When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Rumors of War

30 July 1914
Paris

By the time Nora and Astrid came down to dinner that evening, they had tried eight banks in two days. At each one they had stood in the same long line, listening to the same rumors of impending war, and received the same polite refusal when Nora asked for napoléons. Nora had promised to keep Étienne informed, yet she had still told him nothing. Rather than add to his burdens, she had hoped to have the gold coin in hand before bringing him the news. After two days of laboring in vain, that hope had faded. It was time to find another way.

Clara had just returned from another motorcar journey, this one through northern Spain. Ever on the move, she intended to spend only a couple of nights in Paris before crossing to England, where she had taken a country house for the rest of the summer. Her townhouse on the Rue de Varenne was closed up, and her servants had already gone ahead to England to prepare for her arrival. Much to Nora’s delight, her friend had taken her old rooms at the Crillon. She had invited Nora and Astrid to dinner upon her arrival with a note promising to tell them all about her recent adventures.

Nora and Astrid now stood in the hotel’s grand dining room beneath the gold glow of the crystal chandeliers. Around them, the elegant tables were dressed in their usual crisp white linen and polished silver, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening beyond the hotel walls. The maître d’hôtel greeted them by name and escorted them to the table where Clara sat waiting.

“Nora, Astrid!” Clara rose and kissed each of them on both cheeks. “I have been away three weeks, and I find I missed you more than all the cathedrals of Spain could make up for.”

Nora clasped Clara’s hands in her own. “Clara, you cannot imagine what a comfort it is to have you here.”

Clara studied Nora for a moment before they took their seats. “You, my dear, have been working too hard as usual, I suppose. You shall tell me everything, and I shall tell you rather more about the extravagances of San Sebastián than you could possibly wish to know.”

“I have always understood San Sebastián to be rather fast,” Astrid said, unfolding her napkin.

Before Astrid could continue down the moral high road, Monsieur Leblanc arrived with the menus, greeting them warmly. Over the past few weeks, he had become as familiar a part of their days at the Crillon as the meals themselves. He filled their water glasses and set a small dish of sliced lemon beside Astrid, as she preferred. He then served their favorite bread and bowed politely. The sommelier followed with the wine list. After answering Clara’s questions about the Spanish wine, he noted her selection.

“Now you must tell us about your journey,” Nora said once they were alone again. “Have you any misadventures to report this time?”

“Hardly any, to my great disappointment,” Clara said. “The motorcar behaved beautifully, and Spain in July is a delicious indulgence I would recommend to anyone willing to give up sleep for it.”

Clara had traveled with her longtime friend, William Pemberton. While recounting their journey, she spoke of the happy exhaustion of trying to keep pace with his demanding schedule, then laughed as she described a film they had watched in Bilbao called How to Visit a Town at a Gallop. William had entirely failed to see the irony and still insisted upon their prompt nine o’clock departure the next morning. Nora laughed along with Clara, and even Astrid allowed herself a smile.

After the wine was served, Clara continued with tales of long hours in the motorcar, rain-obscured mountain peaks, and the summer society of San Sebastián, where she swore the lobby of the Hotel María Cristina held more diamonds than the royal treasury. But what thrilled her the most lay in the Cantabria region, where she had seen firsthand the famous cave paintings.

“At Santillana, we tramped through grassy hay-fields to the Altamira cave!” she said. “William was in disbelief. And I can still scarcely believe it myself. We’ve really seen the big colorful beasts looking as though they are actually roaring and galloping!”

“How extraordinary,” Nora said, thinking of the morning she had spent in the Tuileries trying to capture movement in a necklace. “To think those paintings have survived for thousands of years.”

“I confess I still suspect a hoax,” Astrid said. “I cannot believe that people who had not yet thought to invent the fork could paint like that.”

“So thought the scholars,” Clara said. “But their authenticity has been established.”

For a few minutes, listening to Clara, Nora had escaped to a world of scenic coastal drives and exciting new adventures awaiting her each morning. She was almost able to forget her worries about the loan and the canceled commissions. Then Astrid brought the conversation back to reality.

“And how did you find the mood in Spain?” she asked.

Clara’s smile faded. “During our last days there, the French newspapers grew so bleak that we decided to hasten our return. Last night we stayed in Poitiers, though I hardly slept. Instead, I lay awake listening to the crowds singing the Marseillaise in the square.”

“A war song,” Astrid said. “How very disturbing.”

“It was. Surely we cannot have war, can we?” Clara asked. She looked as though she might continue but took a sip of wine instead.

“Paris no longer seems like Paris,” Nora replied. “It has the ominous feel that precedes a storm.”

Monsieur Leblanc arrived to serve the next course, and the conversation then turned to Nora. After a teasing remark from Astrid, she found herself telling Clara about her Sunday afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens with Étienne. This prompted endless questions from Clara, who wished to know everything from what they had talked about to whether he had offered her his arm. Nora answered the first few, then became suddenly interested in the dinner before her.

When the questions finally ran out, Nora steered the topic toward the difficulty at hand. Clara was appalled to hear what Mr. Cartwright had done, then shared her own financial tribulations.

“I find I have come home to Paris a pauper,” she said. “I went to my bank this afternoon for my usual remittance and was told they were making no payments at all.”

“None at all?” Astrid asked, eyebrow raised.

“None. Half the Americans in this hotel are in the same predicament. One may be perfectly rich on paper and quite unable to pay for a cab.” Clara lifted her glass. “Fortunately, William still had some of the money he had carried for the journey and lent me enough to manage.”

“Mr. Pemberton is very generous,” Nora said.

“He is a dear,” Clara said, “though he would be horrified to hear it said aloud.”

Nora reached for her wine and found she did not want it. She had come to dinner hoping Clara might know of some bank that still kept its gold, or some old friend who would exchange a draft as a favor. Clara had always known someone. But if Clara herself was borrowing money, there was no such bank and no such friend. Nora had kept her silence for two days, hoping to bring Étienne a problem already solved. She had nothing but the truth to give him now.

31 July 1914

At two o’clock the following afternoon, Nora arrived at the Café de la Paix to meet Étienne. She had chosen her father’s favorite café as a comforting place to share the difficult news. Étienne was sitting at a table near the edge of the crowded terrace. When he saw her, he rose and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. Nora found herself wishing that custom allowed his touch to linger a little longer.

“Thank you for coming,” she said as he pulled out her chair.

“I was glad to receive your note.” His broad smile revealed his delight in seeing her, and she fervently wished she had asked him there for no other reason than the pleasure of his company.

The terrace was buzzing with chatter and the sound of rustling newspapers. Paris, it seemed, had stopped pretending, and a sort of war fever permeated the air. At the next table, Nora could hear two gentlemen discussing whether Russia had issued an order of general mobilization, their voices rising as their disagreement escalated.

Étienne ordered coffee for both of them. After the appropriate exchange of pleasantries, Nora could wait no longer to address the issue that had brought them there.

“There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “Something I should have told you sooner.”

“Of course. What is it?” he asked.

She took the notice out of her reticule and placed it before him. “This was delivered a few days ago. Mr. Cartwright has invoked a clause in the note. He will only accept payment in gold coin.”

Étienne unfolded the paper and read it, his brow furrowing.

“I had forgotten it was there,” he said. “Herr Kessler insisted on the clause when your father signed. We all regarded it as a formality. No one in Paris has demanded payment in gold in my lifetime.”

“Until this week,” Nora said.

The waiter returned with their coffee. He set the cups and saucers on the table beside an ornate sugar bowl before pouring filling their cups.

Étienne did not say anything. He only sipped his coffee. Somehow that was worse than anything he could say.

“I promised to keep you informed,” Nora said. “I am sorry. I wanted to come to you with the matter settled.”

He set down his cup. “And is it settled?”

“I have spent two days going from one bank to the next. Every one of them will honor the draft in banknotes. Not one of them will give me gold.”

“This explains what Mr. Cartwright was up to,” Étienne said, his jaw clenching.

“He wants the note to fall into default. If I cannot pay tomorrow, he keeps my mother’s ring, and he holds a claim against my father’s estate.”

“Against Osterly & Co.”

She nodded.

Étienne turned his spoon slowly in its saucer. For a while he did not speak, and Nora let him think. She had watched him work through a stubborn design the same way, refusing every easy answer until he found the one that worked.

“There may still be something we can do,” he said at last. “Saint Éloi. He is solid gold, Nora, and heavier than he appears. Henri could have him weighed this afternoon. Whatever he is worth, it would go a long way toward the note.”

Nora thought of the small gold saint on the shelf beside his window, and of Étienne’s father refusing a collector’s offer because the figure belonged to the Moreau family.

“But it has been in your family for generations. You told me your father would never part with it.”

“My father would not have stood by while a man like Cartwright took from your family what yours once gave to mine.”

The offer moved her more than she could say. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine it working. But even if there was still enough time, she couldn’t let him make such a sacrifice.

“The note is due tomorrow morning. Even if a buyer could be found by then, he would pay in banknotes like everyone else in Paris. Mr. Cartwright has not asked for gold, Étienne. He has asked for gold coin. There is none to be had, not for a draft and not for a saint.”

“Surely it couldn’t hurt to try,” he said.

“I’m afraid it is too late,” She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “But thank you. I shan’t forget that you offered.”

Just then, a newsboy came running along the boulevard with an armful of fresh papers, shouting, “L’état de guerre proclamé en Allemagne!”

Étienne rose along with half of the other café patrons.

“Go ahead,” Nora said.

He returned with a copy of the afternoon paper and laid it on the table between them. Germany had proclaimed a state of threatened war. Around them, voices in French and English and German mingled as the news spread.

Étienne sat back in his seat and drew a deep breath. After reading through the article, he pulled out a small cloth-bound book from his breast pocket. He flipped through its pages until he found the one he wanted.

“What is that?” Nora asked.

“My livret militaire. Every Frenchman who is a reservist is given one.” He turned it toward her. A printed form had been pasted inside bearing his name and regiment. “If the government orders mobilization, this tells me what I am to do.”

Nora looked at the book he held. She had not known he carried it. She wondered how long it had been in his pocket, and whether Henri carried one too.

“And what are you to do?” she asked.

“If we are to mobilize, they will put up posters announcing the first day. My livret tells me where to report and on which day.”

“And which day is yours?”

“The third.”

He closed the book and returned it to his coat. He took her hand again. “Nothing has happened yet. Let us attend to what is in front of us. We shall go to the bank as planned tomorrow morning.”

He said it with the same assurance he brought to a difficult setting, and she was grateful for his steadying presence. All week she had thought of nothing but her father’s company, measuring what she stood to lose in francs and gold coin. She hadn’t stopped to think how the war might affect Étienne.

She had come here to bring him bad news, and he had given her far worse. A debt could be renegotiated, and a company could be rebuilt. But if he was called to war, his place at the workbench they had shared at Maison Moreau would stand empty. If he did not return, nothing she could sign or pay would bring him back to it.

For the first time, she realized that she had so much more to lose than a stake in her father’s company.

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The Unassuming Little Book

When Étienne draws a small cloth-bound book from his coat at the Café de la Paix, Nora has no idea what it is. Yet on the afternoon of July 31, 1914, millions of Frenchmen carried the same book, and each one already knew that if war came, they were duty bound to defend their country.

To understand why, you have to start with conscription. Instead of relying on volunteers to serve in the military as in the U.S., most European countries required service by law. This is conscription. In 1914 France, every able young man was ordered to report to the army at the age of twenty. He then spent three years training fulltime as a soldier before returning home to his work and family. His obligation did not end there. Until his late forties, he could be ordered back into service at any time if France went to war. The army knew his name, his training, and where he lived.

Every Frenchman Is a Soldier

France invented modern conscription during the French Revolution. The Jourdan Law of 1798, making military service a legal duty for young men, opened with the declaration: “Every Frenchman is a soldier and must defend the country.” But by 1870, when war came with Prussia, France mobilized only its professional army. Fighting against a Prussian army filled with trained reserves, France suffered a bitter defeat. It did not forget the lesson.

Over the next forty years, France rebuilt its army around universal service. By 1905, every able man served two years, with no lottery, no exemptions, and no paying a substitute to go in his place. That is Étienne’s generation. In 1913, with tension rising along the German border, France raised service to three years. Under the new law, a man’s obligation lasted twenty-eight years.

The Military Booklet

Every man who completed his service received a livret militaire (military booklet in English). Inside was his fascicule de mobilisation, a printed sheet with his personal orders. It told him which day to report, counted from the first day of mobilization, and where to go. Men who would travel by train carried a pink fascicule. Men who would march carried a light green one.

France was not alone. Germany, Russia, and Austria-Hungary all ran similar systems, and a German reservist carried his own orders in a Militärpass. Britain was the great exception. Its army was made up entirely of volunteers, and it was the smallest of any major power. Britain did not introduce conscription until 1916.

Étienne’s orders had been in his pocket all summer. His day was the third.

Tucked away in the Latin Quarter of Paris is a medieval church that has stood watch over its neighborhood for hundreds of years. I visited Saint-Séverin during a research trip to Paris to explore the settings for my historical fiction series, When the Sea Was Still. I had already tentatively chosen it as one of the settings in my novel, but I wanted to see the church for myself before committing it to the page. After all, there are so very many beautiful and interesting churches in Paris to choose from.

From the outside, the Church of Saint-Séverin looks every bit its age, its weathered façade darkened by centuries of soot, pollution, and exposure to the elements. Nothing about its somber exterior prepares you for what waits beyond its heavy wooden doors.

Stepping inside, I found a stunning atmosphere of artistry and wonder. Colorful stained-glass windows rose above dramatic arches, while carved columns twisted upward like ribbons of stone. I had entered a peaceful sanctuary that felt in complete contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Latin Quarter outside.

Saint-Séverin is one of the oldest churches on Paris’s Left Bank. Construction on the Gothic church began in the thirteenth century, around 1230, when the area was becoming the center of university life in Paris. Much of the building was later destroyed during the Hundred Years’ War, leaving only the bell tower and the first three sections of the original nave intact.

Reconstruction began around 1450, just two years later, transforming Saint-Séverin into the Flamboyant Gothic church we see today. The church was widened from three aisles to five. Later, between 1489 and 1495, the distinctive cluster of columns was added, including the famous central pillar that fans out like a palm tree.

Saint-Séverin survived another perilous chapter during the French Revolution, when it was closed as a place of worship and used to store gunpowder, then animal feed and church bells. Countless bells across France were broken apart and melted down for metal, but Saint-Séverin’s bell, named Macée, was one that survived. Today it is the oldest bell in Paris, having been cast in 1412.

When I began searching from home for a church to use in my story, I had specific requirements in mind. It needed to be in the 5th arrondissement, near where my characters lived and it had to be old enough to have served generations of the same family. The church was important to me because it would become the setting for a powerful scene after the First World War changed their lives.

Saint-Séverin seemed to offer everything I needed. Its location in the heart of the Latin Quarter placed it very close to my character’s apartment, and the photographs I found online confirmed its beauty. Once stepping inside, the deal was sealed. None of the photos I’d seen had captured its true magnificence or the feelings it inspired, for only being there in person could.

Some places feel as though the story itself chose them rather than the author, and Saint-Séverin is one of them. In the novel, it has been part of my characters’ lives since childhood. They have gathered there for Sunday Mass, celebrated baptisms, confirmations, holidays, and weddings, and shared moments that bound their families together across generations.

When the First World War broke out, so much in Paris changed. So much was lost. Shops closed. Men left for the front. Daily life was suddenly transformed from joie de vivre to uncertainty and fear. Through it all, Saint-Séverin remained, one of the few constants. A beacon of hope. A place to pray. For my characters, the comfort and continuity it offered felt like a lifeline as they waited to hear news of their loved ones.

All of this settled over me as I sat quietly in the church. The centuries of history were present in its walls—the many lives that have passed through, the prayers whispered, the love celebrated, and the tears shed. Places like Saint-Séverin inspire me to tell stories about the people who walked these streets and sat beneath these arches long before us.

And maybe that is why I love Paris so much. To stand inside one of its centuries-old buildings is to stand inside a page in history. Across the city, the past remains woven into places that are still visited, loved, and used every day. When I walk through Paris, I see layers of history so captivating that I am compelled to write about them.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Knock at the Door

29 July 1914
Paris

The morning after Nora received the troubling telegram announcing the transfer of the loan to Mr. Cartwright, she and Astrid had called on Étienne and Geneviève at Maison Moreau. Étienne had blamed himself, believing he was at fault for giving Mr. Cartwright information that had led him to Herr Kessler. Both Nora and Geneviève had refused to let him feel responsible for what Mr. Cartwright had chosen to do with it. They all agreed that the sale of the note itself didn’t seem to change anything, and Nora promised to keep them apprised of any further developments.

The rest of the day had passed without additional word from Mr. Cartwright. Nora had braced herself for whatever might come next. His silence was almost as troubling as the telegram itself.

Now, as Nora and Astrid took breakfast in their suite at the Crillon, Nora reread the telegram for what must have been the hundredth time. Finally, she set it back down and picked at the breakfast sitting before her. Astrid sat across from her reading the morning news while sipping her tea.

She looked up from Le Figaro with a worried expression.

“What’s wrong?” Nora asked.

“It appears my fears were not unfounded,” she replied. “Austria has declared war on Serbia.”

Nora stopped with the coffeepot suspended over her cup. Although every report of the past several days had warned of such a possibility, hearing the words spoken surprised her.

Astrid laid the paper upon the table and turned it toward her. The headline stretched across the page in heavy type.

AUSTRIA DECLARES WAR ON SERBIA

“Yesterday we spoke of the possibility of war,” Astrid said. “Today there is one. Surely this is another reason for us to sail with the Harroways.”

Nora finished pouring her coffee before answering. “It is certainly another reason to consider it.”

“To consider it?” Astrid repeated. “Nora, how many reasons will you require?”

“I do not take the danger lightly.”

“I know. But each day we remain, the crisis grows more serious.”

Nora broke open one of the warm rolls and spread it with butter despite her lack of appetite. The prospect of leaving Paris while Mr. Cartwright’s intentions remained unknown troubled her more than she cared to share with Astrid. It would only worry her further. Nora knew she needed to decide soon, and this news made the choice more pressing. How much longer could she expect Astrid to remain by her side?

“I know what you wish me to say,” Nora said at last. “With Mr. Cartwright’s purpose still unknown, I simply cannot say it yet.”

Astrid studied her across the table. “Then promise me you will not wait until the decision is made for us.”

“I promise I will not.”

The answer appeared to satisfy Astrid for the moment. She took a sip of tea, then reached for a piece of toast, her attention already back on the paper. They finished breakfast in silence save the occasional clink of china. When the clock on the mantel chimed the half hour, Astrid folded her napkin and rose from the table.

“I believe I shall return to my book for a while,” she said before withdrawing to her room.

Once alone, Nora reached for the newspaper Astrid had left behind. A different headline caught her attention.

LE VERDICT DE LA HONTE

The Verdict of Shame.

Nora thought it a fitting response from the paper whose editor had been murdered in his own office. The trial that had served as the greatest show in Paris was over, and Madame Caillaux had been acquitted on the grounds that she had acted in a moment of uncontrollable passion. Nora marveled at the attorneys’ ability to convince the jury that a woman who had waited patiently for more than an hour with a pistol hidden in her muff had acted without premeditation.

Astrid must have been furious. For more than a week, she had followed every development of the trial with unwavering interest, waiting for Madame Caillaux to be found guilty. Yet she had said nothing about it over breakfast.

The timing of the trial’s end, just as war broke out in Europe, seemed uncanny. Paris had received the ending to its great spectacle at the very moment a far graver drama was beginning.

Nora was still reading the newspaper when a knock sounded at the suite’s door. She crossed the plush carpet to find a uniformed hotel page standing in the corridor beside a soberly dressed gentleman. The stranger looked out of place amidst the hotel’s elegance. He wore a severe, high-collared dark frock coat and a black top hat. His rigid expression caught Nora off guard. Beneath his arm, he carried a heavy leather portfolio.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Osterly,” the page said. “This gentleman has come on a legal matter.”

“Mademoiselle Osterly?” the man asked, his voice a flat baritone.

“Yes,” Nora said, her throat dry.

The stranger stepped across the threshold and reached into his portfolio. “I am a huissier de justice, acting on behalf of Monsieur Cartwright.” He produced a folded sheet of thick paper bearing an official blue stamp. “I am here to serve you with a sommation regarding the outstanding obligation of your father’s estate, due the first of August.”

He handed Nora the notice.

“Pursuant to the gold clause contained in the original note,” the huissier continued, “notice is hereby served that the creditor exercises his legal right to demand settlement exclusively in gold coin. Any other form of payment will not be accepted in satisfaction of the debt.”

The huissier bowed his head slightly to Nora. “You have been formally notified, Mademoiselle. Good day.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, the page following behind. Nora closed the door slowly, the implications of the notice racing through her mind.

“Was someone here?” Astrid asked, appearing from her room.

“Mr. Cartwright has made his move,” Nora said. “That was a huissier, come to serve notice that the note must be paid in gold coin.”

“Gold coin?” Astrid asked. “I don’t understand.”

“The financial markets have grown increasingly unsettled,” Nora said. “Mr. Cartwright must believe he has found a way to take advantage of it.”

“Do we need to worry?”

“I don’t believe so. Please dress for an outing while I ask the concierge which bank can exchange the draft.” Nora took the notice and slipped it into her reticule. “I shall return soon to fetch you.”

Nora descended to the lobby, where the concierge stood behind his desk attending to the morning’s correspondence. He greeted her as she approached.

“I require the assistance of a bank,” she said. “I have an American bank draft payable in francs, and I need to exchange it for gold coin.”

The concierge hesitated. “Napoléons, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. A substantial amount.”

“I see.” His manner remained composed, but the slight change in his expression did not escape her. He reached for a hotel card. “I should recommend the Comptoir d’Escompte at the Place de l’Opéra. They are accustomed to dealing with foreign clients.”

He wrote the bank’s name and address on the card and handed it to her. “If such an exchange can be arranged, the Comptoir is among the institutions most likely to accommodate you.”

“What do you mean by if?”

“There has been an unusual demand for napoléons these past several days,” he replied. “Foreign checks and letters of credit are becoming difficult to negotiate. Gold is the one form of payment travelers can be certain will be accepted.”

“I see,” she replied.

She had expected no more than an inconvenient errand, not the possibility that the gold itself might prove difficult to obtain. Still, she was certain the matter could be managed.

“Would you have a carriage brought around? I shall be back shortly with Mademoiselle Lund.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

An hour later, Nora and Astrid arrived at the bank. Its ornate Haussmannian façade curved around the triangular corner where the square met the Avenue de l’Opéra, facing the Palais Garnier. Spilling from its grand arched entrance were throngs of anxious tourists and well-dressed Parisians.

Astrid looked from the crowd to Nora. “Good heavens. What can all of this be about?”

Nora recalled the concierge’s warning that gold was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain.

“The concierge said there had been an unusual demand for napoléons. It appears we are not the only ones seeking them.”

Nora and Astrid joined the queue that wrapped around the building. Nora raised her parasol to shade herself from the intense July sun. All around them, tense rumors circulated in English, German and French. Nora caught fragments of conversations about closed markets and mobilization.

When they finally entered, they exchanged one long line for another, this one at least inside the cool marble banking hall. It was an opulent space with high ceilings and dark polished wood. The scene before them was one of tension and anxiety. Gentlemen with leather portfolios were lined up before the counters, some with their voices raised. Clerks carrying large stacks of papers and strained expressions moved briskly between the counters and adjoining offices.

Nora and Astrid waited as the queue inched forward. Beside her, Astrid listened closely to the anxious conversations around them.

“Did you hear that?” Astrid asked as they reached the front of the queue.

At the counter ahead of them, a British couple was trying to exchange travelers’ checks for gold coin.

“They are backed by gold in London!” the Englishman shouted, slamming his hand onto the dark wood counter. “How are we supposed to pay for passage home?”

“They say the boat trains are only accepting gold,” Astrid whispered, becoming increasingly agitated.

Before Nora could answer, a clerk beckoned them forward. He greeted them stiffly through the opening in an ornate brass grille, failing to disguise his fatigue. Nora slid her bank draft across the polished surface and explained that she wished to exchange it for gold coin. At the mention of gold, he sighed and asked them to wait without an explanation, then disappeared into one of the offices down the hall.

Nora and Astrid exchanged glances.

“I don’t like this, Nora,” Astrid said.

“Nor do I. It seems that everyone here has the same goal we have yet no one has succeeded in achieving it.”

Several minutes passed before the clerk returned.

“I regret to tell you, Mademoiselle, we cannot exchange your bank draft for napoléons,” he said. “We can arrange for its payment in franc banknotes if that would suit you.”

“But I require those francs in gold coin,” Nora said.

“I am afraid that is not possible.”

She had been prepared for delay, but not refusal. “May I ask why?”

“The demand for gold has become extraordinary over the past several days. Napoléons are being withdrawn more quickly than the banks can replenish them.”

Nora was beginning to understand the purpose behind Mr. Cartwright’s demand. Until that moment, she had regarded his new terms as an obstacle to overcome. Now she questioned that assumption. Astrid shifted beside her.

“Surely another institution may have sufficient coin,” Nora said.

“You are, of course, free to inquire elsewhere. You might try Crédit Lyonnais.” He returned the draft to her. “But the present demand is not confined to this bank.”

Nora slipped it back into her reticule. “Thank you for your time.”

The banking hall was still crowded with agitated foreign travelers when they left. Outside, the line had nearly doubled, stretching past the corner of the Place de l’Opéra.

“What shall we do now?” Astrid asked, looking back at the line.

Nora tightened her hold on her reticule. “We shall try the next bank.”

