Author's Note: Story will be on hold for a little while, until some other stories are finished! This is my first attempt at a Regency Era romance story! I hope it will be good!
"Oh, dear!" Margret cried bending down from her seated position in her chair. "I lost my thimble . . again!" She stamped her foot on the ground. Then, glancing about to see that no one was coming, she got down on her hands and knees and began to scour the carpet for it. Margret had just poked her head under the highbacked couch, when a pair of boots came into sight on the other side of the couch. She wasn't sure if she should stay still and pray whoever it was did not see her, but it was highly unlikely.
"Lost something?" She heard an amused voice say. Mentally cursing, she extricated herself from the compromising position. Trying to regain some semblance of dignity, she struggled to her feet, while noting mentally that this intruder had not even had the courtesy to offer her his hand.
"Thank you for your inquiry sir, but I believe that before this conversation can continue, a proper introduction must occur."
"Well, madam, seeing as you are so focused on propriety," he said, with a sly glance at the couch, "my name is Frederic MacGregor of Glengyle, and I wish to speak with the mistress of the house."
Why, the insolent scoundrel. He had taken her for a servant! Curse it, Margret had always hated thimbles, useless things, they never stayed on the finger long enough to serve their purpose.
Margret drew herself up to her full height and glared at him.
"I am the mistress of this house, Mr. MacGregor."
Mr. MacGregor looked her over with a raised eyebrow.
"Of all the . ." Margret thought. She was glad that the couch was between them or she could've slapped him. "Miss Margret Thatcher is my name," she said, mustering all the pride she could into her voice.
"Ah, you must be Mr. Robert Thatcher's daughter, then," Mr. MacGregor said with a grin.
"Captain Tilney has told me much about you."
"You know Captain Tilney?"
"Oh, yes. His son married my sister. As I understand it, he is a good friend of your family's."
"Yes, he is."
Just then, their conversation was inturrupted by footsteps coming along the corridor towards the parlor, which was where they were.
In came Margret's father. A cheerfull old man with red cheeks, and feathery white hair, which there was not much of.
"Ah! There you are my dear! I see you have met Mr. MacGregor."
"Yes," she said, barely hiding her disdain, "I have." Margret had decided that she did not like him. He was too confident, too proud. For all his airs he must have thought himself the member of the highest echelon of the ton.
Her father, oblivious to tension, as usual, continued, "Mr. MacGregor, I would have liked to introduce you to my lovely daughter, but I see you have already met. Margret, this man is a scholar who wishes to study with your decrepit old father, heaven knows why. After all, Mr. MacGregor is one of the most promising researchers into medieval history that I have encountered in a long time. Quite the big man at Edinbourgh, eh, McGregor?"
Ah, that explained it. This was the illustrious Scotsman her father had been raving about at dinner for the past few nights. Margret's father was a professor at Oxford, and all he tended to talk about was his pupils, his work, his lovely departed wife, his work, the importance of education, and his work.
For Mr. Thatcher, scholarship was a passion, and Margret had inherited it, in abundance. While most proper young ladies had learned to play the piano forte, she had been studying ancient Rome.
Margret now smiled, for she knew how to handle this type, as she had encountered them often in her pursuit of knowledge that "any decent young lady" would not be privy to. Intellectual elitists may be just as puffed up as the nobles, but she knew far better how to deflate them.
"Well, then," her father said after a pause, "capital, capital!" Another pause reigned. "Ah, daughter, Mr. MacGregor and I are going out to the Baker Street Library to look up a few things."
"Oh, well enjoy yourself father," then Margret turned to the young man, "Mr. MacGregor, it was a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Thatcher," he replied taking her hand and kissing it. When he did Margret felt something being pressed into her palm. When Mr. MacGregor let go, her hand closed over it. After the two men left the room she opened her palm to behold her thimble.
So, what do you think? SEND A REVIEW! Hurrah!