Beatrice Winters is a paint conservator in Clerkenwell. She is professionally exemplary, romantically defended, and the kind of woman who counts a gap twice when she does not like the first answer. So when her boss hands her a six-month commission at a falling-down Jacobean pile in Shropshire — owned by a difficult Oxford fellow with an Aga he has never successfully lit — Bea agrees on professional grounds. Six months. A scaffold. A nightmare wall. Nothing could possibly go sideways there.
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Beatrice Winters is a paint conservator in Clerkenwell. She is professionally exemplary, romantically defended, and the kind of woman who counts a gap twice when she does not like the first answer. So when her boss hands her a six-month commission at a falling-down Jacobean pile in Shropshire — owned by a difficult Oxford fellow with an Aga he has never successfully lit — Bea agrees on professional grounds. Six months. A scaffold. A nightmare wall. Nothing could possibly go sideways there.
Hugo Thornbury did not want to inherit Fernleigh Hall and is doing his best to keep it standing on Bonham's lots and a leaking lead roof. He does not, in his own register, flirt. He closes his eyes for a beat before he says anything that matters. He wears jumpers. And he has read, in a 2018 Atlas-and-Brush file at his solicitors' four days before Bea arrived, a piece of testimony Bea has not, in eight years, been able to put on a slate.
What Bea uncovers, over six months, is not just a 1720s painted scheme by a young woman who signed her own sleeve. It is the slow careful re-attribution of her own life.
Sweet, witty, restrained British romcom — The Fernleigh Scheme is a love story for anyone who has ever filed a sentence in the back of her head under to be re-evaluated, and waited for the right person, in the right kitchen, to say Right on a half-tone fall.
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