Their second attempt took them to Crédit Lyonnais on the boulevard des Italiens. There, after another wait and another careful examination of the draft, Nora received much the same answer. The bank would honor it in banknotes, but no large payment in gold could be authorized under the present conditions.

Nora refused to be discouraged. They continued to Société Générale on the boulevard Haussmann. By then, the luncheon hour had long since passed. Astrid had not mentioned it, which Nora took as proof of how worried she had become.

At the third bank, an official studied the draft and questioned Nora closely about the amount she required and when it must be paid. Rather than refusing her outright, he consulted with his director. For the first time that afternoon, Nora thought she had found her gold.

When the official returned, however, his expression had changed. The bank could not release so large a quantity of gold to someone who held no account there. He offered another possibility: the headquarters of the Comptoir d’Escompte, where greater reserves might be held than at its Place de l’Opéra branch. Nora allowed herself to keep believing.

By the time their carriage reached the rue Bergère, it was late into the afternoon. The imposing stone façade of the bank rose above three tall arches that spanned the entrance. The prominent statue of Prudence sat on her throne, presiding overhead with the promise of wisdom. Beneath this grand assurance of stability, a small gathering of disappointed customers remained, but the bank had already been closed for the day.

Nora and Astrid stood silently before the locked gates. The bank draft that she had carried across the Atlantic was worth every franc her father’s estate owed, yet now seemed incapable of settling the debt. Mr. Cartwright had not counted on her lacking the money. He had counted on Paris lacking the gold.

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The Madame Caillaux Scandal

In this week’s episode, Paris finally receives the verdict in the trial that has kept the city riveted. Madame Caillaux has been acquitted of murdering Gaston Calmette, editor of Le Figaro. The sensational case that has so fascinated Astrid was not invented for the novel. It genuinely consumed Paris for months, dominating the newspapers and overshadowing the crisis as Europe moved closer to war. Incredibly, in a twist of history too extraordinary to invent, Austria declared war on Serbia the very same day the verdict was announced, and the impending war finally took top billing in the papers.

The scandalous affair that gripped all of Paris like an addictive soap opera began with an unlikely shooter on March 16, 1914. Henriette Caillaux walked into the offices of a Paris newspaper, Le Figaro, with a pistol hidden in her fur muff. She waited patiently for her victim to return when she found he wasn’t in his office. When Mr. Calmette, the editor of the paper, arrived, he was greeted with four bullets from Madame Caillaux’s Browning. The man who had used his paper to wage a campaign against her husband was dead within hours.

The shooting instantly became the most sensational crime in France. Newspapers dissected Henriette’s marriage, her clothing, her behavior, and every detail of the killing. Was she a devoted wife driven to desperation by a ruthless editor, or a calculating woman who had armed herself, waited patiently for her victim, and deliberately silenced him? The case divided the public along political and social lines.

This was not the first society woman to stand trial for murder in Paris. Five years earlier, the city had been captivated by the trial of Marguerite Steinheil, a prominent hostess acquitted of murdering her husband and her mother in their Paris home. But what made the all-consuming nature of the Caillaux trial so chilling was the fact that the French press virtually ignored the growing crisis in Europe, choosing to report on the trial instead.

Three days into the proceedings, Austria-Hungary delivered an ultimatum to Serbia: comply with ten demands within 48 hours or face war. Still, news of the Caillaux trial is what commanded the public’s attention. Parisians were absorbed in the question of whether a wealthy politician’s wife would be convicted of murder, even as what we now know as the First World War was building in the background.

After eight days of scandal, secrets, and tears, with a packed courtroom hanging on every word, Madame Caillaux was acquitted. The outrage that came from the paper whose editor had been killed had little time to gather force. On the same day Henriette Caillaux walked free, Austria declared war on Serbia. Within days, Europe would be at war.

This was the collision of headlines Nora encounters in Episode 17. Just as the soap opera that consumed the city ended, a far deadlier drama had begun.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Change of Hands

Nora

27 July 1914
Paris

The following day, Nora stood beside Étienne at the workbench in his office at Maison Moreau. Between them, a velvet-lined tray held an antique brooch, its ornate gold setting framing a six-carat sapphire of deep blue. Discarded sketches surrounded the piece, each one a little closer than the last, though none was quite right. They had been working all morning on a design for a new commission.

When Nora arrived at the atelier, she had felt a new shyness at seeing Étienne again. Neither had spoken of yesterday’s walk. Instead, they turned at once to the task at hand. As they sketched together, she couldn’t quite shake the memory of walking arm in arm with him through the gardens. She was not accustomed to being so affected by another’s presence. While reaching for a pencil, Nora bumped Étienne’s drawing hand, sending his line astray. They both laughed, and the awkwardness between them began to ease. Before long, they had fallen back into their familiar rhythm.

The brooch that had brought her to his side that morning had belonged to their client’s family for three generations. The client wished to have the sapphire reset in a pendant to present to their eldest daughter upon her marriage in the spring. With commissions becoming rarer, Étienne was determined to create a piece worthy of both the heirloom and the occasion.

He slid the newest drawing toward her. “What do you think of this one?”

Nora considered it for a moment before shaking her head. “It’s closer. There is a trace of the old scrollwork at the base. I wonder if it should go entirely.”

“It has framed the stone for decades.”

“Yes,” Nora said. “But the sapphire is what the family wishes to carry forward. Let’s try it and let the piece tell us what it wants.”

Étienne looked at Nora and smiled. “I like the way you think, mademoiselle.”

She returned his smile, then picked up his pencil and redrew the base herself, removing the final curve of scrollwork. “There. No hint of the old-fashioned brooch left. Let her wear it as though it were designed just for her.”

As Étienne bent closer to examine the correction, Nora caught the familiar scent of his cologne. She concentrated on the drawing, although it no longer required such careful study.

“Yes,” he said, still looking at the sketch. “That is the piece.”

Nora nodded and handed the pencil back to Étienne.

When their eyes met, he paused. “I was very glad you came yesterday.”

“As was I,” she said. “I was sorry when the afternoon came to an end.”

For a moment, neither of them looked away. Then Étienne cleared his throat. “I shall ask Henri whether we have created something that he can produce.”

A few minutes later, Étienne returned with Henri beside him. After a brief comparison of the revised drawing and the brooch, Henri pronounced the design elegant, balanced, and unlikely to keep him awake at night. Étienne objected to the suggestion that any of his designs had ever disturbed Henri’s sleep, and Henri replied that he had long ago learned not to examine them before bedtime. Nora laughed at Étienne’s look of wounded dignity. Satisfied that he was no longer needed, Henri returned to the main workroom.

He had scarcely gone when Geneviève appeared in the doorway carrying a letter.

“Forgive me for interrupting, but our metal supplier has asked that we settle our account with him before it falls due.”

Étienne frowned. “Has he given a reason?”

Geneviève handed him the letter. “His bank has called in an advance. He finds himself in need of ready funds.”

Étienne read the letter in silence.

Nora thought of the commissions that had already been postponed or canceled. “Then the uncertainty is affecting credit as well as sales.”

“It appears so,” Geneviève replied. “Two of our other suppliers have declined to extend their usual credit. This is the first to request payment early.”

Étienne handed the letter back to Geneviève, his earlier amusement gone. “That is troubling. I had hoped the canceled commissions would be the extent of our difficulties.”

“One account may be managed,” Nora said. “Several would be another matter, particularly with sales already diminished.”

“Quite so.” Étienne turned to Geneviève. “We have the funds to meet this one. Please settle it and tell me at once if another such request arrives.”

Geneviève nodded and left the room as quickly as she’d come in.

After Geneviève withdrew, Nora noticed the sounds from the workroom begin to quiet as the tapping of hammers ceased. Only then did she realize how completely the commission had claimed the morning.

Étienne gathered the discarded sketches while Nora drew on her gloves. He placed the finished design beside the brooch, then carried the velvet tray to a cabinet and locked it away.

He escorted her toward the door as the craftsmen passed through the front room, offering brief farewells on their way to luncheon. Once the last of them had gone, Nora found herself alone with Étienne in the showroom.

“Thank you for your help, Nora.” He took her hand in his. “I hope I have not kept you too long.”

“No, you have not,” she said, blushing. “I am always happy to help with a design. We must do everything we can to keep the business strong.”

He smiled, still holding her hand. “Your dedication is admirable. I hope we shall not require another vexing pendant before I see you again.”

Nora smiled back. “Surely we can find a less troublesome excuse.”

“Then I shall have to find one.” He kissed her on each cheek before opening the door for her.

That evening, Nora and Astrid dined at their usual table in the Crillon’s dining room. Over the first course of consommé julienne, Nora recounted the day’s events. Astrid followed the account closely, interrupting more than once to question exactly what Geneviève had said about the supplier’s request for early payment. Nora assured her that it was not as dire as she seemed to think. Yet her assurances did little to alleviate Astrid’s worry about the unrest that continued to grow around them.

When Astrid asked if this was another reason for them to sail home with the Harroways, Nora answered as she had every day since receiving Mrs. Harroway’s invitation. A waiter arrived with their second course, fillets of sole in white-wine sauce, just as Nora finished explaining again why she wasn’t ready to make a decision. Astrid waited until he had withdrawn before responding.

“Yet it appears there is more trouble,” she said. “The evening paper reports some trading at the Bourse was suspended today. Vienna and Brussels have closed their exchanges.”

“That may explain why the supplier’s bank called in its advance,” Nora said.

“And if conditions continue to worsen?” Astrid seemed to be issuing her a challenge.

Nora finished a bite of her fish before answering. “Then Maison Moreau may need our partnership more than ever.”

Astrid let out a small huff. “You possess a remarkable talent for turning every reason to leave into an argument for remaining.”

Nora reached for her wineglass. “Let us talk of something else. I have fretted enough for one day. Please update me on the progress of Madame Caillaux’s trial.”

Astrid abandoned her argument for the moment and turned readily to the trial. “The testimony has finally concluded. The lawyers are to make their closing arguments tomorrow.”

“Then Paris may soon have its verdict. Have you an opinion on which it will be?”

“I should think my opinion has been perfectly clear.” Astrid paused while the waiter cleared their dishes. After he finished serving their main course of roast chicken with tarragon, green beans, and new potatoes, she continued, “She went to a man’s office carrying a pistol and shot him. She ought to be found guilty.”

“That is what you believe should happen. I asked what you think will happen.”

“After reading the reports of this trial, I would not wager on justice prevailing. It has played out more like the theatre than a murder trial.”

Astrid shook her head disapprovingly as she described how the court had been cleared that day after the spectators began applauding and jeering while Monsieur Caillaux traded insults with a witness.

“My goodness. I daresay the theatre crowd is generally better behaved.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow as she lifted her fork. “Indeed they are.”

She was still recounting the courtroom spectacle when the waiter arrived with something other than the dessert Nora was expecting. Instead, he carried a folded blue telegram.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Osterly. This has just arrived for you,” he said.

Nora thanked him and accepted it. Banque Mallet was printed beneath the delivery mark. After opening it, she read the message. She should not have felt as surprised as she did.

HERR KESSLER HAS TRANSFERRED NOTE TO MONSIEUR LIONEL CARTWRIGHT STOP BANQUE MALLET WILL CONTINUE TO HOLD NOTE FOR COLLECTION STOP TERMS AND MATURITY OF 1 AUGUST UNCHANGED STOP DELACROIX

“What is it?” Astrid asked.

Nora passed the telegram across the table. “Herr Kessler has sold the note.”

Astrid’s eyes moved over the message, her expression hardening. “To Mr. Lionel Cartwright.”

Nora nodded. “With the markets in such distress, it would seem Herr Kessler has done well. But what could Mr. Cartwright want with a note due in five days?”

Across Europe, men were scrambling to turn debts into cash. Lionel had chosen to do the reverse.

“He does not strike me as a man who purchases what another is anxious to sell without expecting some advantage.” Astrid handed the telegram back to Nora.

“That is what will keep me up tonight.” Nora could not see what benefit the note offered Mr. Cartwright. Still, she feared he had recognized something she had not.

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This week, we are going back in time to 1910 to an island in Paris. The Île de la Cité (Island of the City in English) is perhaps most well known as the home of the stunning religious landmarks like Sainte-Chapelle and Notre-Dame, monuments of soaring stone and brilliant stained glass that have inhabited this small piece of land for more than 800 years.

By 1910, the Île de la Cité was a remarkable mix of old and new. Notre-Dame had dominated the central plaza since the 14th century with medieval streets surrounding it. Along its northern bank sat the famous flower market, Marché aux Fleurs, which had been a staple since 1808. Yet much of the island had been transformed during the nineteenth century with massive government complexes like the Palais de Justice and the Préfecture de Police. Now a new underground Métro station was under construction, bringing another wave of modernization to the ancient island.

In the early twentieth century, the island was alive with traditional family businesses and the prosperity of the Belle Époque was in full swing. Goldsmiths and jewelers had practiced their trades on the island for centuries, while newer businesses included legal robe-makers who crafted custom formal wear for the nearby high courts. It was a bustling place with a mix of merchants, craftsmen, government workers, and a growing number of tourists, all contributing to an economic boom that filled the Île de la Cité with an excess of goods and overflowing wealth.

But January of 1910 would see a different kind of excess. It began with weeks of incessant rain that saturated the ground and filled the tributaries feeding into the Seine. By mid-January, the river was creeping up the stone embankments until it finally spilled over into the streets of Paris. The rising river slowly transformed the Île de la Cité into a maze of wooden boardwalks and rescue boats as residents scrambled to combat the relentless water. The flood forced the closure of the newly opened stretch of Métro Line 4, which only days earlier had finally connected the northern and southern halves of Paris. And much of the island was plunged into weeks of darkness when electricity and gas lines were disrupted by the floodwaters.

The devastation was particularly severe along the Quai aux Fleurs and the narrow streets that branched from it, including Rue des Chantres and Rue des Ursins. This corner of the Île de la Cité sat at one of the island’s lowest elevations, directly beside the Seine. It had also escaped much of Baron Haussmann’s redevelopment of Paris in the nineteenth century, leaving its old, tightly packed streets and buildings largely intact. During the flood, that combination of geography and ancient architecture proved disastrous.

Even before the Seine spilled over the stone quays, the flood had begun beneath the streets. As the river rose, mounting pressure forced water and raw sewage backward through the island’s old network of drains, inundating cellars from below. For the merchants who worked on the Île de la Cité, these underground spaces were not simply used for storage. Jewelers, watchmakers, and bookbinders kept workshops there, along with tools, materials, furnaces, and valuable stock. Some cellars filled nearly to the ceiling with murky water. As the flood continued to rise, it crept through floorboards and into the ground-floor shops and showrooms, coating floors and furnishings in a thick layer of foul gray silt. Velvet display trays, glass cases, papers, and design records could all be ruined without the river ever having to crash through the front door.

This was the reality Étienne Moreau and his family had to contend with in my historical serial When the Sea Was Still. Their fictional jewelry atelier sits along the Quai aux Fleurs, placing Maison Moreau directly in the path of the rising water and the destruction that followed. (If you’d like to read the story, start with Episode 1 here.)

When the waters finally subsided after weeks of flooding, the ordeal was far from over. Cellars, workshops, and shops were left coated in layers of river mud and sewage, while walls, floors, and foundations remained saturated with contaminated water. The narrow streets filled with recovery efforts as residents hauled away destroyed belongings and attempted to disinfect buildings. The damp masonry took months to dry, and the smell of stagnant water and rot lingered long after the Seine had receded.

Restoring the flooded shops was painstaking too. Tools, furnaces, and other equipment had spent days submerged, while valuable goods were ruined and months of work lost. Workshops first had to be emptied of damaged materials, then scrubbed clean of the mud and sewage the river had left behind, and finally repaired before craftsmen could return to work. Then came the difficult process of sorting through what remained. Attempts were made to salvage stock, account books, correspondence, designs, and other records, separating anything that could be saved from what had been destroyed by water and silt.

Although the Seine began to recede at the end of January, additional rises followed in February and early March, and the river did not fully return to normal until mid-March. For the businesses along the Quai aux Fleurs, reopening was a slow process. Damp walls, damaged equipment, lost inventory, and interrupted orders would continue to be felt long after the floodwaters were gone. When their doors finally opened once again, returning to business was not business as usual.

Today, it is difficult to imagine the Île de la Cité as it appeared during those weeks in 1910. The Seine once again flows quietly past the stone quays, and the narrow streets around the Quai aux Fleurs give little indication of the destruction they endured. But traces of the flood remain if you know where to look. High-water markers hang from buildings throughout the island, recording just how far the Seine rose and preserving the memory of the winter when the historic heart of Paris nearly disappeared beneath the water.

The next time you walk these streets, look for those small reminders. They are easy to pass without noticing, but once you understand what they represent, it becomes much harder to look at the Seine, or the Île de la Cité, quite the same way again.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Walk with Étienne

Nora

26 July 1914
Paris

The day after Étienne revealed what her father’s partnership had meant to Maison Moreau, Nora had received a letter from him that quite surprised her. She had left the atelier still absorbing his account of the flood, his father’s death, and, most troubling of all, what he had inadvertently disclosed to Mr. Cartwright. She had not expected anything more to occupy her thoughts so soon.

She had opened his letter anticipating news from the atelier or perhaps an update on the postponed commissions. Instead, she found a message of an altogether different nature.

Mademoiselle Osterly,

I was glad, as always, to see you yesterday, and I hope I did not burden you by speaking so freely.

I find myself wishing to ask you something that has nothing to do with sapphires or settings, though I confess I have hesitated to take such a liberty. Would you do me the honor of joining me for a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens on Sunday afternoon? I seek only the pleasure of your company, which I have come to value more than I perhaps ought to say in a letter.

If Sunday does not suit you, I am entirely at your convenience.

Yours,

Étienne

Nora had read the letter twice before setting it down, unsure how to feel about his overture. Over the past few weeks, she had felt a closeness growing between them, but this was the first time he had spoken of a desire to see her for pleasure. Until now, their relationship had stayed safely inside the familiar boundaries of their partnership.

She had spent the better part of the day going back and forth over whether or not to accept. Accepting meant admitting to something she had not yet fully admitted to herself. Declining would have been the more sensible course. With so much uncertainty at the moment, it seemed almost imprudent. She had reminded herself of this at least three times before luncheon, and again while dressing for the promenade. Yet the reminders did not seem to help. Each time she pictured herself walking beside Étienne under the chestnut trees, she found herself smiling, and each time she caught herself at it, she felt faintly ridiculous. By late afternoon, she had written to say that Sunday suited her very well.

The sound of the sitting-room door pulled Nora from her thoughts. Astrid walked in with the morning paper in her hands, and by the look on her face, she hadn’t been reading the latest news of Madame Caillaux. Events across Europe seemed to worsen with each passing day. Nora wondered what had happened now.

Astrid approached the writing desk where Nora sat. “Good morning, dear.”

She laid the paper on the desk. “I’m afraid there is troubling news out of Belgrade. Austria-Hungary has broken off diplomatic relations with Serbia.”

Nora tried to recall what she had read last about the dispute between the two countries. “That does sound troubling. Austria had threatened war if Serbia did not agree to its demands, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, that’s right. And Serbia has now ordered its army to mobilize.” Astrid frowned.

Nora picked up the paper and scanned the article.

“If Russia steps in to protect Serbia, Germany may take Austria-Hungary’s side,” Astrid continued. “Since France is allied with Russia, France could then be pulled into the war too.”

“That is a great deal of ifs,” Nora said.

“Perhaps, but I would rather not remain in Paris long enough to see how many of them prove true.”

Nora sighed. The paper spoke of armies mobilizing, but surely Astrid’s fear that Europe’s alliances would eventually draw France into the quarrel was not a true threat. Yet Astrid was convinced the danger was real. Nora set the paper back on the desk.

“Surely this confirms we must return home,” Astrid continued, gazing out the window. “I fear it is no longer safe here.”

Nora rose from her chair and joined her at the window. “I assure you, Astrid, I do not take the matter lightly. But it is not so simple.”

Astrid said nothing, keeping her eyes fixed on the gardens outside.

“No war has been declared. It is a lot of speculation at this point,” Nora continued. “I am not yet prepared to make a decision.”

Astrid finally took her eyes off the gardens and looked at Nora.

“You came here to settle your father’s business. I know how much it means to you to finish what he began.”

“And it is not yet finished,” Nora said. “Matters at Maison Moreau remain unsettled, and I still do not know what Mr. Cartwright intends.”

“I understand that, dear,” Astrid said. “I also understand that you do not want to fail your father. But he would want you to be safe first and foremost. You always meant far more to him than Osterly & Co. ever did.”

Nora’s throat tightened at the mention of her father. She hadn’t considered that her hesitation to leave was rooted in her fear of disappointing him. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to let him down again,” she said quietly.

Astrid stared at her. “My dear, you have never let him down.”

“But I have.”

Nora took a deep breath, unsure if she could say what she needed to say next.

“I should have stopped him from going below that night. I should have waited for him before I entered the boat,” she continued then quickly wiped away the tear that escaped. “Instead, I left without him.”

“You did as he asked. You could not have known that he would not return.” Astrid took both of Nora’s hands in her own. “You did not fail him that night, and you have not failed him since. I trust you will make the right decision now.”

Nora gave her a small, grateful smile. She wished she could accept Astrid’s reassurance as easily as it had been offered.

Later that morning, Nora and Astrid attended their regular Sunday service at Holy Trinity, taking their places among the impeccably dressed expatriates. The organ filled the nave with luminous music, and Nora sang along with the familiar English hymns. Twice she lost her place when her thoughts strayed to her afternoon walk with Étienne. Beside her, Astrid did not seem to notice, and Nora was grateful.

After an elegant luncheon at the Crillon, Nora and Astrid returned to their suite. At last it was time for Nora to dress for her walk in Luxembourg Gardens. She changed out of the navy tailored dress she had worn to church and found herself choosing her favorite pale blue silk trimmed in lace, then attached her mother’s diamond bar pin at the collar with extra care. She gave herself an appraising look in the mirror, satisfied with the way the shade of her dress set off her auburn hair and brought out the blue in her eyes.

Once dressed, Nora found Astrid in the sitting room seated at one end of the settee absorbed in a book. She looked up as Nora entered, her eyes flitting over the pale blue dress.

“You look especially lovely this afternoon. I see you’ve taken extra care for your walk with Monsieur Moreau,” she said.

“I have taken no more care than I would for any afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens.”

Astrid’s gaze settled on the diamond pin. “Of course. And your favorite silk was merely the first dress at hand.”

Nora reached for her gloves, unable to suppress a smile. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

Astrid simply returned Nora’s smile, but her look said everything.

“It is only a walk,” Nora said, feeling suddenly defensive.

“I said nothing to the contrary.”

“No, but your expression did.”

Astrid set down her book and joined Nora by the door. “My expression said nothing, dear. Now go and enjoy your walk.”

Nora relaxed and gave Astrid a quick hug before leaving.

Once outside the hotel, a footman escorted her to a waiting carriage and helped her inside. As they passed the fountains of the Place de la Concorde, Nora’s anticipation began to grow. She looked out the window, hoping the familiar sights of Paris would ease her anxiety, and watched the columned façade of the Palais Bourbon give way to the Haussmann buildings that lined Boulevard Saint-Germain. They were getting close.

Soon, the Luxembourg Palace came into view at the end of the street, and a rush of nervous excitement surged through her. When the carriage stopped outside the garden gates, she took a deep breath and adjusted her diamond bar pin before accepting the driver’s hand. As she entered the gardens, she saw Étienne waiting just inside.

He looked handsome as ever in a light grey linen suit and straw boater hat. He smiled when he saw her. Seeing him in this serene setting disarmed her more than usual, his dark eyes somehow more intense, his smile somehow more charming. He greeted her with his customary kiss on each cheek and she blushed right on cue.

“Bonjour, Nora. You look lovely,” he said, his gaze lingering on her briefly with admiration. “I am very glad you came.”

“Thank you. I was pleased to be asked.” Her cheeks still felt warm.

He smiled again and offered his arm. “Shall we walk?”

“I should like that very much,” she replied, accepting his outstretched arm.

They began walking along a broad gravel path beneath the shade of the chestnut trees. Around them, other couples strolled leisurely through the gardens while children chased one another across the lawns. Nora became conscious of how different this felt from their time together at Maison Moreau. With her arm looped through his and no gemstone waiting to be studied or sketch lying between them, she felt a current run through her.

As they continued to stroll along the wide path, their conversation came easily. They started in familiar territory, but soon wandered past topics of gemstones and commissions to books they had read and places they hoped to visit. Gradually, Nora’s self-consciousness faded and she felt more at ease in Étienne’s company than she had felt with anyone in quite some time.

Before long, they reached the Medici Fountain, its long basin of water reflecting the trees above in a ribbon of green glass. At its head, the bronze giant Polyphemus stood ready to strike down two lovers cast in white marble, a myth of doomed love Nora found a heartless choice to preside over a garden meant for courting couples.

“I’ve always thought it strange how beautiful the grotto is from a distance,” she said. “Then, as you come closer, you realize the scene itself is rather grim.”

Étienne followed her gaze to the great bronze statue looming over the lovers. “I quite agree. I doubt Marie de Médicis had such a scene in mind when she commissioned it.”

“No,” Nora said. “That particular cruelty came later, when Haussmann’s work forced the grotto to be moved.”

“Perhaps there is some comfort in knowing that the grotto survived at all,” Étienne said.

“And in the process, Paris has gained another story to tell.”

They came upon a bench in the shade between two sycamore trees, facing the long basin of the fountain. Nora tilted her head upward to take in the full height of the large trees.

“May we sit for a moment?” she asked him. “I have something I would like to tell you.”

Étienne looked somewhat surprised. “Of course.”

He motioned toward the bench and waited while she smoothed her skirts before taking his place beside her.

