Free Follow My Lead by Kate Noble

will that his estate would go to his daughter—and his estate consisted of those paintings, a few trinkets, and little else. It wasn’t an extensive collection—and mostly by minor painters. But there was a Clara Peeters, a Frans Hals, a Jean Fouquet, and several others from the Dutch Golden Age and Northern Renaissance. And worth enough money that, if sold, Winnifred could live off it quite comfortably for the rest of her days . . . but that part she did not mention to George.
    George would then argue that her father acquired those paintings under the guise of adding them to the University’s impressive collections and thus they belonged to the school.
    Winn would counterattack, saying that if that were the case, why had no one kicked up a fuss about the few of his collection that were to willed to entities outside the school (such as the Adam and Eve to the Historical Society)?
    George would throw up his hands and say that Winnifred understood nothing of academic politics.
    Winnifred would then reply that she understood enough of academic politics to know George was only supporting the school’s claims (and indeed, likely instigating them) to further his own ambitions to fill her father’s vacant seat and be made a full professor—jumping over several more well-known and well-published dons. His appointment would be secured if he managed to have Alexander Crane’s personal collection added to the school’s. Leaving Winnifred penniless.
    And then George would argue that her father never intended that she not be taken care of.
    “Besides, your father knew you would be taken care of,” George said, heartfelt.
    It seemed they were skipping directly to the end of the argument this time. Intelligent of him, she had to credit. “By me,” he continued. “By your husband.”
    And there it was. The true root of the problem. Oxford professors, aside from the stature of being one, held certain other privileges that dons did not . . . one of them being the option to marry. And so, George needed to become a professor before they could marry, and he could only become a professor if he bargained away Winn’s inheritance. It made her feel used. One of the coins on a table in a card game. But more than that—more than the idea of being won or played for—the idea of marrying George . . . hell, the idea of marriage in and of itself . . .
    Every time he brought up this topic, all Winn wanted to do was squirm away to a place where she could breathe . . . where she felt free.
    “We’ve been intended for each other since you were fifteen,” George said softly.
    “Not formally,” she whispered, but she doubted George heard it.
    “Half your life, you’ve known we are going to be married. Our mothers planned it. But now that your father . . . quite frankly, no longer needs you to take care of him, you build up these ridiculous notions about running across Europe and being a scholar and you postpone us .” He came and sat across from her, in the chair Totty had abandoned by the fire. He reached across the gap between them and took Winn’s hand, held it, forced her to look at him. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Winnifred. Please, put this idea of a grand adventure out of your head and come back to Oxford, and we’ll get married—we won’t worry about your father’s paintings anymore, because they’ll be right there; you can visit them any time you like. And life will go back to what it should be. It will go back to normal.”
    Winn looked up into George’s face. The same face she had adored as a child, gone angled and scruffy with time, his eagerness pushing itself against her. She should acquiesce. She knew Oxford’s ways; she would be a perfect professor’s wife. She had been trained to it, some might say. She should give in. Marriage to George was what everyone around her had expected of her. . .
    But there was no one around her anymore.
    She was the only one left.
    “Normal for you,” she began quietly, “is