Each of us carries a heavy weight. It is not a burden of our own choosing. It is something made for us by others. The weight of expectation.

You may feel that you are immune from this. You may say, “No, not me. I’m a free agent.” But think back. From the day you were born, things were expected of you. At school, at work, family gatherings, medical appointments, bylaws, taxes, the list is endless.

Now, before you all make your way to the nearest high building or suspension bridge, let me lighten your load by telling you that there is a group of people far worse off than yourself. They are the English Aristocracy. These unfortunate individuals have an unbearable weight of expectation placed upon them. They are expected to marry well and produce an heir. Those that are not in the direct line to inherit titles are expected to marry well in order for other titles and land to be inherited by the right people.

Agreed, if you are the first born son, then the burden is greatest. The seventh son carries a lighter load. A daughter shoulders very little baggage.

That is unless you are Lady Estelle Hightower. At a single moment in time her weight of expectation went from a small handbag to the Great Pyramid of Giza. She had two older brothers. Life was a bed of roses for Estelle. She was expected at family gatherings, social occasions and the like, but apart from these her life was just a line of parties and drunkenness.

She was petite and very pretty, intelligent and witty. As a counterpoint to these qualities she was also very unpleasant. Her quick wit meant that she could belittle the strongest of characters with a phrase. She had no regard for other people’s feelings. Why should she? Estelle had been brought up in a world of privilege. Her father was a Lord.

As far as Lady Estelle Hightower was concerned, her only duty in life was to have a good time.

The London Season was one long round of events. Usually, she had little recollection of much of it. Alcohol flowed.

Intoxication did nothing to make Estelle any more pleasant. It simply removed any remaining inhibitions that she had. Consequently she had lots of friends but nobody actually liked her.

Drunken men had occasionally seduced her. But even in her semi-conscious state she had had the wherewithal to let them know that she thought that they were pathetic. She would announce at the top of her voice that they had left her far from satisfied.

Estelle wasn’t surprised at the failings of her partners. She had realised years before that she found nothing attractive in the male body.

On the other hand, the curve of a breast or a delicate ankle or the fine hairs at the nape of a slender neck or Cupid’s bow lips or the transition from the female back to the feminine buttocks always sent a thrill through her.

At Roedean School, High Tea, as she was nicknamed, wasn’t sexual at all. She was just timid. While some girls kissed other girls, she was just bullied by them. In that world her father’s wealth counted for nothing. As soon as she left school Estelle made it her life’s work to be unpleasant to anyone she considered her social inferior and many who would believe themselves to be her superior. Waiters, cloak room attendants, hackney cab drivers, policemen, and any grade of servant all suffered from her wicked tongue. At one point she had reduced a cousin of the King to tears with just a word.

Even during the war, she could be seen spending lavishly and getting drunk at the best London nightspots. Of course, she knew that there was a conflict going on but she tried not to worry about it.

Passchendaele lies to the east of Ypres in Flanders. In one second in October of 1917, Lady Estelle Hightower changed from being the youngest of three children to her father’s sole heir. Both of her brothers died together as the result of a single mortar shell. To say that Lord and Lady Hightower were devastated would be the gravest of understatements.

The Great War changed so much. Many people questioned their place in society. Fewer men meant that there was a high demand for those workers that returned. Agricultural labourers and domestic servants drifted into better paid jobs in the towns and cities. This meant that those that remained could demand higher wages.

Women could no longer be denied the vote. They started to challenge so much of their former lives. From their role in the workplace to the restrictive underwear that they wore. Don’t misunderstand me, it wasn’t a revolution, more of a steady movement.

As far as Estelle Hightower was concerned, she didn’t want change. She wanted to carry on just as she had before. But yet, what had simply been a group of over privileged young people being outrageous now developed into what the press called ‘The Bright Young Things’. Which was basically a group of over privileged young people being outrageous but this time they dressed it up as a reaction to the horrors of the Great War.

Estelle’s parents regularly sat her down and reminded her of the weight of expectation that she now carried. If she didn’t produce a male heir, the title and most of the Hightower lands would pass to some far distant cousin of His Lordship. That is, in fact, how Lord Hightower’s great-grandfather had gained the title.

“Yes Pater, yes Mama. I understand. I will give it my urgent consideration,” she would promise, without any intentions of giving it the slightest consideration.

Before the war, her father had received suggestions of marriage concerning the third or fourth sons of minor aristocrats. It hadn’t bothered anybody that these gentlemen had never met Estelle.

Now, the first born sons were queuing to pay their suit to her. They knew that her father’s title and land would someday pass to their offspring.

As you know, Estelle’s proclivities lay elsewhere. Some would call her lesbian but she preferred to say that she was Sapphic.

All of her congresses with other women had occurred while she was drunk. They were brief and unfulfilling. Sometimes those concerned were actually lesbians, some simply felt that they might be. Some were married women looking for novelty and a few had been too drunk to express a preference.

The one thing that each encounter had in common was that Lady Estelle Hightower went much too far. What started out as clumsy French kissing developed into nipple licking and sucking. This would lead to mutual fingering and oral stimulation. And then, invariably, some unnatural drunken lust would engulf Estelle. Nipples would be pulled painfully or even be bitten. A hand and then a fist would be forced into an area not prepared for it. Even though Estelle’s hands were small, this was not an act that went down well on a first date, particularly with women who had had little or no experience of such things.