“Nothing has been decided,” Nora began. “It is something I have been weighing.”

The concern in his expression made the words more difficult than she had expected.

“I have received an invitation to sail home aboard the Philadelphia with Mr. and Mrs. Harroway. They have cut their holiday short because of the growing unrest. Astrid is urging me to return with them. I thought you ought to know.”

Étienne reached for her hand.

“I confess I should be very sorry to see you go,” he said. “But I understand. It is a difficult time to be in Europe.”

“Yes, increasingly so,” she said. “Though leaving so soon was not part of my plans.”

“Then my hope is that you will decide to stay.”

Nora simply smiled at him while her heart fluttered at his words. He held her hand a moment longer before releasing it.

“Let us speak of happier things.” Étienne stood and offered his arm. “The afternoon is too fine, and your company too agreeable, not to enjoy it.”

His charm was undeniable. In that moment, she couldn’t imagine leaving Paris at all, let alone leaving as soon as the eighth of August. They walked arm in arm, seemingly no different from the handful of other couples they passed. They fell back into easy conversation, and for the rest of the afternoon, her troubles were forgotten.

Once back at the gates, Étienne gently raised her gloved fingers to his lips.

“I do hope to see you again soon, Nora,” he said, his dark eyes locked on hers. He still held her hand in his.

“As do I, Étienne.”

And she meant it more than she would have believed possible only days earlier. Through her glove, she remained conscious of where his lips had touched her. She made no move to withdraw her hand.

They lingered at the gates a little longer, neither in a hurry to bring the afternoon to an end. Finally, Étienne helped Nora into a waiting carriage. He stepped back and lifted his hat in farewell as the carriage pulled away. On the way back to the Crillon, Nora replayed the afternoon in her mind and smiled to herself.

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When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Answers from Étienne

Nora

22-23 July 1914
Paris

Nora and Astrid took their breakfast in the Crillon’s dining room the following morning. It was one of the great rooms of the old palace, with soaring molded ceilings above cream walls trimmed in gold. Small tables set with white linen and purple flowers were spaced evenly along a wall of tall windows. With only a few other guests taking their meal at this early hour, the dining room was still quiet.

They were promptly seated at their favorite table with a view of the gardens. Their waiter greeted them, already carrying coffee for Nora and a pot of tea for Astrid. After a restless night, Nora’s eyes went straight to the coffee.

“How are you this morning, mademoiselles?” he asked, serving Nora’s coffee before pouring Astrid’s tea.

“Very well, thank you.” Nora took a much-needed sip.

He placed a basket of croissants and small rolls next to a dish of apricot preserves, then completed the ensemble with a bowl of summer fruit.

“Merci, Monsieur Leblanc.” Nora smiled politely as he departed from the table.

Astrid sipped her tea, then reached for the morning paper. Nora glanced at the headline. The front page was once again devoted to the Caillaux trial.

“Mrs. Harroway sends her regards,” Nora said, hoping to avoid another discussion of whether Madame Caillaux ought to be sent to prison.

Astrid folded the paper and set it aside.

“And how do they find Switzerland?” she asked.

“Very pleasant, by Mrs. Harroway’s account. But they have decided to cut their holiday short and have taken passage on the Philadelphia for the eighth of August.”

“I cannot say I blame them,” Astrid said.

“There is more.” Nora took a croissant from the pastry basket and layered it with preserves.

“Well? Do not keep me in suspense.”

“Mrs. Harroway has invited us to join them,” Nora said.

“Has she?” Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Have you an answer for her?”

“Not yet.” Nora broke off a small piece from her croissant but did not eat it. “It would be a comfort to sail with them, but I hesitate to leave while matters at Maison Moreau remain unsettled.”

“Many people are leaving Paris. Perhaps we would do well to follow suit.”

Nora took a slow sip of coffee.

“Perhaps.” She set down her cup and turned it slowly in its saucer. “I shall think on it a little longer before I write to Mrs. Harroway.”

“Do not think too long, dear,” Astrid said.

Nora looked at Astrid and saw the fear in her eyes. “Of course, Astrid. But before I can make a decision, I must know why Mr. Cartwright went to Maison Moreau. I wrote to Monsieur Moreau last evening to ask whether he might receive me tomorrow.”

“Good,” Astrid said. “I shall be interested to hear what you learn.”

“You shall be the first to know.”

They finished their breakfast in easier conversation, lingering over the last of their coffee and tea as the tables around them gradually filled. When their plates had been cleared, Astrid reached for the newspaper and began to read. Nora’s thoughts had already turned to Maison Moreau and the questions she had for Étienne.

23 July 1914

The following day, Nora’s carriage carried her along the Quai aux Fleurs to Maison Moreau. Étienne’s reply had reached her the morning after her request, expressing his delight that she would like to visit again so soon. Nora wished she shared his eagerness. On the way to the atelier, she had rehearsed how she would ask about Mr. Cartwright, but every version sounded too accusatory. She hoped not to offend Étienne, especially if it was Lionel alone who could not be trusted.

Before entering the atelier, she stopped at the display window, partly out of habit and partly because she was not yet ready to hear what Étienne might tell her. A new pendant of pale citrine had joined the collection, replacing the sapphire bracelet that used to be there. The stone featured a cut she hadn’t seen from Maison Moreau before, with low, wide facets that caught the light. Nora couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. She gave the pendant one final look, then pushed open the door and found Geneviève waiting to greet her.

“Ma chère Mademoiselle Osterly.” Geneviève kissed her on each cheek. “Bienvenue.”

Geneviève was dressed in a plain linen skirt and jacket. Her dark brown hair was pinned back neatly at the nape of her neck.

“Mademoiselle Moreau,” Nora said, “how nice to see you.”

As they made their way through the showroom, Nora noticed that none of the pieces had changed since her last visit. The necklaces had been rearranged, but the brooches and rings remained just as she remembered.

“How have you found the heat this summer?” Geneviève asked.

“It is much the same as Providence.”

“Every summer I grow less patient with it,” Geneviève said. “How is Astrid?”

“She is well. She has been following the Caillaux trial.”

“Most of Paris seems to be following nothing else. Étienne pretends not to care, but he reads Le Figaro at breakfast every morning.”

“Does he?” Nora laughed.

“Do not tell him I said so.” Geneviève smiled as she opened the door to Étienne’s office.

Inside, Étienne and Henri were bent over a workbench by the window. A sheet of paper was between them, and Étienne was pointing to something on it with the tip of his pencil. Both of them looked up as the women entered.

“Mademoiselle Osterly.” Henri straightened first. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you, Monsieur Lefèvre.”

Étienne set down his pencil and came around the workbench. “Bonjour,” he said, kissing Nora on each cheek. “It is so nice to see you, Mademoiselle Osterly.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau,” Nora said, cheeks flushed as usual. “I did not mean to interrupt. Is something wrong?”

Étienne gestured toward the paper he’d been frowning over. “It’s the Baronne de Montfort, writing to say she will postpone her daughter’s wedding commission until autumn, or perhaps later.”

“By itself, it would not be concerning, but this is the third postponement this month,” Henri added.

“Is it only the commissions, or have sales in the showroom continued to decline as well?” Nora asked.

“Sales have continued to slow, yes. It is no longer only the departure of our Russian and German clients that affects us. Our French clients have grown more careful with their money. I cannot fault them for it,” Étienne said.

“No, I suppose not.” Nora looked between Étienne and Henri. She shared the concern that she could see in their expressions.

“But that is not why you’ve come,” Henri said. “I will leave you and Monsieur Moreau to your meeting, Mademoiselle.”

After they exchanged goodbyes, Henri gave Nora a quick kiss on the cheek and made his way out. Geneviève stepped aside to let him pass.

“I shall be at the accounts if you need me,” she said and closed the door behind her.

Étienne gestured toward the desk. “Please have a seat, Mademoiselle Osterly.”

Nora remained standing. “First, there is something I wished to ask you, Monsieur Moreau. I had coffee with Mrs. Cartwright two days ago. She mentioned that her husband had called here.”

“Cartwright…” Étienne thought for a moment. “Yes, he was looking for a brooch for his wife. Do you know him?”

“We met aboard the Olympic. He expressed an interest in investing in Osterly & Co., which I declined.”

Étienne looked surprised.

“His wife did not know that our houses were partners,” Nora continued. “But she did say he had spoken of your difficulties.”

Étienne’s expression went from surprise to concern. “He asked how we were finding the season. I told him business had been quieter than usual.”

“I must ask you, Monsieur Moreau.” Nora fixed her eyes on his. “Did Mr. Cartwright propose anything to you while he was here?”

“Nothing, Mademoiselle.” He did not look down but held her gaze. “He was here only as a customer.”

Only then did Nora realize how tightly her hands were clasped. She relaxed just a little. “Perhaps I have misunderstood. Did he speak of anything else?”

Étienne thought for a moment. “He spoke of his wife’s family in Germany,” he finally said. “We fell into conversation about the inconvenience of conducting business across borders. I mentioned Herr Kessler’s return to Germany.”

“Did you tell him of the loan?” Nora asked, her tension rising again.

“Only in general terms. I gave him no details.”

Nora studied him. There was no hesitation in his account, no sign that he had knowingly kept anything from her. Yet Lionel had learned of Maison Moreau’s declining sales and, more troubling still, the existence of her father’s loan. What might an ambitious man like Mr. Cartwright do with even that little information? Her concerns about Étienne’s role had eased, but her suspicion of Lionel remained. He still posed a threat.

“I should have preferred that he knew nothing of it,” Nora said, finally taking the seat Étienne had offered her.

He followed her lead and let out a deep breath as he sat in the chair behind his desk.

“I apologize if I have said something I shouldn’t have,” he began. “The partnership with Osterly & Co, with your father, and now you... It is more important to me than you may know.”

Nora looked across the desk at him. He had a raw expression on his face that she hadn’t seen before.

“There is something I would like to share with,” he said. “About the state of Maison Moreau when I partnered with your father. He believed he was helping Osterly & Co. and Maison Moreau expand. But it was much more than that.”

“What do you mean?” Nora asked.

Étienne lowered his eyes. He seemed uncertain how to begin. “You remember I once spoke of the damage from the great flood of Paris?”

“Yes, of course.” Nora thought back to her first visit to Maison Moreau. She had seen the water marks still faintly visible on the workshop walls. When she asked about them, Étienne had told her of the devastation the flood had caused. Geneviève had kept the atelier running while Étienne oversaw the repairs. He had said Maison Moreau was recovering, but nothing more.

“When the rains came that January in 1910, the Seine kept rising. There was nowhere for the water to go. It eventually began seeping through the foundation and forcing its way up through the drains. When we saw what was happening, we took everything of value out of the cellar.”

He paused.

“Eventually the water filled the cellar and crept into the ground floor. The gas lines along the Quai aux Fleurs were shut off, leaving the atelier dark and cold. We had no choice but to abandon the building. The wooden floors had begun to buckle, and cracks had appeared in the walls. We knew it was no longer safe.”

Étienne lowered his eyes. When he continued, his voice was quieter.

“Geneviève and I had gone ahead. My father was only a few steps behind us when the floor gave way beneath him.”

Nora drew in a sharp breath. She could still see her father as he turned to go back below deck for warmer clothes. “Oh, Étienne.”

“There was nothing we could do,” he said. His voice cracked just slightly. “It was several days after the river began to subside before anyone could enter the cellar.”

“I am so sorry.” She understood too well the cruelty of being near a loved one in danger yet unable to help.

“I know you understand this kind of loss.” He looked at her, his expression gentle. “My father founded the atelier in 1870. His life’s work was in that building, and within a matter of days, Geneviève and I had lost him and so much of what he built.”

“But you and Geneviève rebuilt and Maison Moreau endures.” Nora offered him a small smile.

“We would not have without your father,” Étienne said. “After the flood, Geneviève and I tried to repair what we could, but we didn’t have enough money. The cost of rebuilding was more than we could manage.”

His gaze moved to a small gold figure displayed on the shelf beside the window.

“Saint Éloi,” he said. “The patron saint of goldsmiths. He has been in our family for generations.”

Nora studied the figure more closely. “He is beautifully made.”

“A collector once offered my father a considerable sum for him, but he refused. He said Saint Éloi belonged in the Moreau family.”

“Did you consider selling it to save Maison Moreau?” Nora asked.

“Before I had to make that choice, your father walked through the door. A stranger from America admiring my work. And before I knew it, the prospect of a partnership kept our hope alive.”

Nora felt her throat tighten. “He never told me his investment saved Maison Moreau.”

“No,” Etienne said, “because your father never knew it.”

Nora drew a slow breath. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything.” He stood up and walked to the window. “But I thought you should know. This place exists because of him. Everything we are doing now—these designs, this partnership, the future we’re building—none of it would have happened without your father.”

Nora followed him to the window. “Thank you for telling me.”

He turned to her and took her gloved hand in his. In his touch, she felt their bond strengthen—through their shared understanding of loss and the resilience required to survive it. She looked up at him and in that moment, she understood why her father had trusted him. She knew now that she could trust him too.

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I caught my first glimpse of Lake Geneva from a high-speed train as I traveled from Milan last year, a beautiful finale to an already spectacular journey through the Alps. But it wasn’t until I walked down to the waterfront that I truly appreciated the magic of this giant lake. Its calm waters stretch beneath the Swiss Alps and beyond the French border, giving it a vastness I hadn’t expected. Being there in the quiet of winter made it feel even more enchanting. The lake was devoid of tourist boats and summer crowds. All that was left to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere was me and the swans swimming serenely across the water.

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Playground for the Wealthy

More than a century before my visit, Lake Geneva was already one of Europe’s great vacation destinations. During the Belle Époque, from 1871 to 1914, wealthy American travelers came for the spectacular views as we do today, but they also chose Lake Geneva for its grand hotels, elegant steamers and the Swiss hospitality that dominated luxury travel at the time.

The grand hotels along the shores of Lake Geneva were much more than just places to sleep. They were at the heart of the social scene, and the social scene was everything. Wealthy travelers dined in extravagance and gathered in elegant salons, taking note of who else was there. Even the visitors’ book became part of the social experience. Guests could browse the names of the prominent guests who had stayed before them, while leaving their own name and social affiliations behind to impress travelers who followed. Being able to say you had stayed at one of Europe’s fashionable grand hotels carried a status all its own.

A Belle Époque vacation on Lake Geneva moved at a very different pace from European travel today. Wealthy visitors didn’t arrive at a grand hotel for two or three nights before hurrying on to the next city. Stays of several weeks, or even months, were common. With trunks of clothing unpacked into their rooms and their household staff accompanying them, a grand hotel became a temporary home for the season.

Affluent families arrived with an entourage, typically bringing two to four personal servants, including a lady’s maid and a nanny or tutor for the children, while some also traveled with a secretary, butler or chauffeur. Their servants stayed at the hotels too, although in decidedly less glamorous accommodations. At the Caux Palace above Montreux, guests occupied luxurious rooms overlooking Lake Geneva, while their servants slept in smaller rooms on the mountain-facing side of the same floors and used separate staircases.

Fresh Air and a Good Night’s Sleep

There was another reason Switzerland appealed to travelers of the period: people believed it was good for them. Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, European physicians increasingly prescribed changes of climate, fresh air, rest and outdoor activity for a variety of ailments. Switzerland became particularly associated with this culture of restorative travel, with its mountain air, beautiful scenery and tranquil surroundings, all believed to help restore an overtaxed nervous system.

Switzerland provided Americans a sanctuary from the smog of rapidly industrializing cities like New York and Chicago. Doctors even prescribed climatic cures for people suffering from neurasthenia, a term used for burnout, anxiety and insomnia. Edwardian doctors genuinely believed that the unique microclimate where the Swiss Alps met Lake Geneva created a tranquil atmosphere that acted as an antidote.

As a result, the ritual of rest was taken seriously. At Swiss resorts, guests spent hours reclining outdoors on deep set hotel balconies, wrapped in expensive wool blankets while breathing the mountain air and starring at the glassy water to soothe their nerves. Around Lake Geneva, they could also visit spa towns for hydrotherapy and mineral-water treatments. Just across the lake in Évian-les-Bains, visitors came specifically to drink and bathe in the mineral water for which the town was already famous.

Then and Now

One of the things I love about Lake Geneva is how much of its Belle Époque world can still exists today. From preserved boats that transport visitors back in time to grand hotels that have been serving guests for well over a century, Lake Geneva is a time capsule of that elegant era.

Paddle Steamers

During the Belle Époque, paddle steamers were one of the most elegant ways to travel around the lake. The Compagnie Générale de Navigation (CGN), Lake Geneva’s passenger-boat company, carried visitors between Geneva and fashionable lakeside destinations such as Lausanne, Vevey, Montreux and Évian. By the early twentieth century, its finest vessels offered first-class salons designed to rival the grand hotels waiting on shore. Passengers walked across teak decks into richly decorated interiors filled with intricate wood marquetry, gilded details, plush carpets and comfortable upholstered seating. Outside, they could stroll the open decks and watch the Alps, vineyards, and grand hotels drift past as coal-fired engines powered the great paddle wheels beneath them. Crossing the lake wasn’t simply transportation. The journey itself was part of the luxury vacation.

You can still experience these historic vessels today. Six vessels from the CGN fleet continue to carry passengers on Lake Geneva, including La Suisse, commissioned in 1910, and Savoie, commissioned in 1914. They offer scenic cruises, service between lakeside towns, and dinner cruises serving Swiss and regional dishes. Extensive restorations have preserved their elegant period appearance while also incorporating modern safety systems and technology beneath the surface. Despite the use of 21st-century technology, the Belle Époque aesthetic remains alive and you can still see the beautiful surroundings of Lake Geneva from the water much as travelers did more than one hundred years ago.

The Jet d’Eau

Geneva’s signature landmark has also existed since the opulent days of the Belle Époque. This unique spray of water that jets high up into the sky straight out of the lake is known as the Jet d’Eau (“jet of water”).

It originally appeared almost accidentally in 1886, when a hydraulic plant needed a way to release excess water pressure after the city’s workshops shut down for the evening. People loved the resulting plume of water so much that in 1891 Geneva created a new Jet d’Eau in the harbor, where it became a popular attraction.

Visitors today see a more dramatic version of what was seen then. As a result of a new pumping station installed in 1951, the height of the water increased from about 295 feet (90 meters) to a dramatic 460 feet (140 meters). The accidental burst of water that delighted Belle Époque visitors still delights travelers today and has become the iconic symbol of Geneva.

When the Sea Was Still Connection

Lake Geneva is the vacation destination for a wealthy couple in my serial novel When the Sea Was Still, which inspired me to dig deeper into what they would have experienced there in July 1914. I hope you’ve enjoyed traveling back with me to Lake Geneva during the elegant days of the Belle Époque!

If you’d like to learn more about When the Sea Was Still, you can read about it here.

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When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Surprise Invitation

Nora

21 July 1914
Paris

By the time Nora returned to the Crillon, the rain had settled into a steady downpour. But even its persistent drumming on the carriage roof wasn’t loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She had spent almost the entire ride going over the possible reasons Mr. Cartwright might want to call on Maison Moreau. Once back in her room, she looked for Astrid, keen to discuss what she had learned, but found the suite empty.

Left to ruminate on her own, Nora removed her hat and gloves and settled onto the settee near the windows. As she watched the rain streak the glass in uneven streams, she tried to find an innocent explanation for Mr. Cartwright’s visit to the atelier. Perhaps Lionel merely wished to purchase a gift for his wife. But why would Marion speak of one man’s difficulties leading to opportunities? Unless that was simply the explanation Lionel had given her to conceal the true purpose of his visit. Then why mention Maison Moreau to his wife at all? No, he had gone there for a different reason. She was certain of it.

Whatever business had taken Lionel Cartwright to the atelier, the meeting had occurred only days before Nora herself sat across from Étienne. He had been open with her about the house’s slowdown, yet he had said nothing of speaking with Mr. Cartwright. If Lionel’s visit concerned Maison Moreau’s financial difficulties, surely it was something she should have known.

But it was not only Étienne’s silence that troubled her. The questions about Mr. Cartwright’s motives had begun to multiply faster than she could answer them. Was he using her to get to Étienne or the other way around? And what had he actually proposed to Étienne? A loan, a partnership of his own, a purchase of Herr Kessler’s note?

A chill ran through her.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Nora rose from the settee, too restless to remain seated. She had always assumed Mr. Cartwright’s interest in Osterly & Co. had begun only after they met aboard the Olympic. Now she was no longer certain.

Nora thought back to that first dinner of the crossing, when she had met Lionel Cartwright. She remembered her initial impression of him all too well. Everything about Mr. Cartwright had proclaimed his wealth, yet the watch chain was just a shade too bright, his insistence that White Star Line remained “the standard” just a bit too eager. She had marked him at once as a man who had made his own money and wanted the room to know it. To her, it had seemed a harmless vanity.

As she thought more about that dinner, she started to see it differently. When their conversation had turned to her reasons for coming to Paris, he had said, “I imagine assuming your father’s responsibilities has brought its share of complications.” She had murmured a noncommittal agreement, taking it for genuine sympathy at the time. Now she wondered whether he had been looking for vulnerability instead. Perhaps she had underestimated the ambitions of Lionel Cartwright.

She watched as the rain began to let up. The lines on the glass softened to scattered drops. She would find no answers through further speculation. She would have to ask Étienne himself the next time they met. In the meantime, she went to find Astrid.

Later that afternoon, Nora and Astrid took their customary stroll through the Tuileries before dinner. The rain had cleared and in its place was air as fresh as the Swiss mountain air Mrs. Harroway had always spoken so fondly of. Heavy drops still fell occasionally from the chestnut leaves overhead as they walked along the wet gravel path.

Astrid was in unusually good spirits. Nora had finally found her in one of the Crillon’s small salons, absorbed in Le Figaro. Madame Caillaux’s trial had begun the previous day, and Astrid had been so intent on reading the latest reports that she had gone downstairs without leaving Nora a note.

“And how did you find Mrs. Cartwright?” Astrid asked.

“Quite charming, actually. I enjoyed her company,” Nora said. “Though she did tell me something rather troubling.”

“And somehow I suspect Mr. Cartwright is involved.”

“You suspect correctly.” Nora stepped around a small puddle on the path.

She recounted what Mrs. Cartwright had told her, beginning with Mr. Cartwright’s visit to Maison Moreau. She explained that he seemed to know of the difficulties the jewelry house was facing and had implied to his wife that a man of means could take advantage of such distress. Astrid listened as they continued along the damp path, her expressive eyebrows saying more than any words could.

“But perhaps the most troubling part,” Nora continued, “was finding out that it was Mr. Cartwright who had encouraged her to write to me in the first place.”

“I very much doubt Mr. Cartwright was concerned with his wife’s social calendar,” Astrid said. “And Mrs. Cartwright had no idea that Maison Moreau was connected to Osterly & Co.?”

“None. She was mortified when I told her.”

“Then her invitation may have been innocent, even if her husband’s encouragement was not,” Astrid said.

“That is what troubles me.” Nora slowed as they approached a large pool of water that stretched nearly across the path. She gathered her skirt and stepped around its edge. “Lionel knew I had refused his interest in Osterly & Co. Why would he then go to our partner in Paris?”

“Perhaps your refusal only convinced him to look for another way in,” Astrid said, navigating around the puddle.

Nora looked at her. “That is my fear.”

Around them, the gardens continued to spring back to life as Parisians returned to their usual afternoon rhythm after the rain.

“What will you do?” Astrid asked.

“First, I must speak to Étienne,” Nora said. “There may be a simple explanation.”

Astrid nodded but did not look convinced.

As they continued along the path, Nora noticed a gentleman in a boater hat seated on a bench beneath the trees. He was speaking to the woman beside him, pointing to the open newspaper she held. As she looked to see what he was indicating, the brim of her large hat caught the newspaper and sent it fluttering to the ground. The gentleman immediately leaned over to pick it up.

Astrid looked at them with interest.

“I suppose you are wondering whether there is more news of Madame Caillaux,” Nora teased.

“Am I that obvious?” Astrid asked.

“There is no shame in following what all of Paris is obsessed with. Do fill me in on the morning news that pulled you away without leaving a note.”

Astrid gave her what passed for a sheepish look.

“The trial started yesterday,” she said. “The courtroom was overflowing with those who wanted to get a look at the woman who shot a man.”

“Clara is no doubt sorry to be missing the spectacle of it,” Nora said.

“I’m surprised she would miss it,” Astrid replied. “She may be the only person in Paris more captivated by the affair than I am.”

“Clara has gone traveling again,” Nora said.

“Then I am no longer surprised. Where to this time?”

“She wrote to me of a motorcar trip through Spain shortly before she left,” Nora said. “I know no one else up for such an adventure.”

“Adventure is one word for it,” Astrid said, shaking her head slightly.

“She sounded quite delighted by the whole thing,” Nora said. “She intends to remain away for some time before returning to Paris.”

“After riding in her motorcar, I would not dare to take it across an entire country.”

Nora laughed.

As they made their way back toward the Crillon, the afternoon promenade was in full swing. Each group they passed was more elegantly dressed than the last. The fashionable hour had come upon them, and with it gentlemen strolling with silver-topped canes and groups of ladies more intent on being seen than on seeing.

By the time they arrived back at their hotel, the clouds had given way to blue sky, and little evidence remained of the morning rain. Inside, the dampness that had settled over them succumbed to the warmth of the lobby. Nora and Astrid stopped at the concierge’s desk to retrieve the room keys they had left before their walk. The clerk turned to the numbered pigeonholes behind the desk and returned with two keys. Along with Nora’s, he placed a letter on the counter.

“A letter arrived for you this afternoon, Mademoiselle.”

“Merci, monsieur,” Nora replied.

