Caroline sat looking at the moon and the stars in the night sky over Hanover. She heaved a deep sigh.
“I wish… I wish I was a boy. I wish daddy was here, or William. I wish I’d never got sick and I wish, most of all, that I wasn’t so small!” She wasn’t talking about her age, she was twelve, after all. She was complaining about her actual size.
“Ouch!” she cried as she stubbed her toe, making her way to bed. She felt everything in the room was a little too large for her.
Her illness had left her just over four feet tall, and she wouldn’t grow any more. She was never going to marry, her mummy told her, so she had to learn how to be a house servant. Or a milliner, making hats for other women’s special occasions. Or - and this was terrible, just terrible - a milkmaid!
She couldn’t understand why her father taught her how to read and the names of the stars, but her mother simply made her learn how to garden and sew and clean. She even had to help beat the heavy carpets free of dust.
“Caroline Lucretia Herschel, you get to sleep right now!” yelled her mother, with perfect timing.
When Caroline was 22 years old, her favourite brother came to visit from England. He was a choirmaster and a music teacher.
“Little sister,” he said to her while they walked, “what would you think about moving with me to England? You can keep house, I’ll teach you how to sing. It’ll help with those dreary winter evenings. And I think you might be happier, too.”
Caroline nearly wept with joy and clapped her small hands. No more making soap, or…
