, as if it were a crown studded with emeralds.
It felt like a joke at first, she said, but the happiness shining in Alberts eyes was no jest. He offered me the most precious thing he owned from his home. I was speechless.
Here, Mabel, a gift from my heart, Albert said, presenting the bar. May it keep your beauty safe until the end of your days. If you wish, Ill fetch another box for you.
Mabel turned the soap over in her hands, the word Household stamped on it. She laughed quietly, not wanting to offend him, but then reflected: among all the suitors who chased her, none had ever thought to give her something truly from the heart. All bragged and flaunted, but none considered what she truly wanted.
She saw in Albert a gentle, lively spirit, quickwitted and kind. She decided that life with him would never be dull; he would care for her, bring laughter, and keep her company.
She did not regret her choice.
In the years that followed, husband and wife lived contentedly. Albert never shirked his duties; though he never lounged on a soft mattressthere were no such luxuries in the countrysidehe was always ready to help, to sit with the children while Mabel tended to the chores, never shying from tasks that other men left to their wives. They grew old together in harmony.
Villagers sometimes marveled at how Mabel kept her looks for so long, still catching the eyes of passing lads. Those who remembered the tale would smile and say, She washes with household soaptheres the secret!