She tucked the envelope into her reticule, and she and Astrid continued through the lobby to the grand marble staircase.

“Who is the letter from?” Astrid asked as they climbed the stairs.

“It’s from Mrs. Harroway,” Nora said. “I shall be glad to hear how she is faring in Geneva.”

Once inside their suite, Astrid excused herself to dress for dinner. Before Nora herself began to get ready, she was anxious to hear of what news Mrs. Harroway had sent. She sat at the writing desk and drew the letter from her reticule.

My dear Nora,

Your letter reached us yesterday and I was so pleased to hear that you and Astrid are safely settled at the Crillon. Clara’s judgment in these matters is, as ever, beyond reproach. I can picture your rooms already and I daresay the view of the gardens is exactly what you needed after the crossing.

I am delighted that you have located your mother’s ring. I remember well how much she adored it. It is a comfort to know it will be where it belongs very soon.

Charles and I are having a wonderful stay here in Geneva. The air is as fine as I always promised you it would be, and I have slept more soundly this week than I have in months. Charles has taken up with a group of English gentlemen at the hotel who share his fondness for the newspapers, which spares me a great deal of comment on European affairs at breakfast. I count this among the season’s blessings.

Despite our enjoyment, we have grown cautious and have decided to cut our holiday short. We shall be heading home earlier than planned, and we have taken passage on the Philadelphia on the 8^th of August. Do consider joining us, won’t you?

Please give my warm regards to Astrid.

Yours ever,

Josie Harroway

Nora lowered the letter to the desk and sat back in her chair. She was unprepared for such an invitation but not surprised by the Harroways’ desire to return home. Astrid had recently been hinting about an early departure as well.

By the eighth of August, her appointment at the bank would be concluded, and her mother’s ring would be safely back in her possession. Perhaps sailing home with the Harroways would be the sensible thing to do.

Although the invitation was tempting, Nora felt an unease that seemed to be pulling her to stay. Leaving Paris so soon felt premature. A copy of Le Figaro lay on the corner of the desk. The headline announcing the beginning of Madame Caillaux’s trial screamed out at her:

LE PROCÈS DE Mme CAILLAUX
Première audience

“The Trial of Madame Caillaux: First Hearing,” Nora translated.

Under the headline, in much smaller type, was news of the President of France’s visit to Russia. Nora pondered its significance. Each day the paper wrote of countries siding with one another while others seemed to be gearing for a fight. If all of Paris was more consumed with a murder trial, surely there was no cause for alarm.

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The Art of the Promenade

During the Belle Époque, the Tuileries Garden was one of Paris’s most fashionable stages. By the summer of 1914, the promenade there had been a Parisian institution for generations. The wide gravel paths beneath the trees, laid out centuries earlier for royalty, had become the runway of Paris’s most fashionable residents and visitors.

The promenade was about more than getting from one place to another or enjoying a little fresh air. It was a social occasion—a chance to see who was out, observe the latest fashions, exchange greetings with acquaintances, and, perhaps most importantly, be seen yourself.

The Tuileries had long been one of Paris’s great stages for this ritual. As far back as the seventeenth century, fashion chroniclers came to the gardens to observe what fashionable women were wearing as they sat on benches or strolled along its paths. New styles spotted there eventually made their way into fashion publications. More than two centuries later, the connection between the Tuileries and Paris fashion remained.

Fashion was an important part of the spectacle. Well-dressed women appeared in carefully chosen afternoon clothes, their long skirts, fitted jackets, and elaborate hats reflecting the season’s latest styles. Men arrived in tailored suits and hats appropriate for the hour. Every element could serve as a signal of taste, means, and familiarity with what Paris considered current. To be underdressed in the Tuileries was its own kind of announcement, and Parisians of a certain class understood exactly how to read one another.

By 1914, the clothing moving through those gardens had already started to evolve away from the enormous skirts we often associate with nineteenth-century Paris. Women’s silhouettes had become narrower and more streamlined, although dressing for an afternoon promenade was still a far cry from today’s idea of throwing on a pair of sneakers and heading out for a walk. The Metropolitan Museum of Art even has a “promenade suit” dating from around 1914 and believed to be French, evidence that walking clothes were a category of fashion in their own right.

So when Nora and Astrid set off through the Tuileries, they are stepping into one of the city’s oldest social rituals, in a garden where Parisians had been watching one another—and watching what everyone was wearing—for centuries.

Welcome back to Tuesday’s newsletter! A few weeks ago I told you that going forward we would be exploring the real places and fascinating history behind the travels that inspire my writing. Although it’s taken a little longer than I intended, today I’m taking you straight to the heart of Paris. But we aren’t just traveling across the globe; we are traveling back in time, as far back as 1778, through the glittering Belle Époque of the early twentieth century, and back to present day.

The Hotel de Crillon

It’s easy to walk into one of the most luxurious hotels in Paris when you act like you belong there. At least, that’s what I told myself as I walked through the doors of the Hôtel de Crillon on a cold January day. I had looked into staying there for just one night, but since it would cost more than my flight from Phoenix, I opted to walk in like I owned the place instead.

The hotel was at the top of my list of sights to see during my research trip to Paris. So I walked in, tried not to look too much like someone who had no business being there, and started exploring.

From the moment I stepped inside, I felt as though I’d entered a palace of Parisian luxury: glittering chandeliers, marble floors, soaring ceilings, golden accents, and a series of rooms that kept getting more beautiful as I walked through them. This is the kind of place where you find yourself saying wow around every corner.

Marie Antoinette at the Crillon

Long before the Crillon was a hotel, it was a grand private residence of the family of the Count of Crillon. The building was designed in the exquisite Neoclassical style by Ange-Jacques Gabriel, one of the leading architects of his time. It is said that Marie Antoinette came here regularly for private piano lessons between October 1789 and August 1792. The royal family had been forced out of Versailles and moved into the nearby, comparatively run-down Tuileries Palace. The grand private mansion, located just a stone’s throw from Antoinette’s new residence, offered an elegant escape for her music lessons.

As the legend goes, the second-floor salon associated with those lessons was decorated with exquisite bronze-gilt details and was lit by massive, lead-crystal tier chandeliers holding dozens of beeswax candles. Marie Antoinette sat at a fortepiano looking through magnificent glass doors onto a columned terrace that gave her a direct view of the Place Louis XV, now Place de la Concorde—the very square where she would lose her life little more than a year later.

Today, the hotel has a Marie-Antoinette Suite adjoining the historic salon associated with those piano lessons. I stood in the suite named for the fallen queen looking out over the Place de la Concorde, having no idea about any of this. All I knew was that I was in an incredibly beautiful room whose door had been left open, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be there or not. I snapped a few quick photos, took in the view, and got out.

From Palace to Hotel

When the Hôtel de Crillon opened its doors as a luxury hotel on March 12, 1909, it represented the absolute zenith of Belle Époque glamour. Its soaring reception salons preserved the grandeur of the eighteenth-century building while introducing the opulence expected of one of Paris’s newest luxury hotels. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, tapestries covered the walls, and enormous windows looked out over the Place de la Concorde.

Over the years it attracted famous guests like Isadora Duncan, Igor Stravinsky, Charlie Chaplin, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Peggy Guggenheim. But for a cultured intellectual like Edith Wharton, it was the ultimate sanctuary. She booked a room the very spring the hotel opened to draft her novel The Custom of the Country, which was published in 1913. She deliberately chose the Crillon over the Ritz—which she detested for attracting the ostentatious, newly rich American crowd.

Wharton famously described her favorite top-floor suite as a “very nice apartment up in the sky, overlooking the whole of Paris.” From these lofty windows, a guest at that time could look out at the transition of a century: horse-drawn carriages sharing the asphalt with sleek early motorcars on the Place de la Concorde.

Edith Wharton continued to stay at the Hôtel de Crillon even after establishing a home of her own in Paris. At the end of July 1914, she took rooms there after a motorcar trip through Spain. She was due to depart on August 2, but became stranded at the hotel when France ordered general mobilization just days before entering WWI. In Fighting France, Wharton describes looking out from the terrace of the Crillon as taxis and private motorcars carried soldiers across the Place de la Concorde toward the railway stations. Groups of soldiers marched through the square carrying their bags.

Diplomacy at the Crillon

Before Marie Antoinette, Edith Wharton, and the other famous guests, the Crillon played a key role in America’s first alliance. In 1778, Benjamin Franklin and his fellow American commissioners met with French representatives in the hotel’s magnificent Salon des Aigles (Eagles Room) for the signing of two historic agreements. The Treaty of Alliance made France America’s first formal ally, while the Treaty of Amity and Commerce recognized the United States as an independent nation.

More than 140 years later, just 10 years after becoming a hotel, the Crillon was once again the setting for an important moment in international diplomacy. In 1919, after the devastation of the First World War, the covenant establishing the League of Nations was signed in the same Salon des Aigles. The League of Nations was an ambitious attempt to bring countries together to prevent another catastrophic war. Although it ultimately failed and was dissolved after WWII, its legacy helped shape the United Nations.

The Crillon Today

Over a century after the League of Nations covenant was signed in the Salon des Aigles, the Crillon still exists in the same kind of unapologetic luxury. Echoing the transformation that preceded its opening as a hotel in 1909, a four-year restoration completed in 2017 preserved the Crillon’s historic salons and eighteenth-century details while bringing it firmly into the twenty-first century. Some of the numbers are staggering: 250 artisans worked on the restoration, and 53 different types of marble were used throughout the hotel. I didn’t even know there were 53 kinds of marble I needed to covet, but after walking through the Crillon, I believe it.

The restored chandeliers and iconic views over the Place de la Concorde remain, along with the protected historic spaces of the Marie-Antoinette and Aigles salons, with ceilings dating back to 1775-76. The fashions and famous faces have changed since Wharton checked in during the Belle Époque. More recently, the hotel has welcomed guests like Madonna, Jennifer Lopez, Roger Federer, Andy Warhol, and Taylor Swift. Today’s Crillon mixes all its fantastic history with modern Parisian luxury.

My Takeaway

My visit to the Hôtel de Crillon was part of a research trip I took to Paris to learn firsthand about the setting for the second half of my historical novel When the Sea Was Still. I walked into the hotel hoping to get a glimpse of the 1914 world I was writing. What I found was a hotel that was not only quintessentially Parisian but a place that had seen far more than I could ever imagine.

Marie Antoinette had walked through these rooms before the French Revolution changed France forever. Edith Wharton looked out over the Place de la Concorde as Europe was on the brink of WWI. During the glittering years of the Belle Époque, some of the most famous artists, writers, and travelers in the world passed through the Crillon’s doors. I was humbled to think I had walked through them too.

Of course, the hotel looks much different today than it did in 1914. But the bones are the same. I believe the elegance is the same. And for a few hours, I felt as though I had stepped into the Paris I had spent so much time writing about.

After walking through the grand lobby, up the ornate staircase, and into the Marie Antoinette suite, I made my way back downstairs and outside the hotel. Standing at the door I had freely walked through were three large guards. I said a confident “Bonjour” and left quickly.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Disturbing Revelation

Nora

11 July–21 July 1914
Paris

The day after her meeting at Maison Moreau, Nora rose to find the morning already quite warm. She opened the tall windows to let in the fresh air. The chestnut trees below stirred in the summer breeze. She sat down at the writing desk, planning to catch up on her correspondence, but she did not reach for her pen yet. Her mind was still at Maison Moreau.

Seeing Étienne again after more than two years had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She had sometimes wondered what it might be like, particularly after his letter arrived in April. Yet nothing had prepared her for how quickly the years between them seemed to disappear. For those first few minutes at the atelier, she had almost felt like the person she used to be.

But Maison Moreau had reminded her just as quickly of everything that had changed. She had entered the atelier for the first time as the head of Osterly & Co. and sat with Étienne and Geneviève discussing debts and accounts her father should have been there to discuss himself. It had felt strangely unreal to hear herself saying the words he should have spoken and making decisions that once were his.

Life had seemed so much simpler the last time she had been there. She had been twenty-two then, with her father beside her and a future that still seemed entirely her own. She had even entertained thoughts of making a life in Paris. Then they had sailed for home aboard Titanic, and the future she had imagined disappeared along with her father. She no longer had the choices she once had. Any ideas of romance had given way to her duty to her father’s legacy. Until now, she had accepted it without question.

She dismissed further thoughts of what might have been or what still might be and focused her attention on the correspondence waiting for her. On top of the pile was a note from Mrs. Cartwright, who wrote that she and Lionel were now settled at the Hôtel du Louvre. She hoped Nora would join her there for coffee one morning so that they might continue their acquaintance away from the bustle of the Olympic. Nora was pleased by the invitation. Despite Astrid’s limited patience with the Cartwrights, Nora had enjoyed Mrs. Cartwright’s company during the crossing and was curious to see her again. She wrote to confirm that she would be delighted to come.

Next on her list was a letter to Mrs. Harroway. Nora had thought of her frequently since they parted in England and had been eager to tell her of all that had happened since her arrival in Paris.

Nora had grown closer to Mrs. Harroway in the difficult months after her father’s death, when the older woman had called regularly at the Providence house. She had always been a welcome source of encouragement, never treating Nora as though grief had made her fragile. Instead of offering endless sympathy like so many others had, she came with cheerful conversation and amusing stories that made them both laugh. Ever since, Nora had looked forward to sharing news with her friend.

Dear Mrs. Harroway,

I hope this letter finds you and Mr. Harroway enjoying the clear mountain air of Geneva and that you are sleeping as soundly as you always claimed. Astrid and I arrived in Paris without incident and have taken rooms at the Hôtel de Crillon, which is every bit as lovely as Clara promised.

The past week has been occupied with Osterly & Co.’s business in Paris. I am making what progress I can. Yesterday I visited Maison Moreau and saw Étienne and Geneviève for the first time since losing Father. Seeing them again brought back many fond memories.

I am relieved to tell you that I have located my mother’s engagement ring. You’ll recall that I did not find it among her jewelry. I shall receive it back once the matter is resolved on the first of August. It is a great comfort to know it will soon be safely home with me.

I have thought often of our crossing aboard the Olympic and of your kindness to me during those first uncertain days. Your friendship has meant more than I believe I ever properly expressed.

I hope Geneva is proving every bit as delightful as you imagined. I can almost picture you strolling beside the lake with Mr. Harroway.

Please give him my warmest regards. Astrid sends hers as well.

Yours ever,

Nora

She folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope and warmed a stick of red wax at the small candle on the desk, letting three drops fall across the flap. Then she pressed the Osterly & Co. crest into the wax and held the seal a moment. The impression came away clean. Her father’s crest looked up at her from the envelope. She set the sealed letter on the desk and rose to dress for breakfast.

The days that followed passed slowly in the heat of the Paris summer. Nora took her coffee and croissants each morning in the hotel’s dining room, while Astrid had her tea and toast. When the weather allowed, they walked in the Tuileries for exercise before dinner.

They spent one hot afternoon at the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa, safely returned only months earlier. A crowd had gathered around the small portrait, studying every detail with fascination.

“I fail to see what everyone finds so remarkable about it,” Astrid said, craning her neck to get a glimpse of it.

Nora glanced at the people surrounding them. “Perhaps it is not the woman in the painting they have come to see, but the painting that disappeared.”

“Then being stolen has done wonders for her reputation,” Astrid replied.

When at last some of the visitors parted, Nora stood awhile before the painting, glad to see her back where she belonged. Shortly after the theft, her father had taken her to see the empty space where the masterpiece should have hung. She remembered how lonely it had looked.

For more than two years, no one had known where the portrait was. It had finally been recovered the previous December, when the thief attempted to sell it to an art dealer in Florence. Now it hung once more in its rightful place, surrounded by more admirers than ever.

Tuesday of that week had given them a welcome reprieve from the heat, so Nora decided to walk rather than take a carriage to meet Mrs. Cartwright for coffee. Astrid stayed behind, claiming that she only cared to have “small doses” of the Cartwrights.

Allowing ample time to enjoy the sights, Nora stepped out of the Crillon and made her way east. As she strolled along the Seine, the river’s unhurried pace matched her own. Overhead, low clouds had gathered, dark with the promise of rain.

The quay was already in motion. Nora paused to watch a fisherman in a weathered straw hat cast his line into the current. For several minutes, his float only bobbed on the water. Then it disappeared beneath the surface. The fisherman lifted his rod in one smooth motion. On the end of his line was a small silver fish. He unhooked it and slipped it into the wicker basket at his feet. He baited the hook once more and cast it back into the Seine. Nora watched a little longer before moving on, walking against the river’s current.

She continued at an easy pace before stopping again, this time at the Pont Royal, one of the many Paris landmarks that had been there for centuries. The bridge had spanned the Seine since the reign of Louis XIV. She watched a barge glide through one of the bridge’s stone arches as a small tugboat passed through the arch beside it in the opposite direction. The sky was still holding its threat of rain but hadn’t yet made good on it.

Soon Nora turned off the quay and crossed the final yards to the Hôtel du Louvre. When compared to the understated grandeur of the Crillon, the lobby bordered on ostentatious, gilt and marble vying for attention at every turn. A concierge guided her to a small salon where she found Mrs. Cartwright already seated.

“Miss Osterly.” Mrs. Cartwright rose to greet her, her smile genuine but a little uncertain, as it so often was. “How very good of you to come.”

“I was pleased to receive your note,” Nora said, taking the chair across from her. “I trust you and Mr. Cartwright are comfortably settled?”

“As comfortably as one can be in a hotel, I suppose. Though I confess I have grown rather fond of the view of the Palais-Royal from our rooms,” Mrs. Cartwright said.

“That sounds lovely,” Nora said. “And have you shopped for your gowns yet? You spoke of ordering new ones once you reached Paris.”

“I went two days ago and ordered the loveliest afternoon gown.” The familiar subject appeared to put Mrs. Cartwright more at ease.

“I must know, were you faithful to Worth, or did your mother sway you over to Paquin?” Nora asked.

Mrs. Cartwright laughed, high and melodic. “I had intended to remain faithful to Worth, but my mother did manage to convince me to visit Paquin as well. I have an appointment there tomorrow.”

“Then you may yet be persuaded toward the newer fashions,” Nora said, smiling.

“Perhaps, although Miss Lund would no doubt caution me against any skirt narrow enough to make me walk like a penguin.”

Nora laughed at the memory. “Astrid has never allowed fashion to interfere with her opinions.”

“I imagine not.” Mrs. Cartwright’s smile lit up her face. “It’s lovely talking with you, Miss Osterly. I’m very glad Lionel encouraged me to write to you.”

This struck Nora as a bit odd. She had assumed Mrs. Cartwright had invited her of her own accord. Then she remembered Lionel’s rather controlling manner aboard the Olympic and found herself less surprised. She decided to change the subject.

“I imagine it has been a strange summer for you,” Nora said. “Being so far from your family, with everything so uncertain at home.”

Mrs. Cartwright looked down at her coffee. “Yes. Though Lionel says I mustn’t trouble myself over it.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t want you to worry,” Nora said. “Has his business kept him occupied? I do hope he’s made time to show you the city.”

“He has hardly been present at all. Meetings from morning until evening. I begin to think he enjoys Paris rather more for the business than for me.” Mrs. Cartwright looked away, as though she’d not meant to say so much.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Nora said, keeping her tone light. “It’s hard to imagine what sort of meetings could keep him so occupied.”

“It’s the usual sort, I should think. He was rather pleased with himself after calling on a jeweler the other day. Moreau, I believe it was called,” Mrs. Cartwright said, entirely unaware of what she had said.

Nora’s hand tightened around her cup.

“He does love finding a business no one else has thought to look at,” Mrs. Cartwright continued. “He says that is where the real opportunities lie, in the places everyone else has overlooked.”

“Maison Moreau?” she asked, as evenly as she could manage.

“I believe that was it. He hasn’t said a great deal about it, only that the proprietor was a gentleman of real talent, rather wasted on account of the difficulties this season. Lionel does so love a difficulty. He says that is when a man with capital can be of the most use.” She glanced at Nora and caught her expression. “Do you know the house?”

“I do,” Nora said. “It is my family’s partner in Paris.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Cartwright’s cheerfulness dimmed. “I hadn’t realized. Lionel didn’t say—that is, I don’t believe he knows. He would have mentioned it, surely, if he’d known.”

“Surely,” Nora said, though she was no longer sure of anything Lionel Cartwright would or wouldn’t think to mention.

“I’ve said something I oughtn’t, haven’t I?” Mrs. Cartwright’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “Lionel is always telling me I speak too freely about his affairs.”

“You’ve said nothing out of turn,” Nora said. “I’m very glad to know of it.”

Mrs. Cartwright did not look entirely reassured, but she let the subject go. The conversation found its way to the weather and whether the rain would hold off until Nora had made it back to the Crillon. Beneath the polite half hour that followed, Nora answered questions that needed answering as one thought turned over and over. Whatever business had brought Lionel Cartwright to Maison Moreau’s door, Étienne had kept it from her entirely.

She took her leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Stepping outside, she saw that the sky had finally made good on its threat. The rain had begun to fall in fat, scattered drops. She opted for a carriage to take her back to the Crillon.

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The Theft That Made the Mona Lisa Famous

Welcome to this week’s bonus material! In Episode 12, Nora returns to the Louvre, where she sees the Mona Lisa for the first time since the famous painting was returned to Paris. But the story of its disappearance is almost as fascinating as the painting itself. The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911, setting off an international mystery that lasted more than two years—and helped transform Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait into the cultural icon we know today.

On August 21, the painting disappeared from the Louvre. The theft was not discovered until the following day, when an artist arrived intending to paint a copy of the Mona Lisa. Instead, he found an empty space on the wall where the portrait should have hung. At first, museum employees thought the painting had been removed to be photographed. When it was nowhere to be found, the truth became clear: the Mona Lisa had been stolen.

The disappearance of Da Vinci’s artwork was an international sensation. Newspapers followed every development, rewards were offered for the painting’s return, and the empty space where it had hung became an attraction of its own. Images of the missing Mona Lisa appeared again and again in the press, introducing Leonardo’s portrait to people who might never have known it otherwise.

The investigation swept up two of the most famous figures in the Paris art world, Pablo Picasso among them. Picasso had previously acquired two Iberian sculptures stolen from the Louvre by an acquaintance of his friend, poet Guillaume Apollinaire. The connection brought both men under suspicion; Apollinaire was arrested, Picasso was questioned, and both were ultimately cleared of involvement in the theft.

Meanwhile, the real thief was living right in Paris with the painting hidden in his apartment for more than two years. Vincenzo Peruggia was an Italian worker who had worked at the museum installing protective glass. He later claimed that he believed the painting belonged in Italy and wanted to return it to his homeland.

In December 1913, he finally brought the painting to Florence. He approached art dealer Alfredo Geri, offering to return the Mona Lisa to Italy in exchange for a reward. Geri and Giovanni Poggi, director of the Uffizi Gallery, had the painting examined and determined that it was the missing Mona Lisa. The authorities were alerted, and Peruggia was arrested.

After more than two years away, the Mona Lisa was coming home.

Before returning to France, the recovered painting was exhibited in Italy, drawing enormous crowds. Then, on January 4, 1914, the Mona Lisa came home to the Louvre.

It returned as something more than the painting that had disappeared in 1911.

The Mona Lisa had been admired long before the theft. Its reputation had grown over centuries, particularly during the nineteenth century. But the extraordinary publicity surrounding its disappearance, the mystery of its whereabouts, the famous suspects, and the dramatic recovery in Florence carried Leonardo’s portrait far beyond the art world. After its recovery, it became the Louvre’s preeminent masterpiece and eventually the most famous painting in the world.

And that is the Mona Lisa Nora encounters in When the Sea Was Still.

When she visits the Louvre in July 1914, the painting has been back on its wall for only six months. Nora remembers standing in that same gallery with her father while the Mona Lisa was missing, looking instead at the empty space it had left behind.

Now the painting has returned.

And so has Nora.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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An Unsettled Account

Nora

10 July 1914
Paris

When Nora and Astrid arrived at Maison Moreau, the dark-painted storefront looked just as it had the last time Nora had seen it. She paused for a moment before the display windows facing the river out of habit. The gold filigree combs she had once admired were gone now, replaced by a pair of diamond hair ornaments. Beside them rested a bracelet of tiny sapphires. The display had changed with the fashions, yet the craftsmanship of Maison Moreau remained as exquisite as ever.

Nora thought of her father and imagined him standing beside her as he used to, hands clasped behind his back, studying the elegant arrangement behind the glass. He had never hurried past these windows, but instead took his time admiring the work of his French counterpart before stepping inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Nora and Astrid entered. The familiar glass cases lined the showroom, filled now with new necklaces, brooches, and rings. Somewhere beyond the showroom came the steady tap of a jeweler’s hammer against metal. The sound carried her back to happy afternoons spent here with her father and Étienne, sketching new designs and discussing the coming season’s collections.

Étienne appeared in the doorway of his office and stopped when he saw Nora. Her breath caught as their eyes met, and she became intensely aware of every nerve in her body. He looked exactly as she remembered—the same navy suit and easy confidence. It struck her how strange it was that a place and a person could remain so unchanged, while everything in her own life had been upended.

Until receiving his letter in April, she had believed she would never see Étienne again, and yet here he was standing before her. He straightened his cravat, then came forward to greet them, his crooked smile slowly forming across his face.

“Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Osterly,” he said, kissing Nora on each cheek. As he drew back, their eyes met again. “It has been far too long.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau,” Nora said, unable to look away from him. “Yes, far too long.”

Nora smoothed her skirt in an effort to collect herself, then made the introductions between Étienne and Astrid. He greeted Astrid like a longtime acquaintance. A faint blush rose to her cheeks despite her composed smile.

Étienne turned toward the workshop.

“Come,” he said. “Geneviève is waiting for us.”

