"Are you sure about this, dear? It's not too late for me to talk to Mr Fitzgerald about his firm; they frequently hire young women as clerks."

And they paid them a pittance, too. Cordelia shook her head. "I'm sure, mother. You don't need to worry. I know how to handle metaphysicians."

"But metaphysicians, they're all a little odd, aren't they?" Her mother sighed. "If only your father hadn't..."

If her father were still around, Cordelia would be looking at a future of charity teas, making nice with society, and soon enough a marriage to some eligible gentleman. Cordelia was not terribly saddened to have escaped that fate. "I know, mother. But needs must."

There were hundreds of girls looking for typing positions in London. But there were far fewer who had Cordelia's background in metaphysics, so the Commons seemed a good place to start. Metaphysicians, she figured, would appreciate not having to teach her their business in order for her to type it up.

"I could find you an apprenticeship with one of my ladies," her mother offered hopefully. "Some of them work with metaphysics, if that's what you're interested in." Her mother had the same slightly puzzled air she always had when talking about Cordelia's studies.

"If I don't have any luck with the Commons, I'll consider that," she told her. "Has the morning paper been delivered yet?"

Her mother retired from the room, not entirely mollified but resigned for the moment.

Once she found the Sunday paper, Cordelia perused the columns of advertisements for metaphysicians of all specialties. This one advertised expertise in window charms and boasted twenty years experience. Another claimed they were the foremost authority on curse removal, with twenty five years. Twenty, thirty – she even found one claiming fifty years of experience. Fifty years as a practicing metaphysician!

They were all perfectly serviceable advertisements that did nothing to help her situation. She wanted somebody just starting out in the business, she decided, who could be easily trained.

Cordelia circled a couple of the adverts that didn't specifically mention experience for further investigation. Buried in one corner of the paper, at the bottom of a column, she found a short notice:

> Ned Mathey has recently purchased the business of M. Fitzgibbons, beginning May 24. All current accounts will be honoured.

After a moment's consideration, she circled that one too. It was possible that the business had come with its own typist, but it was equally possible that it hadn't.

That accomplished, she went to tea with her university friend. She was shown into the solarium by an even-faced servant who greeted her by name and announced her as she entered.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Beatrice.

"Now you sound like my mother," laughed Cordelia. "I don't really know that there's another choice. The way Mother and I are living right now is simply not sustainable. Even marriage isn't viable. I'm not wealthy – or well-bred – enough to attract the attention of the rich, and anyone who isn't rich will just make the trouble worse."

"But typing," said Beatrice in dismay. Beatrice had consistently obtained good results in her studies despite having little interest in the subject matter, which, Cordelia privately thought, was a terrible waste. But she was cheerful and a sympathetic friend.

"It's respectable enough, and I'm decent at it," said Cordelia. She leaned forward a little. "But it's not the typing I want, you see, it's the metaphysics."

If she started with what interested her most, Cordelia thought, she would have less room for regret. And metaphysics interested her very much. If it were in her power she would have liked to consult on metaphysics herself, but – some things were not possible for a lady of her means and social status.

"Besides," said Cordelia. "I've spent most of my life being informed that I am impertinent and too forward. It's time I started making use of my talents."

Beatrice giggled. "Well, I wish you luck."

--

Cordelia took the names she'd identified to one of her old tutors and explained what she was looking for. A couple of them remembered Ned Mathey from Oxford, although their memories varied according to their personal prejudices and interests.

"You won't want Venables," said Professor Borthwell. "He's too impatient; doesn't trust modern technology at all. Chesterton, he's a possibility. I think he has a secretary, though. Now, Mathey – he doesn't know the business yet, but he's very good with delicate work. And I know he doesn't have a secretary, Fitzgibbons's refused to work with him. Too young, too new, you understand."

From Professor Thornton, she obtained the knowledge that Mathey was a keen sportsman, which was an interesting contrast although not exactly a mark against the man.

Through careful questioning of her (former) social circle, Cordelia managed to uncover several young women who had walked out for a time with Ned Mathey while he was at Oxford. They all came back with similar stories.

"He's perfectly amiable, very gentlemanly. But a little too reserved, if you know what I mean. He'll spend hours talking to you about the state of the world or sports or metaphysics and then hesitate when it comes to kissing you good night."

While perhaps not desirable in a boyfriend, this seemed perfectly in line with what Cordelia wanted in an employer.

It was harder to gauge what men thought of Mr Mathey, purely by virtue of the fact that most men would hardly be inclined to answer questions put forward by a strange woman. What information she did find, by carefully questioning the wives of men who had known Mathey at Oxford, indicated much the same thing – Ned Mathey was amiable, good-natured and a good sport. His metaphysical skill was untested in practice but very good in theory.

Now she just needed to convince him to hire her. Cordelia was confident in her skills, and could easily present the references to back them up. Would he be placing an advertisement for a secretary, she wondered, or would he try to make it through on his own until the paperwork became too much?

She thought the latter more likely for a young man freshly graduated from Oxford with no experience at running a business.

Cordelia unfolded her newspaper cutting again and began working on a plan.

--

On the morning Ned Mathey moved into the Commons, Cordelia took a deep breath and knocked on his door. The nameplate was so new it gleamed.

"Hello," she said. "My name is Cordelia Frost. You want to employ me as a clerk."