“My dear Miss Bennett,” Mrs. Fairfax tutted, examining the modest collection of brushes laid out on the vanity. “One can hardly expect to maintain proper society appearances with such… ordinary implements.”
Catherine Bennett bristled at the barely concealed disdain in her visitor’s voice but maintained her composure with practiced grace. “I find them perfectly adequate for their purpose, Mrs. Fairfax. After all, vanity is hardly a virtue to be cultivated.”
“But surely you must see how it reflects upon your prospects? Why, young Mr. Thornton was just remarking the other day…”
“I prefer not to concern myself with Mr. Thornton’s remarks on my personal effects,” Catherine interrupted, perhaps more sharply than strictly proper. The brushes in question had belonged to her late mother, and their worn wooden handles held more value to her than all the silver-backed vanities in London.
Later that evening, as Catherine sat before her mirror preparing for bed, she noticed something peculiar. The largest brush, the one she used daily for her long dark hair, seemed to move ever so slightly of its own accord. She blinked, attributing the observation to fatigue.
“Foolish fancy,” she murmured, reaching for it.
“Not so foolish, my dear,” came a whispered response that made her blood run cold. The voice was achingly familiar - her mother’s.
Catherine’s hand froze mid-air. “Mama?”
“These brushes you defend so steadfastly? They were never ordinary, sweet girl. Each stroke reveals the true nature of those around you - if you only pay attention.”
The next morning at breakfast, Catherine couldn’t help but observe her father’s guest, the supposedly wealthy Mr. Thornton, with new eyes as she ran her mother’s brush through her hair. In the mirror’s reflection, his fine coat seemed to shimmer and fade, revealing threadbare patches underneath.
“I say, Miss Bennett,” he proclaimed pompously, “I’ve just acquired a rather substantial estate in Derbyshire…”
Catherine watched, fascinated, as each boast he uttered appeared as wisps of smoke, dissolving into nothingness. The brush had revealed his true nature - a fortune hunter with empty pockets and emptier promises.
Over the following weeks, Catherine’s old brushes became her most trusted advisors. A sweep through her locks would reveal hidden sneers behind painted smiles, evil intentions masked by flattery, and occasionally, to her relief, genuine kindness beneath reserved exteriors.
“Really, Catherine,” her younger sister Jane complained one afternoon, “you’ve become positively obsessed with those old things. And you’ve turned down three perfectly good suitors!”
Catherine smiled mysteriously. “Perhaps I simply see things others don’t, dear sister.”
“Well, I think it’s high time you replaced them. Look, I’ve brought you this lovely new set from-”
As Jane reached for the brushes, Catherine’s hand shot out to stop her, but it was too late. The moment Jane’s fingers touched the wooden handle…
[End]