He led them down a narrow corridor and into a small office. Étienne’s sister, Geneviève, stood behind a wooden desk, reviewing an open ledger.

Nora had known from her earliest visits that Geneviève possessed a keen mind for business. When the flood damaged the atelier, she had kept the business operating while Étienne oversaw the repairs. In the years since, Nora had come to understand how important Geneviève was to Maison Moreau.

Geneviève came around the desk and kissed Nora on each cheek.

“Mademoiselle Osterly. I am very pleased to see you again.”

“And I you, Mademoiselle Moreau,” Nora replied.

Nora introduced Astrid, whom Geneviève greeted with the same gracious courtesy. She then returned to the desk and turned her attention back to the ledger.

“Geneviève has been helping me review the accounts,” Étienne said, motioning toward the chairs arranged near the desk. “Please sit.”

Once they were seated, he drew a breath before speaking again.

“Mademoiselle Osterly, Mademoiselle Lund, thank you for coming all this way. I regret that the circumstances are not more pleasant.”

“You were kind enough to write to me with honesty, Monsieur Moreau,” Nora said. “Though I confess, your letter concerned me greatly and I have thought of little else since receiving it.”

“I am sorry to have caused you such worry. Until recently, I have managed the payments without difficulty.”

“And what has changed, Monsieur Moreau?” Nora asked.

Étienne explained that orders had slowed over the past few months. Regular clients who had patronized the atelier each summer had not returned this year. The slowdown had been compounded by others who had gone home to Russia or Germany, feeling more secure in their home countries. Those who remained in Paris hesitated over pieces they would have previously commissioned without a thought. As he spoke, Geneviève turned the ledger toward Nora.

Nora looked at the ledger and then at Étienne. The strain he had described was easy to see in the figures before her.

“How serious is it?” she asked.

“The atelier will continue, but the pressure is real,” Etienne said. “I have not had the funds to pay the most recent interest payment. The arrears must be paid when the note itself is due on the first of August.”

Beside her, Astrid shifted in her chair, the concern on her face mirroring Nora’s own.

“You should have told me of the loan when my father died,” Nora said, holding his gaze. In his eyes, she saw kindness. She knew she should be angry—he had kept this from her for two years—but the anger would not come.

He inclined his head. “My apologies, Mademoiselle. I only wanted to spare you, as your father wished. It is with great reluctance that I come to you now.”

Nora thought of her father and his many lessons. He had taught her to read a ledger, to spot a flaw in a setting, to recognize a client’s hesitation before they understood it themselves. She had thought she knew the whole of his mind. And yet he had sat across from her at breakfast each morning, having undertaken an obligation of sixteen thousand five hundred francs, and said nothing.

“He never so much as hinted at it,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Not once.”

The loan itself did not frighten Nora. She had prepared for it and crossed an ocean with the bank draft waiting at the bottom of her trunk. What unsettled her was the picture Étienne had drawn of a partnership under strain, and the knowledge that he and her father had carried the debt alone. Although they meant to protect her, their silence had denied her the chance to help when she might have made a difference.

She folded her hands in her lap. “I have secured the means to pay it. Tell me to whom it must be presented, and I shall see it done.”

Geneviève explained that Herr Kessler’s bank in Paris held the note for collection, where Nora could settle the loan when it came due on the first of August. It was agreed that she and Astrid would meet Étienne and Geneviève at the bank that morning to see the debt finally resolved.

“There is one further matter,” Geneviève said.

Nora looked from Geneviève to Étienne. “What matter?”

“Herr Kessler required security against the loan,” Geneviève replied.

Nora glanced at Astrid. When they had searched through her father’s account books, neither of them had found any mention of collateral.

“What did Father leave with him?”

“Your mother’s engagement ring,” Étienne said.

“My mother’s ring…”

Nora saw again the velvet case open upon her father’s desk in Providence and her mother’s jewelry laid out between herself and Astrid: the pearl earrings, the gold bracelet, the sapphire brooch. She had wondered then why the engagement ring was not among them. Her father must have put it somewhere for safekeeping, she had told herself. Instead, he’d used it to secure the future of Osterly & Co.

“My mother treasured that ring.”

“As did your father,” Étienne said. “It remains in the bank’s custody and will be returned when the loan is paid.”

The knowledge brought an unexpected rush of relief. The sapphire ring her father had crafted for her mother all those years ago had not been lost. In three weeks, it would belong to her.

Nora swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “Then I shall be glad to bring it home.”

“Before you go, there are several pieces for Osterly and Co. nearly ready for shipment,” Étienne said. “I hoped you might inspect them while you were here. Henri has been overseeing their completion.”

Geneviève remained in the office while Étienne led Nora and Astrid back to the main workroom. They found Henri Lefèvre beneath the tall window where Nora had so often watched him work with her father. He was bent over a piece with the same concentration she had seen back then. He did not look up until Étienne spoke his name.

“Henri. You remember Mademoiselle Osterly.”

Henri set down his tools at once, wiping his hands on the cloth at his hip before rising to greet them. “Mademoiselle Osterly. What a pleasure to see you again.”

He turned to Astrid. “And you must be Mademoiselle Lund. Étienne has spoken of little else all week.”

“I trust he has spoken favorably,” Astrid said.

“I did not say that,” Henri replied with a wink, and Étienne laughed.

Henri looked much the same as he had the last time Nora had seen him, his fair hair tousled and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had been Étienne’s closest friend since their student days at École Boulle and was one of the finest goldsmiths at Maison Moreau. He was known for his patience and determination, qualities that made him one of the few craftsmen capable of transforming Étienne’s most ambitious designs into finished pieces. When Étienne’s visions seemed to test the laws of physics, Henri used his humor to stave off frustration. During her earlier visits, Nora and her father had frequently paused beside his bench to see what magic he was working.

“I have kept the best pieces for last,” Henri said, gesturing toward the velvet at the end of his bench. “Étienne tells me you have your father’s eye. I confess I am curious whether you will find anything to fault.”

“I shall try not to be too severe,” Nora said.

“Please, be as severe as you like,” Henri replied. “It is the only way I improve.”

Several completed pieces had been arranged upon dark velvet at the end of his bench. Nora examined each one carefully, testing the clasps and studying the settings beneath the work lamp while Henri explained the final adjustments he had made. The workmanship was as precise as always. Every stone sat securely within its setting, and the delicate metalwork bore the unmistakable refinement of Maison Moreau.

Nora found nothing she would have changed before the pieces were sent on to Providence. Seeing their familiar craftsmanship reassured her after the troubling figures in Geneviève’s ledger. Whatever difficulties burdened the partnership, the jewelry itself was as beautiful as ever.

Before leaving the workroom, Nora thanked Henri for his exquisite work. He returned to his bench as Étienne escorted her and Astrid toward the showroom.

“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Lund,” Étienne said with a slight bow.

“And you, Monsieur Moreau. Maison Moreau is every bit as impressive as Nora promised.”

Étienne smiled as he opened the door for her. “Then I hope we shall have the opportunity to welcome you again.”

He then turned to Nora and took her gloved hand in his. “I regret that your return to Maison Moreau should be under such unhappy circumstances.”

“As do I, Monsieur Moreau,” Nora said, letting her hand linger in his before withdrawing it.

“I hope I shall not have to wait until the first of August to see you again.”

She merely returned his smile, too disarmed to speak.

When Nora and Astrid stepped out of the atelier into the warmth of the Parisian summer, the Seine glittered beyond the quay across the road. Nora drew a breath of the river air before they climbed aboard their carriage for the ride back to the hotel.

Astrid spoke as soon as the carriage pulled away.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “That was a great deal to take in before luncheon.”

“It was,” Nora agreed.

“The loan, I mean.” Astrid glanced at her sideways. “Though I suspect that is not the only matter occupying your thoughts.”

Nora looked at Astrid, whose eyebrows were still in an unnatural position of height above her eyes. “I assume you are referring to Monsieur Moreau.”

“Of course,” Astrid said, in a tone that suggested she could mean nothing else.

“I assure you, my thoughts are entirely occupied with securing Osterly & Co.”

Even to her own ears, the declaration lacked conviction. But Astrid said nothing further, and Nora was grateful for it. The carriage continued west along the river, carrying them back toward the Crillon.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Tea on the Rue de Varenne

Nora

4 July 1914
Paris

The last time Nora had seen Étienne was two years ago, only days before she boarded Titanic. It had been a warm day in April when she and her father stopped by Maison Moreau before leaving for Cherbourg. Étienne had walked them to the door himself, as he always did. But that afternoon, he seemed to lack some of his usual confidence. She had wondered if he was as reluctant to say goodbye as she was.

Her father had gone ahead to speak with the driver, leaving Nora and Étienne a few seconds alone in the narrow vestibule. He had handed her the wrapped sketches she’d admired earlier.

“For you,” he’d said. “A little inspiration for the journey.”

Their fingers brushed lightly. It was a faint touch of warmth that Nora had felt all the way to her knees.

When she looked up, he was smiling that crooked smile.

“Bon voyage, Mademoiselle Osterly.”

Then her father had called her name, and the moment had passed.

The brief exchange had belonged to the last days of her old life, yet it had never entirely left her. In the months after the sinking, her grief had buried moments like this beneath memories far more painful. There had been little room for thoughts of Paris, or the hours she had spent with Étienne during those visits with her father. Back in Paris and about to see him again, she recalled the warmth of that fleeting touch more clearly than she would have expected.

Now, alone in her room at the Crillon, Nora wrote to inform Étienne of her arrival and ask when he might receive her at Maison Moreau. With the letter finished, she brought out her sketchbook, hoping to capture an idea that had come to her during their stay in London after leaving the Olympic at Southampton. When the blank page refused to give way to inspiration, she drew another sheet of stationery and wrote a note to Astrid instead.

After dressing and gathering her things, she stepped outside into the early morning light and crossed the Place de la Concorde to the Tuileries Garden.

It was still quiet when Nora arrived. This was her favorite time in the gardens, before the gravel paths filled with Parisians taking their morning promenade. Soon enough the park would be filled with sightseers wandering among the marble statues and admiring the centuries-old grounds. Across the pond, a few early arrivals were already watching their children sailing toy boats on the water. Nora watched two small boats almost collide when a breeze caught them before turning her attention to the sketchbook on her lap.

What she had seen in a Bond Street window in London had given her an idea for a necklace design. Now, as she attempted to transfer the design from thought to paper, her charcoal moved over the page in quick, deliberate strokes. Taking shape in front of her was a teardrop gemstone surrounded by a scatter of small stones, meant to catch the light like water.

But as the sketch formed beneath her fingers, she could see it wasn’t right. The line was too rigid where it ought to have flowed; the central stone sat heavy where she wanted it to hover, lacking the sense of motion she was reaching for. She studied it a moment longer, then turned to a fresh page and began again.

She looked up periodically as she worked. A pair of birds fluttered in and out of the pond, their graceful movements the very quality she was trying to replicate. She watched them until the ease of their movement lived in her mind, then bent again to the paper, chasing the impression before it faded.

A second necklace began to form, this one more fluid but still not quite right. She softened the lines of the setting and allowed the smaller stones to fall less evenly around the central drop. It was closer to what she was imagining, but the design still felt too deliberate. She turned back to the birds, trying again to mimic the effortless flow of nature.

The morning slipped past her in this way. She lost herself in the work, filling one page after another, each time adjusting something small, hoping to find the finesse that continued to elude her. Several rejected pages lay folded beneath the others. None of them was quite able to capture the natural grace she had envisioned.

Nora was ready to try again when she noticed a dark shadow cross her sketchpad. She glanced up to see clouds gathering overhead. She had been so absorbed in the necklace that she hadn’t noticed the blue sky turn to gray. Around the pond, several of the parents had already begun gathering their things, calling their children away from the water. A breeze moved through the trees, lifting the edge of her page. Nora held it down with one hand and looked once more at the unfinished design. Her latest sketch would have to do for now. She collected her pad and pencils, pausing to watch as the birds took flight, seeking shelter from the coming storm.

Nora had barely reached the edge of the gardens when the wind picked up in earnest, tugging at her skirt. She quickened her step as distant thunder rumbled. By the time she crossed into the Place de la Concorde, the first drops began to fall, darkening the pale stones. As she approached the steps of the Hôtel de Crillon, a doorman came hurrying down beneath a broad umbrella to usher her inside.

That afternoon, Astrid and Nora’s carriage rattled through the slick streets toward the Rue de Varenne. The storm had softened to a steady drizzle. As the sky began to brighten, the townhomes of the 7th arrondissement took on a soft, luminous glow. Nora found herself studying their symmetry—the cream-colored façades and wrought-iron balconies. Haussmann’s order brought to life in stone, her father would have said.

At Clara’s, they stepped into the entrance hall, where the familiar checkerboard marble gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier. Nora knew every detail of this house, the carved alcoves along the cream walls, the fluted columns, the graceful curve of the stairs. She had passed through this hall countless times over the years, and its welcoming elegance felt like coming home.

The maid ushered them through to the drawing room, where nothing had changed. Pale damask chairs surrounded the low table, already set for tea. Clara’s favorite summer flower, white roses, filled the room with cheer.

Clara looked up from her settee and rose at once, a broad smile on her face.

“Nora, Mademoiselle Astrid, how delightful to see you safely arrived in Paris.” She extended her hand, which Nora took with a gentle squeeze, and they exchanged a kiss on each cheek.

“It’s such a pleasure to be here, Clara,” Nora replied.

Astrid offered a soft curtsy. “Your home is exquisite, Madame Wentworth. Thank you for receiving us.”

Clara gestured for them to sit.

As Nora took her chair, she felt a contentment she hadn’t known in some time. The simple pleasure of being in Clara’s salon again was a welcome relief after their long weeks of travel. She only wished that she didn’t half expect her father to walk through the door at any moment.

“Now, tell me everything. How was your journey?” Clara said as she poured the tea.

“Very smooth, and the Crillon is magnificent,” Nora replied. “Your recommendation was impeccable as always.”

“I’m delighted you approve.”

“And what of your own travels?” Nora asked. “You promised to tell me about North Africa.”

Clara’s face brightened. She described taking her new motorcar south to Marseille, where it had been loaded aboard the Timgad for the crossing to Algiers. From there, she and her chauffeur had traveled through Algeria and into Tunisia, following roads that grew less dependable the farther they ventured from the coast. There had been punctured tires, mechanical failures, and several occasions when the road ahead scarcely deserved to be called a road at all. Astrid listened with widening eyes, looking increasingly astonished with each new mishap Clara described. Clara related each difficulty with such pleasure that hardship seemed only to have increased the value of the journey.

“And this was the same motorcar you sent for us yesterday?” Nora asked.

“The very one.”

“You took a new motorcar across the Mediterranean?” Astrid asked.

“It seemed a pity to purchase it only to drive along the Champs-Élysées,” Clara replied with a wry smile.

Nora laughed. She could picture the long black motorcar being loaded onto the steamer at Marseille, its polished brass fittings appearing wholly out of place among the ship’s cargo. Clara spoke of transporting an automobile across the Mediterranean as though it required no more daring than arranging an afternoon carriage. Nora had always admired that quality in her.

Clara continued telling them of her journey with her infectious enthusiasm. She spoke of the crowded streets of Tunis and the ruins at Carthage, where broken columns stood high above the Mediterranean. Her story moved deftly between ancient ruins and unreliable engines, between the splendor of the landscape and the clouds of dust that had settled over their clothes.

Nora and Astrid listened with fascination.

“Have you begun writing about it?” Nora asked.

“Not yet. A place must be allowed to settle in the mind before one writes about it. Now, enough about me,” Clara said, turning to Astrid. “How are you finding Paris?”

“It certainly is lively.”

“You sound as though you don’t share Nora’s love of Paris,” Clara said.

“It has its fine points,” Astrid said. “Beauty is certainly all around, but the crimes I’ve been reading about in the papers are another matter.”

“You must be referring to the Caillaux scandal,” Clara said.

Astrid set down her cup with an emphatic clink. “It is outrageous. Imagine—a woman of her standing marching into an editor’s office with a pistol! I cannot fathom such audacity, nor how society tolerates it.”

The affair had captured Astrid’s attention from the moment she discovered it in that morning’s newspaper. Gaston Calmette, editor of Le Figaro, had spent weeks using his newspaper to publish accusations meant to destroy the political career of Madame Caillaux’s husband. Fearing that intimate letters would appear next, Madame Caillaux had decided to take matters into her own hands. She had hidden a Browning pistol inside her fur muff and gone to Calmette’s office, where she fired six shots. He died later that night. Nora found Astrid’s fascination almost as surprising as the crime itself.

“And yet you have remembered every detail,” Nora said, unable to hide her amusement.

“Only because each detail is more appalling than the last.”

“That is precisely why it fascinates,” Clara said. “The motives, the passions, the clash of reputation and politics—it is a novel unfolding before us.”

“It makes me wonder why she believed she must act in her husband’s place,” Nora replied.

“That is the question,” Clara said. “Half of France applauds her for defending his honor, while the other half calls her a disgrace.”

Astrid gave a small huff. “I should think young women are better guided by restraint than by passion.”

The discussion lingered a moment longer before turning to other topics. Clara told them about the short story she had recently completed. It was a departure for her, set during a bitter New England winter and touched with the supernatural, and would appear in Scribner’s the following month. She spoke of several ideas she had been considering for her next project, her enthusiasm growing with each one she described.

When the afternoon came to a close, Clara clasped Nora’s hand with familiar warmth. “You must come again soon. If nothing else, to discuss the latest developments in the trial of Madame Caillaux.”

Astrid shook her head. “Justice can’t be done soon enough if you ask me.”

Nora laughed and embraced Clara before following Astrid outside to their waiting carriage.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Return to Paris

Nora

July 1914
Paris

The Gare du Nord had not changed since Nora had last seen it. Women in wide-brimmed hats and flowing skirts hurried to meet arriving family, while businessmen in dark suits and bowler hats navigated the crowd currents with purpose. Above all of the commotion, coal smoke drifted beneath the great iron-and-glass roof, filtering the July sunlight into hazy beams. The hiss of steam engines and shrill whistles of trains departing, along with the chatter of travelers from near and far, created a cacophony.

Nora had never before arrived in Paris without her father by her side. Standing on the platform now, it was impossible not to think of him. The memory of their last arrival rose so intensely she could almost hear his voice beneath the noise of the station.

“Look up, Nora,” he had said as they stepped down from the train just over two years ago.

She followed his eyes upward, toward the impressive roof that spanned the platforms.

“A railway station ought to be practical,” he had continued, “but the French cannot resist making even an ordinary arrival beautiful.”

“I suspect that is why you like them,” Nora had said.

“It is one of many reasons,” he had said, still admiring the soaring framework above.

He had smiled then and offered her his arm before leading her through the crowd, already talking about gemstones he wanted to purchase. Even after countless visits, Paris had possessed an extraordinary ability to both delight and inspire him. There was always something he wanted Nora to see, some detail of Parisian design that might spark an idea for Osterly & Co.

Nora looked up at the same roof now. The station was just as crowded, just as noisy, just as alive as it had been that day. Only her father was missing by her side.

Nora drew a slow breath and smoothed her skirt. Beside her, Astrid surveyed the surroundings with interest. After years of hearing Nora’s stories of Paris, she was seeing the city for the first time.

“You were right about Paris,” Astrid said. “One feels the energy of it the moment one arrives.”

Nora smiled as she adjusted her gloves. “We have yet to see the best of it.”

Together they followed a porter in a dark uniform through the station’s grand doors into the bright summer afternoon. The city opened before them in a grand display of elegant Parisian architecture, accompanied by the clatter of horses’ hooves over the cobblestones.

Nora looked up at the neoclassical station façade. Lining the roofline were large statues, each one representing a city the station served. Her father had pointed them out on their first arrival, naming each one. Berlin, he had said, his eyes moving along the row. Amsterdam. Vienna. London. He had named them like old friends.

Nora and Astrid continued to follow the porter through the bustle outside the station. Around them, other porters called out in rapid French as they heaved trunks into waiting carriages. Ahead, a motorcar waited at the curb—Clara’s motorcar, gleaming black and incongruous among the line of horse-drawn carriages.

“Surely that is not for us,” Astrid said, eyebrows raised.

“I believe it is,” Nora replied.

Clara had written of her new car in a recent letter, in that breezy way she had of announcing momentous things. But seeing it was different. The machine was long and sleek, its brass fittings catching the light. The driver sat upright behind the wheel with his gloved hands resting on it. Nora and Astrid exchanged a glance, momentarily struck by the novelty of their first motorcar ride.

Nora gathered her skirts and stepped up into the vehicle, sinking into leather seats that still held the faint scent of newness. As Astrid settled beside her, the driver turned in his seat and extended a folded note.

“From Madame Wentworth, Mademoiselle.”

“Merci.” Nora accepted the envelope and recognized Clara’s handwriting across the front. The familiar slant brought a smile to her lips before she had even broken the seal.

My dear Nora,

I cannot tell you how pleased I am to know you are in Paris again. Will you and Astrid do me the honor of joining me for tea tomorrow afternoon at four? It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of your company.

Affectionately,

Clara

Nora smiled again and tucked the note into her reticule. More than two years had passed since she had last seen Clara. Tomorrow, at last, she would be sitting across from her friend again, listening to stories of the exotic places Clara had traveled, the fascinating people she had encountered, and the latest essays she had written along the way. Clara seemed to be continually returning from somewhere new with another story to tell.

The motorcar pulled away with a low rumble, and Nora felt the difference immediately. In place of the jolting clop of hooves over cobblestones, there was the steady drone of the engine. Their seats vibrated beneath them as they moved forward in an even rhythm. Astrid held fast to the edge of her seat with a bewildered look on her face.

They made their way toward the heart of the city along Rue La Fayette. Outside the car window, Nora watched as the grand Haussmann boulevard passed by in a whirlwind of activity. Despite the July heat, well-dressed Parisians moved briskly along the crowded sidewalks while bicycle riders darted in and out of the traffic.

As they approached the Opéra district, Nora caught sight of Café de la Paix, its broad awning extending over a terrace crowded as always with its loyal patrons, while a steady stream of pedestrians passed by. It was a corner where half of Paris seemed content to sit and watch the other half go by.

The café always reminded Nora of her first opera in Paris, Boris Godunov. She had been eighteen at the time. The way the bells had rattled the theater during the opening scene had stayed with her long after the production ended. Later that evening, at this very café, she’d celebrated the night with Clara and her father. Looking at the café now, she could almost see the three of them inside laughing as they relived the performance and raised their glasses to Paris.

Nora gestured toward the café. “That was one of father’s favorite cafés. He said there was no better place to sit outside and watch the world go by.”

Astrid looked out at the terrace. “Your father did always have impeccable taste.”

“He certainly did,” Nora said, then turned her attention to Astrid. “What do you think of Paris so far?”

“It’s even more beautiful than I thought it would be,” Astrid said. “The wide boulevards, the uniform buildings. I quite see why your father loved it so.”

The motorcar turned onto Rue Royale and moments later the Place de la Concorde opened before them. Nora sat forward slightly as the vast square came into view. At its center, the Luxor Obelisk rose against blue sky. It was a piece of Paris history that had always fascinated her more than any other.

Her father had told her the story of how it had been brought all the way from Egypt, first sailing down the Nile, then across the Mediterranean, and finally up the Seine before being raised here in Paris. After more than three thousand years in Egypt, it had come to rest in a Parisian square where revolutionaries had once screamed for blood and kings had lost their heads.

Along the edge of the square, they rolled to a gentle stop in front of the Hôtel de Crillon. Nora looked up at the grand façade through the motorcar window. She had heard Clara speak fondly of the hotel many times, but arriving here as a guest herself felt odd.

Nora had always stayed at the Ritz with her father when they traveled to Paris. She could still picture the exact route through its lobby, the turn toward their usual suite, and his hand gesturing as he explained an architectural detail that fascinated him. The thought of walking those corridors without him was more than she could bear.

Knowing that Clara had always taken rooms at the Hôtel de Crillon, and trusting her friend’s discerning taste, Nora had felt the Crillon was a natural choice. Leaving the familiarity of the Ritz for the freshness of the Crillon felt like a necessary step forward. There seemed something fitting about exchanging the established prestige of Place Vendôme for a square that had endured a revolution and emerged transformed. One square belonged to her father’s Paris. The other would be hers.

A uniformed doorman stepped forward to open Nora’s door. She accepted his gloved hand and stepped onto the cobblestones, pausing to gaze at the hotel before her. The centuries-old façade still commanded attention, its stately row of columns rising above uniform archways.

“Clara was right,” she said to Astrid. “It’s splendid.”

“Indeed it is,” Astrid agreed.

Inside, Nora paused just beyond the entrance, allowing her eyes to adjust from the brightness of the square. The hotel lobby unfolded before them with understated grandeur. Pale stone columns rose from a smooth marble floor while delicate crystal chandeliers hung overhead. Nora and Astrid moved through a succession of arched salons until they arrived at the reception desk. A clerk in morning dress greeted them with a courteous bow.

“Mesdames, welcome to the Hôtel de Crillon. I trust your journey was pleasant?” His voice was polite, marked by a refined Parisian accent.

“Very pleasant, thank you.” Nora presented their reservation card.

He studied it briefly, then inclined his head. “Your suite is prepared, Mademoiselle.” A white-gloved footman appeared at his gesture. “Jean will escort you.”

They followed him through hushed corridors with thick carpets. Nora felt as though she were moving through a private palace that had temporarily opened a few select doors to guests.

Their suite occupied a corner of the third floor. Two bedrooms flanked a central sitting room filled with elegant furnishings, its tall windows overlooking the gardens below. Near one of the windows stood a handsome writing desk with a small brass lamp. Astrid set her reticule on the desk and turned in a slow circle, as if appraising the salon. Above her, painted medallions decorated the ceiling, bordered by intricate gilt moldings.

