' Restoration Lady takes the reader through a web of intrigue, good fortune, bad fortune and morality. It is a story which visits the plague,

 a disease that takes no prisoners, the Great Fire of London and features the renowned diarist Samuel Pepys - eminently readable.'

Chris Horan, Scunthorpe Telegraph .
 

Restoration Lady  - London 1664  

          The bearers stop. I am grounded at my destination. Through the fine mesh screen of my window, I watch the rabble stream in the street suddenly stop mid flow and then hastily begin to pool into a curious mob. One, swiftly followed by another, have now recognized the crimson crest painted upon my black-lacquered sedan chair door. A rising murmur of 'Look!' and 'It's her!' reaches even my age-dulled ears as a wave of excitement quickly ripples out. I can sense that all eyes are now upon me and I know what it is they want. They want to see it. They crave even the tiniest glimpse to sate their thirsting  curiosity about me. And I? I want to see first if they are deserving enough.

            I draw up my black lace shawl high about my shoulders. Then, taking in a deep breath, I steel myself as my footman opens up the door. I thrust out my arm and as my silver-topped, ebony walking cane makes contact with the cobbles below, an eerie hush suddenly descends. The air is charged with anticipation. Like waiting for a roll of thunder after lightening has streaked across a lead grey sky.

            Then, gingerly stepping down I slowly emerge from my sedan cocoon like a butterfly, dressed in a riot of colored silks and ribbons. For a moment, I straighten up a little to gently shake out the creases in my skirts. Then, head held high, I stand as tall and upright as I am able and boldly look back into the staring faces. My deliberate smile is  confident as I then give a rather understated wave of my gem-studded free hand. This is like setting a flame to a fuse. The silence suddenly explodes into cries of admiration. The throng sing out my name as an ocean of hands reach out towards me in greeting. Some throw compliments my way. Others throw flowers. Not one berates or insults me so, therefore, I am decided. They are deserving and I shall reward them.

            As I make to walk on, I casually, yet quite calculatingly, let my shawl slip down, just a little, from my chalk white shoulders. It is precisely enough to reveal the ample cleavage caressed snuggly into my low cut bodice. At this, the collective gasp from the crowd is clearly audible. For a few fleeting moments, the mark burnt indelibly into the top of my left breast is clearly visible to all. For their delectation and titillation, I have bared  my flesh for today's insatiable appetite for notoriety to feast upon...