“Yes, I think this will do very nicely,” she said.

Nora nodded in agreement. It felt strange to be in Paris and not know the room around her. At the Ritz, everything had been familiar, almost like a second home. Here, there were no memories waiting for her around every corner. The unfamiliarity left her feeling a strange mix of uneasiness and comfort at the same time.

Astrid seemed to sense her unease. “How are you finding it, being back in Paris without your father?” she asked.

“It’s not been easy,” Nora admitted. “Though not as difficult as the crossing.”

“I do believe the hardest part of returning is behind you now,” Astrid said.

“You are quite right, I’m sure,” Nora said. “I wasn’t prepared for all the memories. The station, the cafés, the boulevards, he’s everywhere. But he’s nowhere…”

“I know, dear,” Astrid said, resting a hand on Nora’s shoulder.

“But at the same time, it is such a comfort to be in the place that we loved together,” Nora continued.

“The city where he taught you the business of Osterly & Co.,” Astrid said.

“Yes,” Nora said. “And there is quite a lot of it to do now that we are here.”

Astrid nodded. “Are you prepared for what comes next?”

“As prepared as I can be. I have the means we secured to pay the debt, and tomorrow I’ll arrange a meeting with Étienne. Once the payment is made, that should settle the matter.”

“Provided there are no surprises.”

Nora looked at her. “Precisely.”

Astrid studied her for a moment, then gave a single nod.

“Good. I believe I shall unpack before tea,” Astrid said, disappearing into the far bedroom.

Nora sat on the settee by the window, grateful for a quiet moment to herself. Soon, she would see Étienne again. So much had happened since that final afternoon at Maison Moreau that it seemed to belong to another lifetime. And yet, beneath the grief of all that had changed, anticipation still lingered. She wondered how much the intervening years had changed him. She wondered, too, what it would feel like to stand before him again.

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Why the Hotel de Crillon?

Please enjoy this free preview of this weeks behind the scenes bonus material.

Like so many choices in When the Sea Was Still, the reason I chose the Hôtel de Crillon for Nora is rooted in actual history, although this time not from Nora’s inspiration, Helen Østby, but from an unlikely candidate: Edith Wharton. When I began imagining Nora’s return to Paris in the summer of 1914, I knew I wanted her to stay somewhere different from the Ritz, the hotel she had always visited with her father. The Crillon seemed the perfect choice because Edith Wharton, whose life and humanitarian work during the First World War helped inspire the character of Clara Wentworth, had stayed there herself.

Wharton was among the Crillon’s earliest guests. In April 1909, only weeks after the hotel first opened its doors, she took rooms there and described them in a letter to her friend John Hugh Smith as “a very nice apartment up in the sky, overlooking the whole of Paris.” While staying at the new hotel, she worked on the novel that would eventually become The Custom of the Country, published in 1913.

She would return to the Crillon, becoming a regular and making it an easy choice for Clara to favor as well. For Nora, who trusted Clara’s impeccable taste, it seemed a natural progression for her to follow her friend’s lead.

What I didn’t realize when I chose the Crillon for Nora was just how fascinating the building itself would turn out to be. When Nora arrives at the Hôtel de Crillon in Chapter 9, she steps into one of the grandest hotels in Paris. But in July 1914, the Crillon was still a remarkably new hotel. For most of its existence, the magnificent building overlooking the Place de la Concorde had been a private aristocratic residence.

Behind its neoclassical façade were rooms that had already witnessed more than a century of French history. The building had survived revolution, passed through generations of the Crillon family, and even counted Marie Antoinette among the famous figures connected to its rooms.

Before It Was a Hotel

The story of the Crillon begins in the eighteenth century with the creation of what is now the Place de la Concorde. King Louis XV commissioned architect Ange-Jacques Gabriel to design the magnificent new square, then known as the Place Louis XV. Behind one of Gabriel’s grand neoclassical façades, the Duc d’Aumont created an opulent private residence filled with carved woodwork, mirrors, gilding, and elaborate reception rooms.

In April 1788, the Comte de Crillon purchased the residence. His timing could hardly have been more extraordinary. Barely a year later, the French Revolution began, and the elegant Place Louis XV would become the setting for some of the most dramatic events in French history. The square was eventually renamed Place de la Révolution, and the guillotine erected there claimed, among many others, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

Marie Antoinette at the Crillon

Marie Antoinette also had a more personal connection to the residence.

After the royal family was forced from Versailles in October 1789, Marie Antoinette lived at the nearby Tuileries Palace until 1792. During those years, she is believed to have taken private piano lessons in one of the historic salons at the Crillon residence.

Today, the hotel has a Marie-Antoinette Suite honoring that connection, adjoining the historic salon associated with her lessons.

In 1904, the property was purchased for conversion into a grand luxury hotel. Many elements of the eighteenth-century residence were preserved as the building was transformed, and on March 12, 1909, the Hôtel de Crillon welcomed its first guests. When Nora arrives in July 1914, it has been a hotel for only five years.

To Nora, the Crillon would have offered everything expected of one of Europe’s finest new hotels: elegant rooms, attentive service, and an extraordinary location overlooking the Place de la Concorde. But beneath that modern luxury remained the bones of an eighteenth-century aristocratic home.

I hope that you’ve enjoyed this free preview of behind the scenes bonus material. Upgrade today to go behind the scenes of Nora’s world every week!

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Arrival in Southampton

Nora

June 1914
Onboard the Olympic

Nora stepped onto the promenade deck as the Olympic made her slow approach to the port of Southampton. Under a sky streaked with the soft hues of dawn, she watched the distant shoreline come into focus. After six days with nothing but open water surrounding her, land was a reassuring sight.

As Southampton drew nearer, her mind went back to the last time she’d watched land appear after days at sea. That had been the hardest part of it all. The sinking itself had been horrific. The night spent freezing in an open lifeboat was terrifying. But returning to New York aboard Carpathia without her father had nearly broken her. How could two people board a ship together in New York and only one return she’d wondered.

For weeks afterward, she had replayed their final moments, unable to accept that his decision to return below for warmer clothes had been the last time she would ever see him. She had been haunted by an endless stream of what ifs. What if she had gone with him to retrieve warmer clothes? What if she had insisted that he stay with her on deck? What if she had stayed on the ship and waited for him before she climbed into the lifeboat? The unrelenting questions were her mind’s way of grappling with a loss too great to comprehend.

His funeral had brought her a measure of comfort, offering her the chance to say the goodbye she had been robbed of. She knew she was fortunate that her father’s body had been recovered. Of the 1,500 who perished, only about 300 had been found, numbered and catalogued like inventory. Her father was number 234. It was a cruel kind of blessing, but a blessing all the same. She could visit his grave and know exactly where he lay.

After his body was recovered by the cable ship Mackay-Bennett, it had been transported to Halifax, and identified by David Sather, a trusted employee of Osterly & Company. The only belongings found with him were a pocket watch, a chain, and two pocket books. His black doctor’s bag, the one she had loved so much as a girl, was not among them. It was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic now, along with everything else the sea had claimed that night.

He was laid to rest at the family cemetery beside her mother on a rainy Saturday in May. Nora had asked Astrid to circulate a note to guests requesting no flowers. It had always been her father’s wish to keep his funeral simple. But no one had listened, and the church had been filled with funeral wreaths made of roses and white lilies. It was as if a fortress of grief had been raised from the city’s collective sorrow.

She hadn’t cried until the casket was lowered into the ground at Swan Point Cemetery. And then the tears came, deep and endless. She had stood there long after the others had gone, her teardrops competing with the rain falling on the mahogany lid. Astrid had eventually come quietly to her side and taken her arm without a word.

Astrid had been her anchor then, just as she had been again this past spring when Etienne’s letter arrived. She remembered that day in Providence—a Tuesday in April, the lilacs just beginning to show outside her window. After her initial shock, she sought out Astrid at once. Astrid had sat across the writing desk from her, reading the letter in silence before setting it down between them.

“Well,” Astrid had said. “Then we had better see what we have.”

They spent the next weeks going through ledgers, account books, and the papers her father had left behind. Nora remembered the steady scratching of Astrid’s pencil as she made careful notes. Together they calculated what could be withdrawn safely from the estate without jeopardizing the business further.

But it still wouldn’t be enough.

Only then had Nora gone to her father’s dressing table and opened the bottom drawer.

Her mother’s jewelry rested inside a velvet case Nora had not seen since childhood. She remembered Ingrid sitting at her dressing table before evenings out, the case open before her as she chose which piece to wear. Now Nora lifted each one carefully onto the desk between them. The pearl earrings Ingrid had loved. The gold bracelet she wore so often Nora could still hear its gentle clink against the dressing table. A sapphire brooch Nora had never seen before. It struck her as strange that her mother’s engagement ring was not among them. She remembered how dearly her mother had treasured the ring her father had made for her. He must have placed it somewhere for safekeeping.

For a long while, Nora simply looked at the pieces before her. Then, with quiet resolve, she selected a handful to part with. The following week, she sold them through a trusted jeweler in Boston. Together with what could be drawn from Anders’s estate, the proceeds were enough to satisfy the loan. Before leaving Providence, she had the funds converted into a bank draft payable in French francs. It now rested safely in the bottom of her trunk, waiting for Paris.

Her father had not meant to leave her with this burden. She understood that now in a way she hadn’t in those first stunned weeks. He’d believed the debt would be resolved long before it became her concern. He thought he had longer.

She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath. She had crossed the ocean. She had faced what needed facing. And now there was work to do. When she opened her eyes, she saw the promenade had begun to fill with passengers eager for their first glimpse of England. Nora heard a distant gong sound from within the ship, the breakfast bell. She rose from the deck chair and smoothed her skirt.

The first-class dining saloon, usually a hum of lively conversation, held a more subdued air this morning as the Olympic made her final approach into Southampton. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, brightening the white linen tablecloths. Most passengers were already dressed in their traveling clothes, ready for the journey ahead.

The company at Nora’s table had grown familiar over the past week. Through shared meals, afternoon teas, and long conversations at sea, they had formed the peculiar intimacy of ocean travel. A crossing made fast friends of strangers and parted them just as swiftly. Now their final breakfast carried a note of sadness.

Nora was the last to arrive and took her seat beside Astrid. Across the table, Mr. Harroway and Mr. Cartwright were deep in conversation over The Times, their expressions grave.

“Has something happened?” Nora asked.

Mr. Harroway was the first to speak. “There is news out of Sarajevo, I’m afraid,” he said, handing her his paper.

She read the headline Archduke Francis Ferdinand Assassinated in Sarajevo. Then she continued reading, The Austrian Royal house has had enough tragedies in its history, and fate might well have spared it another. It was not to be. The Archduke Francis Ferdinand, nephew of the Emperor Francis Joseph, and heir to the throne, has been most cruelly murdered at Sarajevo, and his wife, the Duchess Hohenberg, has shared his fate...

“How terrible,” Nora said, handing the paper back to Mr. Harroway.

“It’s such a tragedy,” Mrs. Harroway agreed.

“Franz Ferdinand was the one voice of moderation in Vienna,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Without him, Austria has no reason to hold back.”

“The powers in Europe have been on edge for years,” Mr. Harroway added. “This may be exactly the provocation they’ve been waiting for.”

“My brother’s last letter said that everyone in Berlin believes Germany is only waiting for a reason,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “He said the banking houses have become very—”

“Marion.” Mr. Cartwright’s voice was pleasant but strained. “Can you please pass me a roll?”

Mrs. Cartwright looked at him. “Yes…of course, dear.”

An uncomfortable silence settled briefly over the table. Mr. Harroway folded The Times and set it beside his plate. Astrid reached for the toast rack as though nothing had happened.

“Thank you, my love,” Lionel said as he buttered the roll. Then he turned to Mrs. Harroway. “Now, do tell us your plans for Switzerland.”

Mrs. Harroway took a sip of coffee. “I intend to spend the next two months doing very little beyond breathing mountain air,” she replied. “I always sleep so well during our summers in Switzerland.”

A steward arrived with a fresh rack of toast, briefly interrupting the conversation while coffee cups were refilled.

“And Mrs. Cartwright,” Mrs. Harroway said. “What will you do in Paris while Mr. Cartwright works?”

Mrs. Cartwright dabbed her lips with her napkin. “While Lionel meets his clients, I intend to shop for my new dresses.”

“How lovely,” Mrs. Harroway said. “Do you favor any particular houses?”

“Worth, usually,” Mrs. Cartwright replied. “Though my mother insists I must try Paquin this season.”

“A wise choice,” Nora said. “You can hardly go wrong with either.”

“I’ve never understood how women distinguish one Paris gown from another,” Mr. Harroway admitted with a smile.

“That is because gentlemen rarely notice the details,” Mrs. Harroway replied.

That earned a ripple of laughter around the table.

“My wife,” Mr. Cartwright said, “has an excellent eye. She’ll return from Paris with gowns that will turn every head in New York.”

Mrs. Cartwright reached for her teacup. “Lionel always exaggerates,” she said.

As breakfast wound down, the ship had gone still beneath them. Mrs. Harroway set down her cup and reached for her gloves. Mr. Harroway slid his folded newspaper into his satchel. Astrid was already gathering her reticule. Mrs. Cartwright watched her husband and rose when he did.

The voyage was over.

The Southampton docks were alive with movement. Porters navigated luggage trolleys through the crowd while station attendants guided disembarking passengers. Steam drifted from locomotives farther down the platform. Overhead, gulls soared above the busy channel.

A sea of trunks and hatboxes surrounded Nora and Astrid. The Harroways stood beside them speaking with a station guide. Towering above them all was the immense dark hull of the Olympic, her funnels still smoking against the gray English sky.

Nora approached Bridie, who stood just behind the Harroways with their luggage, tightening a strap on one of the trunks.

“Bridie,” Nora said, drawing closer. “I wanted to thank you.”

Bridie straightened at once. “There’s no need for that, Miss Osterly.”

“There is,” Nora said. “You helped me more than you know on this voyage. There were moments aboard the ship I wasn’t certain I could manage, and your kindness made them easier to bear.”

Bridie smiled. “I only did what anyone would do.”

“Not everyone would have understood,” Nora said.

A porter rattled past them with a loaded trolley and they stepped aside together.

Bridie glanced toward the Olympic. “I’m glad you crossed again, Miss Osterly,” she said. “And glad you’ve come through it.”

Nora felt the truth of it settle within her. Only a week earlier, boarding the Olympic had felt impossible.

“So am I,” she replied.

Nora reached into her bag and withdrew a book wrapped in brown paper. “I finished this two nights ago,” she said. “I thought you might like it for the journey ahead.”

Bridie unwrapped the paper. “The House of Mirth,” she read. “By Edith Wharton.”

“She has a remarkable understanding of people,” Nora said. “And a sharp eye for the world.”

Bridie held the book in both hands, as though it were something precious. “Thank you, Miss Osterly. Truly.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Josie Harroway joined them just then. “There is nothing quite like English air after a week at sea,” she declared.

As they made their way to the boat train, Nora took one last glance at the Olympic docked at her berth. She offered the great ship a silent farewell and said a quiet prayer for those who had not returned from her sister ship just over two years ago.

Moments later, they were aboard the train, Nora and Astrid settled into their seats across from the Harroways. Mr. Harroway unfolded his paper once again while his wife gazed out the window beside him. Astrid drew out her needlework as the train pulled away from the docks and gathered speed toward Waterloo Station. Nora watched Southampton recede into the distance. Somewhere beyond the waterfront lay the neighborhoods that had lost so many of Titanic’s crew, their grief woven into the city as deeply as the sea itself.

When at last Southampton disappeared from view, Nora turned from the window. Beside her, Astrid’s needles moved with the steady rhythm of the train. Nora reached for her writing case and withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, unsure how to put what she wished to say into words. Outside, the English countryside rolled past in shades of green. She uncapped her pen and began.

Mon cher Monsieur Moreau,

I am pleased to tell you that I have arrived safely in England. By the end of the week, I shall be in Paris.

As you know, I have read your letter with the greatest care and given it much thought. I am grateful for your candor and look forward to discussing the details in person. I believe I have found a way forward. My father held your judgment in the highest esteem, and I have always trusted his instincts.

I will write again upon my arrival so that we may arrange a meeting. Please extend my warmest regards to Genevieve.

With kind regards,

Nora Osterly

There was more she wished to say, something warm she couldn’t quite name, but she kept it tucked safely inside her for now. Soon, she would see him again, on business, yes, but in Paris. She was surprised to find how much she was looking forward to it.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked out at the passing countryside. It was foolish, perhaps, to think about him this way. There was business to attend to, a debt to settle, a company to preserve. But the train moved steadily toward Paris and she found, despite everything, that she was glad of it.

Beside her, Astrid’s needles continued their quiet rhythm. Across from them, Mr. Harroway had fallen asleep behind his paper while Mrs. Harroway read her copy of Harpers Bazar. Nora folded Etienne’s letter carefully inside her writing case and rested her hand against it for a moment. Outside the carriage window, the English countryside continued to unfurl in green fields and distant villages.

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Number 234

In Chapter 8, Nora learns that her father’s body was one of the few recovered after the sinking of the Titanic. It is a small comfort she finds in the wake of an unimaginable loss. Like so many moments in Nora’s story, this one is based on the life of the real woman who inspired her.

The recovery effort that followed the Titanic disaster was one of the largest maritime operations of its time. For Helen Østby—the real woman who inspired Nora—it meant the difference between having a grave to visit and never knowing where her father had come to rest.

Halifax, Nova Scotia became the center of the recovery effort. It was the closest port to the wreck site and was well-equipped. Already a major North Atlantic port, White Star Line turned to Halifax for the grim task ahead.

CS Mackay Bennett

The first ship dispatched was the cable vessel CS Mackay-Bennett. Hastily refitted for recovery, she sailed from Halifax on April 17, 1912, carrying undertakers, embalming supplies, coffins, and ice. Over the course of several days, Mackay-Bennett recovered 306 bodies, carefully numbering each one and cataloging personal effects for identification. When embalming supplies ran low or bodies were too badly deteriorated, burials at sea were conducted with solemn care. Of those recovered, 190 were brought back to Halifax, while 116 were buried at sea.

One of those 190 was Engelhart Østby, the real Providence jeweler who inspired Anders. He was body number 234. The recovery record lists his effects plainly: a gold watch and chain, a diary, two pocket books. He was identified in Halifax not by family, but by an employee of his own jewelry firm, sent to do the terrible work of confirming what everyone already feared. His body was carried home to Providence and buried there in May 1912.

When I wrote Anders’s own recovery in Episode 8—the pocket watch, the chain, the two pocket books, the loyal employee who makes the identification—I wasn’t inventing the details. I was simply following the record.

Additional Recovery Ships

As the scale of the tragedy became clear, additional ships were sent to assist. The cable ship CS Minia recovered seventeen more victims. The Canadian government vessel CS Montmagny recovered four, and the lighthouse supply ship SS Algerine assisted with transport and logistical support. Though these ships recovered far fewer victims than Mackay-Bennett, their contributions were essential to completing the recovery effort.

In total, only 328 bodies were recovered from the Atlantic, out of approximately 1,514 people who perished in the sinking. Just over 21 percent of the victims were given a burial, whether on land or at sea. The remaining majority, however, never received last rites, leaving their families and loved ones without the chance to say goodbye.

For Helen Østby, knowing that her father’s body had been recovered could never erase the loss, but it gave her something many Titanic families never received: a place to grieve. In Episode 8, I imagined Nora finding that same small measure of comfort.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Nice

Anders

April 1912
Nice, France

The morning light in Nice had a gentle beauty Anders hadn’t found anywhere else. Standing on the balcony of the Hôtel Royal, he watched hues of gold shimmer off the blue waters of the Mediterranean as scents of orange blossoms wafted up from the gardens below. He had always been fond of Nice in April. But Ingrid had simply adored it.

What began as their honeymoon destination became a place they returned to year after year. Ingrid had loved Nice the way some people love a person—completely and without reservation. Each morning she would rise early and sit on the balcony to watch the sunrise, the sun catching the pale sapphires of the ring he’d made her. He would watch her from the doorway, a cup of coffee in hand, struck each time by the love he felt for her.

They had always planned to bring Nora to Nice once she was old enough. But before that day came, Ingrid fell ill, and the holiday they had imagined never came to be.

Ingrid had developed a lingering cough in the fall of 1899. At first it was easily dismissed—a soft sound at the breakfast table, or in the evenings when the air turned cool. Yet as winter deepened, so did her cough. The sound of it began to haunt the house.

Anders had watched helplessly as her strength ebbed. Once so full of energy, Ingrid had grown pale and tired, spending more time in bed with each passing day. By spring, she could no longer climb the stairs without stopping to catch her breath.

The end came on a warm summer morning. Anders had sat beside the bed, holding her hand, trying to imagine a life without her. He had thought about how much he would miss her laughter and the warmth of her hand on his. All the years they had believed still lay before them had suddenly vanished, stolen by her illness.

Then, as he looked upon her peaceful face, another thought came, more painful than the first. She would never see their daughter grow up. He bent closer to her. “Nora will never want for anything,” he said. “You have my word.”

She tried to smile, and for a moment, he thought she might speak. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze as she drew one last breath, and her eyes closed forever.

The tuberculosis had taken Ingrid in a long, drawn-out battle when Nora was only ten years old. She was too young to fully understand. For months after the funeral, she spoke little, drifting through the house as though she was lost, until one day she wandered into his workshop and stood beside him with a pencil in hand. From then on, she sketched silently as he worked, their shared grief slowly healing in each other’s company.

A soft rustle drew him back to the present.

“Father?”

He turned. Nora stood in the doorway, her hair loosely pinned. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of Ingrid in his daughter’s expression.

“Good morning, Nora,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Quite well,” she replied, stepping onto the balcony. She rested her hands on the railing and looked out at the glittering Mediterranean. “Nice is beautiful. It is easy to see why Mother adored it so.”

“Yes,” he said. “There was nowhere she loved more.”

“The hotel is lovely too,” Nora replied. “It is every bit as elegant as the Ritz.”

“It is,” Anders agreed. “I only wish your mother could have seen it. She would have approved.”

“I wish I could remember more of her,” Nora said. “Every year she fades a little more.”

“I feel it too, little one,” Anders said, putting an arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

They stood together a moment longer, gazing at the shoreline, lost in memories of Ingrid. Finally, Anders straightened, letting the past settle gently back into place.

“Shall we dress for breakfast?” he asked.

Nora’s smile returned. “Yes, let’s.”

That afternoon, Anders sat at the writing desk in the sitting room of their elegantly appointed suite while Nora rested in her bedchamber. The tall windows draped in ivory silk stood open to the balcony, allowing the sea air to drift inside. From beyond the promenade came the rhythmic sound of waves against the shore and the occasional distant clatter of carriage wheels along the Promenade.

Anders leaned back in his chair for a moment, letting the calm settle around him. The Paris trip had gone better than he had dared hope. It had been nearly a year since the partnership was signed—August of 1911, in Etienne’s father’s old office—and this trip had let him see for himself that the arrangement was working as they had planned.

He thought of Étienne. He was a gentleman of precision with an ambition that mirrored his own. Anders had met many talented men in his years in the trade, but few who combined artistry with sound judgment in equal measure. The collaboration would benefit both houses. For Anders, the partnership meant Paris-made pieces for his American clients and a European presence he could not have built from Providence. For Etienne, it meant American capital and access to the Osterly & Co.’s clientele. Together, they could create work neither house could have produced on its own.

And Nora had taken to him. That mattered more than he had admitted to himself at the start. She would be the one to carry this forward one day, and he needed to know she trusted the man he had chosen to build it with.

There was, of course, the matter of the loan, sixteen thousand five hundred francs, borrowed at the signing to fund the expansion of the workshop. The new luxury line required new equipment, more space, and master artisans capable of bringing their designs to life. Though the sum was considerable, it was hardly alarming.

He had paused when it came time to pledge Ingrid’s engagement ring as collateral. He had designed it himself more than twenty years earlier. At its center sat a brilliant diamond, embraced by two sapphires, Ingrid’s favorite stone. He could still picture her face when he placed it onto her finger. Now it rested in Herr Kessler’s Paris office, held in trust until the debt was retired.

The luxury line was already performing well, and the first of the interest payments had been made without difficulty. By the time the principal came due in August of 1914, Anders was confident the collaboration would have generated more than enough to retire the debt entirely and return the ring to his safe. He had run the calculations many times. The numbers held each time.

He had not mentioned it to Nora. There was no need to. She had enough to carry without the weight of financial details that would resolve themselves long before they became her concern.

He reached for a sheet of the hotel’s cream-colored stationery and began to write.

Cher Monsieur Moreau,

I hope this letter finds you well and that Paris has returned to its usual rhythm since our departure. I write from Nice, where Nora and I have paused to rest before our voyage home. The Hôtel Royal is as comfortable as its reputation promises, and the Mediterranean light is unlike anything one finds further north.

I wished to express once more my gratitude for your hospitality during our visit. The signing of the partnership agreement marks the beginning of something I believe will serve both our houses well for many years to come.

The calm here has given me time to reflect on the opportunities our collaboration presents. The pieces we discussed, particularly the Art Nouveau inspired line, have great promise. When I return to Providence, I shall begin selecting the stones suited to the designs we reviewed together.

If you are able, I would be glad to receive the updated sketches once your artisans have refined the enamel work. Nora was especially taken with the prototype you showed her, and I believe such pieces will resonate strongly with our clients on both sides of the Atlantic.

I look forward to the road ahead. Please extend my regards to your staff.

Avec mes sentiments dévoués,
Anders Osterly

As he let the ink dry on the letter, he thought of the promise he had made years ago at Ingrid’s bedside. Every decision since had been shaped by it—every investment, every carefully chosen stone, every client relationship built and maintained.

That evening, Anders and Nora dressed for dinner and made their way to the Hôtel Royal dining room, where they were to join Frank and Anna Morris, a Providence couple they had met earlier in Paris. The Morrises had proven to be pleasant company, Mr. Morris a successful manufacturer, while his wife was warm and gracious.

As they stepped inside the hotel’s dining room, the hostess led them beneath crystal chandeliers to a table dressed in crisp linen, where Mr. and Mrs. Morris rose to greet them.

“Mr. Osterly! Miss Nora!” Mrs. Morris said, extending her hand. “How lovely to see you again.”

Mr. Morris gave a firm nod. “We’re delighted you could join us this evening.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Anders replied, taking his seat beside Nora.

The waiter filled their glasses with chilled water before presenting the menu—an elegant assortment of Provençal dishes and seafood from the bay.

Mrs. Morris leaned in with a smile. “Have you been enjoying Nice, dear?”

“Very much,” Nora answered. “We walked the promenade this morning. There’s a lovely balance here between activity and ease.”

“You have a keen eye. I’ve been embracing the quieter side myself,” Mrs. Morris said. “I told Frank this is the first place in Europe where I feel I could simply sit and do nothing at all for days.”

Mr. Morris smiled. “And she has, I assure you.”

Their first courses arrived as the conversation shifted to the Morrises’ travels through Italy, from Florence’s art galleries to the charm of Lake Como. Anders listened intently, while Nora peppered the older couple with questions about the Italian lakes.

Anders smiled at the stories of mishaps with luggage and unpredictable spring weather. “When do you return home?” he asked.

“We’re traveling to Cherbourg on Wednesday, where we’ll board our ship for home.” Mrs. Morris replied.

The mention of the French port piqued Anders’s curiosity. “Will you be crossing with the French Line?”

Frank shook his head. “White Star Line. The Titanic.”

“The Titanic,” Nora said, her eyes widening. “We’ve been reading about her all season. The newspapers describe her as a floating palace.”

“The very one,” Mrs. Morris confirmed. “It’s her maiden voyage to New York. Frank surprised me with our passage for our fortieth wedding anniversary.”

“How lovely,” Nora said. “We sailed on her sister ship, Olympic, last year. She was so steady I barely knew I was at sea.”

“Then Titanic will suit you even better,” Mr. Morris said. “They say she’s everything Olympic is and more.” He turned to Anders. “Have you seen the passenger list? Astor, Guggenheim, Straus. The cream of New York society. It promises to be quite a crossing.”

“And I understand Lady Duff-Gordon is sailing,” Mrs. Morris added. “I have two of her gowns and I confess I am quite beside myself at the prospect of meeting her.”

Anders felt a stir of intrigue. “Titanic has been the talk of every city we’ve visited this season. With a passenger list like that, I imagine White Star intends her maiden voyage to be as much a social event as a crossing itself. You’ve secured first-class passage, then?”

“We have.” Mrs. Morris smiled at her husband. “Frank wanted something memorable to end our forty years together.”

Frank smiled. “If you are heading home soon Mr. Osterly, you might consider joining us. I understand there are still berths available.”

The prospect sent a quiet ripple through Anders. A maiden voyage on the most celebrated ship afloat, with new friends and the finest passenger list of the season, had a certain appeal.

Conversation flowed easily between them throughout dinner as the pianist continued to play waltzes from the corner. A gentle breeze off the Mediterranean drifted through the open windows. It was one of those evenings that felt suspended in time.

As the dessert plates were cleared, Mr. Morris set down his wine glass. “Thank you for joining us,” he said. “The offer stands should you wish to join us aboard Titanic.”

“Do think it over, Mr. Osterly,” Mrs. Morris added. “It would be delightful to have company on the crossing.”

Anders hesitated, weighing the invitation. “It is certainly a remarkable ship if she’s anything like her sister.”

“Then let’s sail on her, Father!” Nora said, unable to hide her excitement.

Anders felt his own excitement rising to meet hers. He chuckled softly, imagining the story they would one day tell of sailing on the greatest ship ever built.

“Why not, Nora?” he said. “They are calling her the Queen of the Ocean. And we shall be on her maiden voyage!”

“Then it’s settled,” Mr. Morris said with a satisfied nod.

“Splendid!” Mrs. Morris said, raising her glass.

The other three raised their glasses and clinked them with hers.

“To the Titanic,” they said in unison.

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Before Titanic: The Story of Nomadic

When Nora and her father decide to cross the Atlantic on Titanic’s maiden voyage at dinner in Nice, it seems like such a simple choice at the time. It turns out to be a decision that will affect the rest of their lives. It’s also a part of their story that is rooted in history.

The real woman who inspired Nora, Helen Ostby, also crossed the Atlantic on the Titanic with her father Engelhart, who was a Providence jeweler. They’d spent the winter touring southern Europe and Egypt together, and it was in Nice, over dinner with their friends, the Warrens, that they first heard the Titanic still had room for passengers on her maiden voyage. They decided, that night, to change their plans and sail home on Titanic instead.

Officially, the White Star passenger list has the Ostbys boarding Titanic at Southampton. But Helen herself, in her letters and later accounts, insisted they’d boarded at Cherbourg—alongside the Warrens. I’ve chosen to believe her, so Nora and Anders board in France as well.

The inner harbor of Cherbourg wasn’t built to accommodate ships as large as Titanic, so instead of docking, it anchored offshore in the deeper water. And a small, unassuming vessel called the SS Nomadic ferried the first-class passengers out to the great ship.

Helen and Engelhart were sitting among some of the richest, most prominent people of the day on the small tender boat. Each of them had their own reason for being in Europe that spring, and their own reason for choosing this particular crossing home.

Famous Titanic Passengers Aboard Nomadic

Colonel John Jacob Astor, one of the richest men in the world, had spent the winter abroad with his new wife, eighteen-year-old Madeleine. The couple had gone on an extended honeymoon to Egypt and Paris, in part, to escape the scandal their marriage had caused back home in New York. They traveled with quite a crew, including a manservant, a maid, a private nurse, and even their dog, an Airedale terrier named Kitty. When Madeleine became pregnant during their travels, they cut their honeymoon short and booked passage home on Titanic.

Margaret “Molly” Brown, who had joined the Astors for part of their Egyptian travels, was aboard Nomadic too, though her reason for sailing home was more urgent. She’d been touring Europe with her daughter Helen when she received word that her infant grandson, back home in America, had fallen ill. She booked her ticket the day before Titanic sailed and was one of the very last passengers to do so.

Sir Cosmo and fashion designer Lady Duff-Gordon (Lucile) also boarded Titanic in Cherbourg. Nora, who wears one of Lucile’s gowns in the story, would have sailed on Nomadic with the woman who dressed famous clients from dancer Isadora Duncan to the British royal family. Lady Duff-Gordon hadn’t planned to sail on Titanic but urgent business at her New York fashion house meant she needed the first available ship home, and Titanic’s maiden voyage happened to be it.

Like Nora and Anders, none of these elite passengers could have known, stepping from the decks of Nomadic onto those of Titanic, that they were walking toward the last few days of the world they knew before it changed forever.

SS Nomadic

Unlike Titanic’s short life, Nomadic went on to live a long and remarkable one. After completing her duties at Cherbourg for Titanic, she continued for years to serve as the tender for Titanic’s surviving sister, the Olympic. When WWI began, she was requisitioned by the French Navy and refitted as a military transport and minesweeper.

After the First World War, Nomadic returned to civilian service, once again ferrying passengers to White Star Line ships. In 1934, the merger of White Star and Cunard, combined with an expansion of Cherbourg’s harbor made her tender services unnecessary. She was sold to a French salvage company and renamed Ingénieur Minard. During the Second World War, she was once again used as a minesweeper and troop transport.

After retiring in 1968, she narrowly escaped the scrapyard more than once before being restored to her original name and returned to her birthplace through the efforts of Titanic preservation groups.

Today, after a massive overhaul, she sits back where she began—in Belfast as a part of the Titanic experience. It’s fitting that she now rests near the same shipyard that built her alongside Titanic over a century ago. The SS Nomadic is the sole survivor of the White Star Line and a living piece of Titanic history.

Stepping Back in Time

Visiting Nomadic while researching When the Sea Was Still gave me the opportunity to walk through the very first-class spaces where Helen and Engelhart spent their last moments leading up to the Titanic voyage. Stepping aboard this richly detailed relic, restored to her 1911 appearance, offered me a glimpse into a past era of elegance—its cream-painted paneling, slatted wooden benches, and patterned flooring, all recreated from the ship’s original design.

As I rested my hand against the cold iron wall, a hundred years of stories were alive within it. And gazing at the first-class seating section, I could almost hear the conversations of the famous passengers she once carried.

It was, for a historical-fiction novelist, a dream come true.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Stormy Weather

Nora

June 1914
Onboard the Olympic

Life aboard the Olympic was already in full motion as Nora and Astrid took their morning walk along the promenade deck after breakfast. This time when they had reached the A-Deck landing, Nora had given Astrid a slight nod instead of retreating inside. Now as they strolled along the wide wooden planks, the routine of a first-class sea day unfolded before them like a well-rehearsed dance. The deck chairs were arranged in their precise rows as the stewards moved deftly between them and the murmur of restrained conversations drifted into the sea breeze.

“It looks as though we might have a storm today,” Astrid said, glancing toward the horizon.

Nora followed her gaze. The sea had taken on a deeper color than it had at breakfast and dark clouds hung over the horizon. “Indeed it does. How long do you think before it arrives?”

“By afternoon,” Astrid said. “Perhaps sooner.”

The wind along the rail picked up just enough to tug at the brim of Nora’s hat and seemed to confirm the oncoming storm. Ahead of them, a stewardess stooped to straighten a steamer rug over an elderly gentleman’s knees as he attempted to read his newspaper.

“We’ve enjoyed such nice weather on the crossing so far,” Nora said. “I suppose we were due.”

A pair of children darted past them, giggling, while their nursemaid struggled to keep up, calling after them in vain. Nora laughed as they disappeared around the curve ahead. To be that carefree again was an appealing thought.

“I’ve been thinking about what awaits us in Paris,” Nora said.

“Of course you have, dear,” Astrid replied. “There is still a great deal to be resolved.”

Nora was quiet for a moment, watching the whitecaps begin to gather further out. She had spent the better part of the crossing thinking about Etienne’s letter and the company’s uncertain future it had revealed.

“It is a strange irony,” she said. “We are facing this difficulty because Father partnered with Maison Moreau, yet I’m grateful to have Etienne’s support.”

Astrid gave Nora a knowing look.

“What?” Nora asked. She glanced at Astrid, trying to read her expression, before nodding politely at a few passengers as they passed.

“Nothing, dear,” Astrid said. “I know you respect Mr. Moreau a great deal. That’s all.”

Nora simply nodded. She looked out at the darkening horizon, where the line between the sea and sky had disappeared. “We should go in,” she said. “Before the weather turns.”

By four o’clock that afternoon the storm had arrived. Rain tapped softly against the promenade windows of the first-class lounge. The room was more crowded than usual with passengers who had abandoned the decks as the weather worsened outside. Mrs. Harroway and Mrs. Cartwright were already seated at an elegantly set table with fresh flowers at its center, their bright colors adding a cheerful note.

“I’m relieved to see you feeling better this afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright,” Nora said, sitting next to Astrid.

“I refused to spend another afternoon confined to my cabin while the rest of you enjoyed tea without me,” Mrs. Cartwright replied.

The steward arrived with his polished silver teapot. He filled each of their ivory cups, delicately decorated with the White Star Line pennant and rimmed in gold.

“Now,” Mrs. Harroway said, “tell me you are planning to visit the couture houses while you’re in Paris, Mrs. Cartwright. I shall be devastated if you intend to spend the entire summer in business meetings with Mr. Cartwright.”

“I imagine there will be time for both,” Mrs. Cartwright said, reaching for one of the delicate pastries arranged on the tiered stand in the middle of the table.

“I do hope Paris has not entirely abandoned elegance by the time we arrive,” Astrid said. “The fashions become stranger every season.”

“You dislike the newer styles?” Mrs. Harroway asked.

“I dislike looking as though I’ve been poured into my gown,” Astrid replied. “These narrow skirts make perfectly graceful women walk like penguins.”

Nora hid her smile behind her teacup, while Mrs. Cartwright chuckled softly across from her. Astrid, unbothered, simply spread more butter on her tea cake, as though she’d said nothing worth remarking on.

“And yet every lady in New York insists upon them,” Mrs. Harroway pointed out.

“That is because Paris understands beauty better than the rest of us,” Nora said. “Though I admit some designers push too far.”

A steward paused at their table, refilling their cups with practiced grace, the pleasant aroma of tea drifting upward. As he withdrew with a slight bow, a small orchestra began to play a waltz across the lounge.

“I confess,” Mrs. Cartwright said, “I admire the newer Parisian styles.”

“No need to confess, dear,” Mrs. Harroway said with a smile. “A lady may certainly have her own taste.”

Mrs. Cartwright touched the brim of her hat self-consciously, an elaborate confection of ostrich plumes and silk roses. It was as though it couldn’t settle on which hat it meant to be.

“I quite agree,” Nora said. “I’ve always thought the most poorly dressed woman in the room is the one too afraid to please herself.”

“Quite right,” Mrs. Harroway said. “What other plans do you have while you’re in Paris?”

“I had thought to spend time with my brother. He was living in Paris…” Mrs. Cartwright began.

“Was?” Nora asked.

“He went home to Germany.” A shadow crossed her face. “I received his letter right before we boarded. It was a surprise.”

“How mysterious,” Astrid said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Cartwright agreed, then looked down at her teacup before taking a sip.

Beyond the promenade windows, the rain beat harder against the glass. The lounge gave a faint shudder as the Olympic cut through another swell.

Nora set down her cup and turned to Mrs. Harroway. “Where is Mr. Harroway this afternoon?”

“Reading in the smoking room,” Mrs. Harroway replied with a wave of her hand. “He’s become dreadfully serious all of a sudden, reading The Times and muttering about European diplomacy as if he’s a member of Parliament.”

“There seems to be much talk of it aboard,” Astrid said.

“It is difficult to escape,” Nora said. “The newspapers seem to carry a new headline each day.”

“Let us hope they remain only headlines,” Mrs. Harroway replied.

A brief silence settled over the table. Around them, the lounge had begun to clear as passengers finished their afternoon ritual. Stewards moved between the tables collecting dishes while the storm continued to intensify.

Astrid reached for her gloves. “Shall we go up?”

Nora looked out at the churning gray sea. “You go ahead,” she said. “I think I’ll take a few minutes on the promenade first.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “In this weather?”

“It’s enclosed,” Nora said. “I won’t get wet.”

Mrs. Harroway rose, smoothing her skirt. “Sometimes a person needs to watch a storm rather than hide from it.” She touched Nora’s arm. “Don’t stay too long, dear.”

“I won’t,” Nora said.

She watched Astrid, Mrs. Cartwright, and Mrs. Harroway leave together, chatting as they walked toward the corridor. Nora turned back to the windows, where the rain continued to streak steadily against the glass.

She reached for her wrap and stood.

The sheltered corridor of the B-Deck promenade stretched between the two grand staircases, its large glass panels overlooking the raging Atlantic. Above, the boat deck provided cover from the rain. The space was nearly empty. A lone steward moved along the promenade securing deck chairs against the weather. He gave Nora a polite nod when he noticed her.

She moved to the glass and rested her hands lightly on the rail.

The storm had an honest quality to it she hadn’t expected. The sea made no effort to appear anything other than what it was: vast, indifferent, and without mercy. Out here, behind the glass, she could look at it in a way she hadn’t been able to manage in the open air. The panels held the weather—and the ocean—at a distance just sufficient to make it bearable.

There was violence in the storm’s movement, wind tearing across the surface of the sea, waves battering against the hull, the crack of thunder from above. White crests rose and fell in rapid succession, each one erasing the last. The Olympic groaned beneath Nora’s feet, riding the swells, steady and deliberate, as though she had long since made her peace with the Atlantic’s moods.

But the storm didn’t unsettle Nora as much as it would have when she boarded. In its chaos, she felt a strange sort of permission to be restless. The weather, at least, made no pretense of calm. She had spent five days maintaining the composed appearance expected of her at breakfast, at dinner, on the promenade. Here, with the storm swirling all around her and no one watching, she could let herself feel the immense weight of it all.

She stood at the glass watching the storm tear through the Atlantic. She remembered staring across another angry sea two years earlier as the Carpathia carried her back to New York without her father. It had seemed impossible then that they could leave together and not return together. Yet that was exactly what had happened.

As she gazed into the dark horizon now, she thought of the last hope she’d had of seeing him alive.

After Titanic sank, they had drifted for hours. Mrs. Morris had barely spoken a word and Nora likewise was silent, her senses dulled by the shock of the night. Neither of them knew what might happen next or if the sun would ever rise again.

After the calm of the night, the winds started to pick up, sending a shiver through Nora’s already freezing body.

A distant green rocket soared high in the sky.

An occupant in the boat yelled out, “A rocket! They’re looking for us!”

Mrs. Morris finally spoke, “We’re saved. Nora, we’re saved.”

“It seems we are,” The words came out rough and barely audible.

Around her, people who had sat in frozen silence for hours began to stir. A woman near the bow was weeping. One of the crewmen at the oars pulled harder on them.

Nora looked out across the dark sea but could see nothing. Then, at last, a dim light appeared in the distance. As she watched, it slowly grew brighter. A palpable shift passed through the lifeboat. Mrs. Morris, Nora, and all the others weren’t just relieved for themselves. Every one of them believed that once the approaching ship brought them aboard, they would be reunited with their loved ones and could start to put the horror of night behind them.

One of the men yelled, “Row men, she’s stopped because of the ice. We need to row to her.”

As the men took turns at the oars, they rowed for what must have been an hour. In that time, the ship grew from a faint outline into a wall of steel rising out of the sea, her portholes casting warm gold reflections on the water below. Once they were close enough to the ship, Nora could make out the name on the hull.

The Carpathia.

They were saved. The ship had come. They would live. And somewhere out there in the other lifeboats, others had survived too. Her father was among them, she was certain. He had to be.

Faint streaks of dawn lit the horizon as they drew alongside the Carpathia. Nora could see other lifeboats scattered about, rowing toward the ship. Then she saw a cruelly beautiful display that stopped her cold. Icebergs were all around them, white castles of light reflecting the brilliant morning colors.

She looked away from the ice and focused on the ship. The Carpathia was equipped for rescue. Occupants from the lifeboats ahead of them climbed the rope ladder hanging from the side of the ship to safety. Those too weak to climb were hauled up in a seat rigged from rope.

Once aboard, the crew had been kind, wrapping blankets around their shoulders, giving them mugs of hot coffee and tea. She drank mechanically, barely tasting the strong coffee, before leaving Mrs. Morris to rest. She returned to the deck to look for her father.

She stood at the rail as the lifeboats came in, one after the other. She watched the fourth boat come in. Then the fifth. Then the sixth. But each boat held only strangers. Strangers with a stunned gaze that mirrored her own. Strangers who wept into their blankets as they stumbled past her.

It was the saddest gathering of people Nora had ever witnessed. One by one, mothers, daughters, and wives lost hope of being reunited with their loved ones. Mrs. Morris eventually found her on deck, her cheeks streaked with tears.

“He’s not here,” she choked. “My Frank isn’t here.”

“Watch with me.” Nora reached for her hand. “There are more lifeboats to come.”

But the last lifeboat arrived and her father wasn’t on it. Neither was Frank. The lifeboats were all accounted for. The two women went back inside, speechless.

Rumors spread throughout the ship that other vessels, even the Olympic, were sent to help with the rescue. Hope had kept her going through the long frigid night in the lifeboat. Only the possibility that her father was on board another ship kept her standing now.

The Carpathia’s voyage back had not been kind. Fog pressed in from all sides the following morning, thick and disorienting. The seas were rough the second day, the ship rolling heavily through swells that sent unsecured belongings sliding across cabin floors. On the third night, a thunderstorm broke over the Atlantic—lightning splitting the dark water, rain driving hard against the portholes.

On board she had the unexpected comfort of finding friends from Providence among Carpathia’s passengers—a young couple on their honeymoon who gave over their cabin without hesitation. She lay in their borrowed bunk and listened to the storm, unwilling to think the unthinkable.

By the time they pulled into the New York Harbor on the evening of April 18^th, they’d learned that there had been no other rescue ships. Nora was faced with the knowledge that she would not see her father alive again.

She stood on deck in the rain, watching the lights of the city come into focus as they drew closer to Pier 54. There must have been tens of thousands of people waiting on the dock. No one cheered. No one called out. They simply stood there in the dark, watching the Carpathia come in.

Rain soaked through Nora’s clothes as she stood at the rail and let the storm wash over her. Her last thread of hope was gone.

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Afternoon Tea Aboard the Olympic

Aboard the RMS Olympic in 1914, afternoon tea was an Edwardian high-society custom. It was an elegant affair of refinement and socialization that took place each day at 4:00 pm in either the Verandah Café or the First-Class Lounge. As first-class passengers Nora, Astrid, Mrs. Harroway, and Mrs. Cartwright gather in the First-Class Lounge each day to take part in this ritual, enjoying tea, delicacies, and each other’s company.

The Ritual

For first-class passengers, afternoon tea was one of the day’s premier social occasions. It was an opportunity to visit with friends, make new acquaintances, exchange travel plans, and enjoy the luxury of life at sea.

The lounge at tea time was overwhelmingly a female domain. Edwardian upper-class women used afternoon tea as their primary theater for shipboard socializing, gossiping, showing off late-afternoon tea gowns, and strengthening social connections.

While men could attend, many skipped it entirely, preferring to spend their late afternoons in the First-Class Smoking Room which was strictly forbidden to women. There, they drank scotch, smoked cigars, talked politics or business, and played high-stakes cards.

The Setting

The First-Class Lounge was the glittering crown jewel of the ship’s social life, an opulent space designed in the Louis Quinze style and heavily inspired by the Palace of Versailles. Open from eight in the morning until eleven at night, it was a place for reading, card games, and conversation as much as afternoon tea.

The lounge was paneled in fine English oak with delicate floral carvings and a white ceiling patterned with intricate musical-themed motifs. Underfoot lay a rich Axminster carpet—the carpet of choice for British royalty and aristocracy since the 1700s, gracing palaces like Windsor Castle. Groups of tables, sofas, and armchairs upholstered in plush green-and-gold floral velvet were scattered throughout the room, offering passengers countless small alcoves for private conversation.

During the afternoon tea service, a small ensemble or solo pianist played a mix of classical pieces and operetta airs for background music that perfectly complemented the occasion.

The Service

White Star Line took great pride in its service, and nowhere was that more evident than in the details of afternoon tea. Stewards in immaculate uniforms moved seamlessly between tables, never letting a cup sit empty. The silver tea service itself—including the teapot, coffee pot, milk jug, and sugar bowl—came from Goldsmiths & Silversmiths of London, a company so highly regarded that it had earned a Royal Warrant as an official supplier to the British royal family.

Tea was poured from the polished silver pots into fine bone china cups, their rims accented in gold and bearing the White Star Line insignia. Fresh flowers decorated the tables, while everything from crisp white linens to the place settings reflected the same precise elegance found at the formal dinner service.

The food served reflected classic British teatime: thin finger sandwiches such as cucumber and watercress, freshly baked scones served with clotted cream and jam, and an assortment of French pastries and petits fours. Passengers typically drank bold English and Irish tea blends, alongside coffee and other refreshments.

The Fashion

In 1914, the First-Class Lounge would have been a showcase of Edwardian fashion, which was at a fascinating turning point in history. High society was transitioning out of the rigid, hyper-restrictive corsets of the Victorian era and moving toward the more fluid, avant-garde styles of the late Edwardian period—heavily influenced by the French designer Paul Poiret.

Afternoon tea was as much an opportunity to see and be seen as it was to enjoy a cup of tea. Ladies changed into elegant afternoon tea gowns in “daylight” pastels such as lavender, tea-rose pink, and dove gray often finished in cream or ivory. Although less formal than evening dress, they were every bit as fashionable, layered in fabrics such as delicate chiffon, soft silk crepe, satin, and fine Brussels lace. These gowns featured graceful lines, delicate embroidery, and flowing skirts that reflected the refined elegance of the Edwardian era.

Unlike dinner, where women went hatless and wore jewels in their hair, hats were strictly mandatory for afternoon tea. In 1914, hats were reaching their peak of theatrical, oversized extravagance, wide-brimmed and lavishly adorned with silk ribbons, feathers, flowers, and even decorative birds. A lady never wore her hat completely straight. It was pinned securely to her voluminous hair at a dramatic tilt.

Accessories to complete the look included long gloves, pearl necklaces, and delicate parasols. Gloves were removed before sitting down and placed delicately in the lap; eating or drinking with gloves on was a major faux pas.

Bringing History into the Story

At tea, Nora, Astrid, Mrs. Harroway, and Mrs. Cartwright discuss the latest fashions in Paris. This would have been a perfectly natural topic of conversation for first-class passengers aboard the Olympic. Paris was the undisputed fashion capital of the world in 1914, and wealthy American travelers often planned visits to the great couture houses to acquire the newest styles long before they appeared elsewhere.

One of the year’s most talked about fashions was the hobble skirt. Its narrow silhouette restricted a woman’s stride, forcing her to take short, careful steps. Many women found it impractical, a sentiment that Astrid wholeheartedly shared. Practical by nature, she has little patience for fashion that gets in the way of everyday life.

It’s easy to remember history for its great tragedies and turning points, but life is made up of ordinary afternoons like these. Ladies aboard the Olympic gathered over tea to discuss fashion, travel, and the latest gossip. Re-creating those simple moments allows us to glimpse everyday Edwardian life aboard one of the great ocean liners of the early twentieth century, just before the world changed forever.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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A Sorrow in the Air

Nora

June 1914
Onboard the Olympic

By the middle of the voyage, life at sea had taken on a gentle routine. Each morning, Nora and Astrid descended the grand staircase to the first-class dining saloon, where the warm scent of fresh rolls and strong coffee welcomed them. After breakfast, Astrid would join the Harroways for their walk along the promenade, while Nora retreated to the first-class lounge to work on her sketches. It was a pattern they had fallen into without much discussion.

They were seated one morning at their usual table by the window. Their waiter arrived promptly with a steaming cup of coffee for Nora and a pot of tea for Astrid. Nora wrapped her hands around the warm cup, letting the heat soothe her. She sipped slowly, her thoughts drifting to the restless night before, haunted once again by dreams of the past. Last night had been even worse than the others, though she could not have said why.

Astrid watched her closely. “You didn’t sleep.”

Nora hesitated. She turned her cup in her hands and looked out at the water. “Being on a ship again is harder than I had prepared myself for,” she said at last.

Astrid’s expression softened. She laid a hand gently on Nora’s. “I feared as much when we booked passage. But your mind was made up.”

Nora took a small sip of coffee, then set her cup down more forcefully than she intended. “Because what he built cannot end with him,” she said. “The company letterhead bears my name now. I cannot conduct its business, such as it is, from Providence,”

Astrid gave her a small smile. “You are your father’s daughter. He never did shrink from what needed doing, and neither do you.”

“You are kind to say so.” Nora looked down at her cup. “Some mornings I still expect to see him at the table.”

Astrid squeezed her hand. “He is with you still, my dear. In all that you do,” she said. “You are stronger than you know. He would tell you the same.”

Nora met Astrid’s gaze and returned the squeeze. “I do not know what I should do without you, Astrid.”

Astrid gave an approving nod just as the waiter returned with their breakfast. “Now. Let us eat, before the rolls grow cold.”

“Yes, let’s,” Nora said, and she reached for a roll.

After breakfast, they left the dining saloon together, ascending the great staircase at a leisurely pace. The morning light filtered through the dome above, bathing the carved cherub in gold, giving it an almost celestial quality. Around them, the ship was alive with first-class passengers drifting between the decks, engrossed in society gossip.

When they reached the A-Deck landing where they usually parted, Nora automatically turned toward the first-class lounge. Her routine, masquerading as safety, waited there for her. She had already taken two steps when Astrid’s voice stopped her.

“Nora.”

Nora turned back. “Yes?”

“You could join us today, if only for a few turns” she said. “I would be beside you the whole way.”

Nora glanced toward the promenade doors. Her breath caught. The deck outside. The open sea. The place she had avoided since stepping aboard.

“Astrid…” She hesitated. “I do not know if I can.”

Astrid touched her arm lightly. “You have faced harder than this.”

Nora looked through the glass doors, at the vast ocean beyond. She wanted to retreat to the relative safety of the lounge, where the sea could be kept at a distance. But then she thought of her father.

She drew a breath.

“Very well,” she whispered. “I shall try.”

Astrid smiled. “Good.”

They stepped through the doors together. The Atlantic stretched out endlessly beneath the morning sun, with no land in sight. The sea was remarkably still. The only movement Nora felt was the beating of her heart.

Josie Harroway spotted them at once. “Nora! What a delightful surprise,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ll be joining us for our constitutional this morning.”

Mr. Harroway offered a polite nod. “A fine morning for it,” he said.

Nora walked alongside Astrid as they fell into step beside the couple. The wide wooden promenade stretched ahead of them, open to the sea. Nora could feel the wind on her face for the first time since boarding. A few passengers with books were settled in a row of deck chairs. Nora kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her gloved hand gliding along the teak rail for support.

Mrs. Harroway chatted easily as they walked. “We’ve quite fallen into a routine this week,” she said. “A turn around the deck, a stop by the library, then perhaps a game of bridge if it suits us.”

Nora nodded, then looked out at the clear sweep of unbroken ocean. The morning light glittered on the surface—too bright, too calm. Her pulse quickened.

Mrs. Harroway softened her tone. “You are doing very well, my dear. The first step is the hardest.”

“Thank you. It’s beginning to grow easier,” Nora replied.

As they continued on, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Discussions of luncheon menus and a charming pianist they’d heard the previous evening made their stroll more pleasant.

Up ahead Nora noticed Bridie O’Sullivan adjusting the canvas back of a deck chair. Her presence was a small comfort. Bridie was the only person Nora knew who truly understood what that night had cost.

She slowed her steps.

“Astrid,” she said, “go on with the Harroways. I’ll join you again shortly.”

Astrid followed her gaze and nodded. “Of course.”

Mrs. Harroway gave an encouraging smile. “Take your time, dear. We shall be just ahead.”

Nora nodded before moving forward, the sound of the trio’s conversation fading as she walked toward Bridie.

As Nora drew closer, Bridie looked up and saw her. “Good morning, Miss Osterly.”

“Good morning, Bridie,” Nora said. “Preparing Mrs. Harroway’s chair?”

“Yes. She likes the sun on this side in the mornings. Says it keeps the chill out of her bones.” Bridie hesitated a moment, then added, “It’s calmer today.”

They both glanced out toward the sea.

Bridie was the eldest of five, originally from Queenstown, Ireland, her story mirrored that of many young Irish women who took work at sea out of necessity. When her father died, she had been only sixteen, yet the responsibility of providing for her mother and younger siblings had fallen squarely on her shoulders. Now twenty-seven, her burden had eased as her brothers were finally old enough to help support the family. She seemed grateful to have traded life at sea for her position with Mrs. Harroway, though Nora knew she still sent money home to Ireland, and likely always would.

Bridie spoke first. “It was in the night,” she said. “We passed the place.”

Nora nodded. “I woke,” she said. “I didn’t understand why.”

“You feel it before you know it. Something in the air changes.” Bridie said.

Nora released a slow breath. “It’s where she sank.”

“Aye,” Bridie whispered. “There’s a sorrow in the air. Anyone who lived through that night can feel it.”

Nora wrapped her hands together. “It felt… so cold. I had to put on another blanket.”

Bridie placed her hand on Nora’s arm. “Once you’ve lived through it, you never forget. No matter how many crossings come after.”

Nora shivered as a heavy silence settled between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the place they had passed and the lives lost beneath it.

Bridie offered a small, steady smile. “Mrs. Harroway will be along shortly. I’ll have her chair ready. If you need anything, Miss Osterly.”

“Thank you, Bridie,” Nora said. “It helps… knowing someone else understands.”

That afternoon, Nora made her way to the first-class lounge to catch up on her letters. She was beginning to feel more at ease in the lounge, which somehow grew both more and less familiar each time she entered it. She chose a small walnut writing table near the tall promenade windows, then reached for her stationery and began her letter to Clara.

My dearest Clara,

I write to you this afternoon from the quiet of the Olympic’s first-class lounge. The room has that familiar elegance these great liners share. I imagine you know this better than anyone, having crossed the Atlantic more times than I can count. I envy your fearless love of travel.

Life aboard the ship has been pleasant enough. The weather has been fine these first few days. The passengers are an interesting mix, some lively, some reserved, all keen to discuss the summer season in Europe.

The voyage itself has been a trying experience. Traveling without Father feels so strange. Being at sea again has stirred more feelings than I expected. The familiar sounds that I once found comforting now carry memories I find hard to face. I tell myself it grows a little easier each day.

There is also the matter of the business I must attend to while in Paris. I confess it weighs heavily on me. I find myself grateful that you will be nearby for counsel. You have always known how to help me see clearly when I cannot.

I am pleased to tell you that Astrid and I will arrive in Paris as planned. I look forward to our long walks and hearing about your latest projects. Until then, know that I think of you with deep affection, dear friend.

Yours ever,

Nora

Clara had come into her life when Nora was fifteen, not long after her mother’s death had left an emptiness in the house that her father, for all his devotion, could not fill. Her father had introduced them one afternoon after a small lecture Clara had given at Brown. At the time, Clara had been in her early thirties, already known in Providence society for her travel essays. Nora had come to respect Clara as a woman who valued intellect over social climbing. She lent Nora books, took her to exhibitions, and treated her as an equal. Over the years, what began as mentorship had blossomed into true friendship.

After reading through the letter to Clara once more, Nora folded the page with care and slipped it into an envelope. Once sealed and addressed, her thoughts drifted to another letter, the one she had received from Etienne two months ago, prompting her to book passage on the Olympic.

Nora thought back to three years ago, in Paris, when her father brought her to Etienne’s atelier on the Île de la Cité. She could still picture standing beside her father inside Maison Moreau, seeing Étienne for the first time. He had stepped out of his office to greet them, handsome in his navy suit. He had smiled at her, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other, and something in that asymmetric smile had disarmed her before he said a word. She had not expected that.

At first, she had been skeptical of a partnership with a house so far from Providence. But as Étienne led them through the workshop, his exquisite work spoke for itself. He was assured without being arrogant, attentive in a way that felt genuine. His patience when he’d shown her how to set a stone had left an impression on her. By the time they left Paris, Nora was entirely confident in her father’s judgement. Together, their houses had created a luxury line that rivaled Cartier, pieces that quickly found favor with distinguished clients from New York to London.

After the loss of her father, Étienne had been so kind and understanding. His letters arrived with the regularity of a trusted friend—discussions of design sketches and stone settings, stories from his bustling workshop, gentle encouragement whenever she sent him a new idea. Through their correspondence, they had formed a friendship that extended beyond the business, built on mutual respect and a shared devotion to craftsmanship. She had come to look forward to his letters. They were one of the few things that had made the months after her father’s death bearable.

But in April, his letter had held a message she wasn’t prepared for. She had opened it expecting another discussion of gemstones or a request for her thoughts on a new design. Instead, she had found words that made her sit down at once, her head spinning.

She had read the letter at least a dozen times, hoping each time she had misunderstood. But she never had.

She unfolded it again now.

Ma chère Mademoiselle Osterly,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and enjoying the first pleasant days of spring in Providence. Paris, too, has begun to warm, though the air carries a faint unease that no one speaks of openly. The atelier is busy with our usual work, and I often find myself thinking of the vision your father and I shared for the future of our houses.

If you will permit me, I must now turn to a matter of importance regarding the partnership your late father and I formed in 1911.

To complete the expansion of the Maison Moreau workshop and launch the new luxury line your father envisioned, it became necessary to secure a loan. The principal of this loan—16,500 francs—is due on the 1st of August.

It was the reason she was facing the sea again.

Nora folded Etienne’s letter and placed it back in its envelope. If her father were still alive, she would have gone straight to him, the very man who had set this problem in motion. The irony settled over her with a familiar ache. He had always tried to shield her from the world’s hardships. She wished he had trusted her enough to tell her.

“Miss Osterly,” came a familiar voice.

She looked up to find Lionel Cartwright, hat in hand, impeccably dressed as usual.

“Mr. Cartwright,” she said. “Good afternoon.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “Are you enjoying this calm day at sea?”

“I am indeed.” He gestured to the chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Of course.”

“It seems we are nearly halfway across,” he said. “The days pass more quickly at sea than one expects.”

“They do,” Nora agreed. “Though I confess, I will be glad to see land again.”

“Paris awaits you, does it not?” he asked with interest. “Business to attend to with your family’s firm, Osterly & Co., if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” she said. “Astrid and I will be staying for several weeks. In addition to business, I have friends I look forward to seeing.”

“Osterly & Co. is a distinguished name,” he said. “I have made a number of inquiries. Your firm has an excellent reputation. I take an interest in firms with strong foundations and room to grow.”

Nora raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing an investment, Mr. Cartwright?”

“A conversation,” he said. “Nothing more. A business of your caliber, navigating the complexities of a transatlantic partnership, may present opportunities worth exploring together.”

Nora studied him for a moment. She was not crossing an ocean to hand any part of her father’s company to a Wall Street financier, no matter how carefully practiced his manner.

“That is a generous thought,” she said. “However, Osterly & Co. is not seeking outside investment at this time. We are quite capably managing our own affairs.”

“Of course,” he said with a polished smile. “The offer stands, should circumstances change.”

“How kind,” she said. She reached for her pen. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Cartwright.”

He rose, gave a slight bow, and withdrew.

Nora watched him go. She felt a certain satisfaction in having handled Mr. Cartwright’s forward suggestion cleanly with no hesitation or apology. Her father would have approved.

The quiet of the lounge settled around her. Nora looked out of the tall windows beside her, where the late-afternoon light shimmered across the open sea. The water, still so calm, stretched in an unbroken sweep toward the horizon. She had only seen it that still once before.

That night, too, the sea had been impossibly calm. The air was bitterly cold, cutting straight through the thick layers of her coat and settling deep in her bones. As Lifeboat 5 pulled away from the great sinking ship, an icy breeze pierced the stillness of the night.

Nora watched in disbelief as the lights of the forward portholes began to disappear. It felt like a bad dream. She strained to find her father among the figures on the deck, but the distance had grown too great.

Beside her, Mrs. Morris said, “Look, Nora, I see lights over there. It must be another ship coming to rescue us all.”

Nora felt a surge of hope. “Yes,” she said. “I see it.”

A gasp rose from the boat’s occupants as a distress rocket rose high in the sky, loud and bright against the black night. Nora could see other lifeboats scattered around them. Some were full, while others were half empty. All of their occupants stared at the Titanic in horror.

She watched the ship slowly sink lower into the water, one row of deck lights at a time disappearing below the waves. The realization that they would not be returning to the ship settled over her. Suddenly, they heard the screams of people onboard, as they ran out of escape options.

“Dear God,” Mrs. Morris cried. “Lord save us!”

Nora was at a loss for words. As the ship’s fate became inevitable, her thoughts were only of her father. Surely, he had found another lifeboat. She couldn’t let her mind go to the possibility he was among those trapped on the sinking vessel.

Another rocket lit up the sky.

Then the Titanic began to rise at a terrible angle, her stern lifting into the sky like a wounded beast. Her propellers should not have been visible. Yet, the lights still burned in her upper decks as if she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The ship stood on end, perpendicular to the flat water. They heard a loud rumbling as her beautiful furnishings and grand interiors tore loose from their moorings and were dumped into the sea. The majestic liner stood there for another minute and then went down like an arrow in a final bow of thundering underwater explosions.

The Queen of the Ocean was no longer there.

As Nora watched the unthinkable happen, she silently wept. Her tears were for the souls who had not found a place in a lifeboat. She prayed her father was not among them. She also cried for the magnificent ship lost to a merciless sea on what should have been her triumphant maiden voyage.

Nora clung to Mrs. Morris on that tiny lifeboat, freezing and afraid.

Officer Pitman, standing at the stern, checked his watch. His voice sounded official when he announced, “It is two twenty.”

Two twenty. The moment the world changed.

And then came the cries. Hundreds of people flailing in the water, screaming for help in a deafening roar as they struggled against the icy cold sea. Nora hadn’t seen anyone in the dark water but the sound of those voices had pierced her in a way she would never forget. It was a noise that would ring in her ears for the rest of her life.

After a few stunned, breathless minutes, Pitman gathered himself and called out to the crewmen at the oars. “Now men, we will pull toward the wreck!”

Yes, Nora thought, of course, they would go back. They had to go back.

But then came the protests. A woman toward the bow cried out, “Why should we all lose our lives in a useless attempt to save others from the ship?”

Nora and Mrs. Morris exchanged a meaningful look, as if unsure whether or not to speak up. Mrs. Morris whispered, “We must row back...for Frank…for your father…for the others!”

Nora wanted to say something. She wanted to shout out her support but the words wouldn’t form. She was frozen in place.

Then another protest rose from the dark boat. Then another, and another.

Nora had looked at Pitman, willing him to row back, her words still stuck in her throat. But as she watched him, she saw his shoulders sag and she knew he had given in to the fear of the boat’s occupants. Slowly, he relented and the oars stilled.

They did not go back.

Nora drew a trembling breath as the cries continued across the dark water. There would be no rescue for them. She shivered, though not from the cold.

“Frank!” Mrs. Morris called out repeatedly.

Nora gripped Mrs. Morris’s hand.

As her friend’s cries subsided, so did those in the sea, and a chilling silence followed. The gravity of the quietness weighed heavily on Nora.

Their lifeboat floated alone in the dark, vast sea. Nora didn’t know if it had saved them, or only delayed their fate.

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Lifeboat 5

Welcome to this week’s bonus material! One of the most heartbreaking aspects of the Titanic sinking is that there weren’t enough lifeboats for every soul on board. Even more tragic, many of the first boats to launch left with empty seats. Lifeboat No. 5 was one of them.

Lifeboat No. 5 was the second standard lifeboat lowered from Titanic’s starboard side, leaving the ship at about 12:45 a.m right after lifeboat No. 7. At that point, many passengers still didn’t believe Titanic was in serious danger, which explains why the boat left only partially filled—estimated at 35–40 people, despite having room for about 65.

No. 5 was commanded by 34-year-old Third Officer Herbert Pitman, one of Titanic’s senior officers. First Officer William Murdoch shook Pitman’s hand before he boarded and said, “Goodbye, good luck.” Pitman later realized Murdoch already understood he probably wouldn’t survive.

Before the boat was lowered, Pitman repeatedly called for more women to get in. At this stage of the evacuation, a great deal of people still believed the safest place was Titanic herself. Many women didn’t want to leave their husbands.

When no one came forward, Murdoch allowed a few male passengers to enter the boat. As the lifeboat was lowered, a few more men jumped in, causing the boat to jolt violently and injuring one of the boat’s occupants in the process.

Those aboard Lifeboat No. 5 represented a remarkable range of people, each carrying their own story into that small wooden boat.

One of the boat’s best-known passengers was Karl Howell Behr, an American tennis champion and banker. He was traveling to Europe largely because he was courting Helen Newsom, who was also in Lifeboat No. 5 with her parents. Newspapers later claimed he proposed to her in the lifeboat. Whether that happened that night or shortly afterward is debated, but they did marry less than a year later.

Mrs. Annie Stengel desperately didn’t want to leave without her husband. Eventually she entered Lifeboat No. 5. Her husband survived—but only because he later found space in another boat. They were reunited aboard Carpathia.

Also, among the occupants of the Lifeboat No. 5 were stewardesses Mabel Bennett and Hypatia McLaren. Besides Pitman, the boat carried a small group of crew: Quartermaster Alfred Olliver, Fireman Alfred Shiers, First-class steward Henry Etches, and Assistant boots steward Elgar Guy. These men rowed the boat through the night while trying to calm frightened passengers.

Anna Sophia Warren, Helen Newsom’s step-mother, entered Lifeboat No. 5 believing her husband had climbed in behind her. Sadly, he hadn’t. She didn’t realize until after the boat had been lowered that they had become separated. He died in the disaster. Anna Warren became the inspiration for Nora’s friend, Mrs. Morris.

For readers of When the Sea Was Still, the most significant passenger aboard Lifeboat No. 5 was Helen Ragnhild Østby, the real woman who inspired Nora Osterly. She was a 22-year-old first-class passenger from Providence, Rhode Island, traveling with her father, Engelhart Østby, the founder of the jewelry firm Ostby & Barton. They had been touring Europe and North Africa and were returning home aboard Titanic after learning their friends the Warrens were sailing on it.

As the evacuation began, Helen and her father made their way to the boat deck with the Warren family. Then, in a heartbreaking decision, her father said he was going back to their cabin to retrieve warmer clothing. It was the last time Helen ever saw him.

Pitman—who’d been asleep when Titanic struck the iceberg and was awakened to help with the evacuation—later testified that after Titanic sank, he ordered: “Now men, we will pull toward the wreck.”

According to several accounts, he genuinely intended to row back after the ship disappeared but the passengers protested, fearing desperate swimmers would swamp the lifeboat. Pitman yielded to those fears and they didn’t turn back. That choice haunted him for the rest of his life.

More than a century later, historians still discuss that decision not to turn back because it was an impossible choice those in the lifeboats had to face. It can be easy to vilify their decision but these were ordinary people, terrified, trying to survive a night none of them had been prepared for.

That’s what made writing this week’s episode so difficult. The decision not to turn back was just one more heartbreaking detail on a night full of them.

When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.

The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

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Maison Moreau

Anders

June 1911
Paris

The morning sun cast a warm glow over the Hudson as Anders stepped onto Pier 59 with his daughter by his side. It had been three years since their first crossing together, and Nora now carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned traveler. Anders had made a habit of taking her on his annual trip to Paris, still the center of innovation in fine jewelry. They were in pursuit of the precious stones that formed the heart of Osterly & Co.’s most exquisite pieces.

He had booked their passage on the White Star Line’s newest marvel, the RMS Olympic, on her inaugural eastbound voyage. The scene before them was unlike any he had encountered on prior crossings. A full media frenzy engulfed the pier as reporters swarmed to witness the departure of the largest, most advanced ship afloat. A small army of photographers jockeyed for position near the gangway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first distinguished passengers to board.

Anders had crossed the Atlantic multiple times, but never on a ship this new, this talked about, or this magnificent. The Olympic represented everything he admired—innovation, craftsmanship, forward movement.

Even with all the glowing articles he’d read, nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale of her. The hull dwarfed everything around it, rising higher than the neighboring warehouse rooftops. He found himself thinking—as he often did before a particularly ambitious commission—that some things could only be understood by seeing them.

Nora stood beside him, looking up at the massive ocean liner. “She’s enormous,” she said. “I hear she’s more hotel than ship on the inside.”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about her interiors?”

“I’ve been reading the society pages,” she said. “They say first class rivals the Ritz. Did you know she has a Turkish bath? And a swimming pool—on a ship!”

Anders laughed. “I see I’m no longer the only one who prepares for a crossing.”

“I may have done a little research. You taught me well,” Nora said, turning back to the ship. “She’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Father.”

“Indeed, she is,” he agreed. “I suspect she will exceed both of our expectations.”

Midway through the voyage, on their way to dinner, Anders took the opportunity to give Nora a lesson in design. The ship itself was a masterpiece worthy of study. Ahead of them, rising through the heart of the ship, stood the Grand Staircase. Its centerpiece, the great clock, framed by the intricate carvings of Honor and Glory, was the subject of his lesson.

“Look closely,” Anders said. “They’re plaster, masterfully painted to appear as oak.”

Nora’s brow furrowed. “Plaster? But it looks carved…”

“True artistry isn’t only what a piece is,” he said. “It’s what it convinces you to believe. White Star Line wanted passengers to experience old-world craftsmanship, even as they sailed on the most modern vessel afloat.”

Nora leaned in, studying the carvings.

“See how the lines of the angel’s robes curve toward the clock?” Anders asked. “Your eye follows them without even realizing it. Everything here is designed with intention.”

“And look at the griffins,” she said. “They’re set just behind the figures—almost hidden.”

Anders paused, following her gaze. “So they are,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed them.”

She glanced at him, a small, pleased smile forming before she turned back to the clock.

“It feels alive,” Nora said. “As if the ship herself has a soul.”

“That is the gift of good design, my dear. It is not meant merely to decorate, but to stir the imagination.”

Later that evening, after Nora had retired to her cabin, Anders stood along the rail of the promenade deck and reflected on how far he’d come since leaving Oslo in 1874. Since then, he had built a life and a reputation he’d scarcely dared to imagine.

After six years at the Royal School of Art, he had apprenticed in a small Oslo workshop where he learned to fine-tune his eye for precision. He came to Providence with a dream and a handful of sketches. His early days were long hours spent repairing watch chains and resizing wedding bands for other jewelers. Within five years, he’d saved $3,000 from his earnings and started Osterly & Co. The modest workshop grew steadily over the years that followed. Soon his jewelry was seen on the necks and fingers of society women across the country. His ambition had carried him across the Atlantic and back again.

Once in Paris, they returned to the Ritz on the Place Vendôme, a place that was beginning to feel like a second home. As was their habit upon arriving in the city, they spent the first few days strolling familiar boulevards, and reacquainting themselves with the rhythm of the city. Paris in June was humming with energy, its cafes full of summer visitors, and the streets alive with vendors.

When the fatigue of travel had lifted, they were ready to begin the work that had brought them across the ocean. Their first appointment took them over the streets of the Right Bank to an atelier on the Île de la Cité. Anders gazed out of the carriage window at the narrow, cobbled lanes winding between old stone buildings. The spires of Notre-Dame Cathedral rose above the surrounding pale façades.

Nora leaned closer to the window. “I am always so fond of this part of Paris,” she said.

“This is where Paris was born. Before the wide boulevards and the uniformity, every house was built one at a time, each with its own character,” Anders replied.

“It feels more intimate,” she said.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the Quai aux Fleurs, where handsome limestone buildings lined the river, their tall, narrow façades reflected in the green water of the Seine.

“Here we are, Maison Moreau,” Anders said when the carriage came to a stop. As he stepped down, he offered Nora his hand.

The atelier occupied the corner of a six-story building, its dark-painted storefront echoing the iron railings above. In the broad display windows facing the quay, a few pieces of jewelry caught the morning light. Across the river, the towers and sculpted roofline of the grand Hôtel de Ville rose into view.

Inside, the atelier was quiet and cool. A faint scent of metal polish lingered in the air. On display were the shop’s finest pieces: delicate gold filigree combs, enamel pendants in soft pastels, and shimmering opal earrings.

“It’s beautiful,” Nora said. “When you spoke of Maison Moreau, I never imagined anything quite so refined.”

Étienne Moreau stepped out from his office to greet them, impeccably dressed in a well-tailored navy suit with a silk cravat. He looked at Nora, his dark eyes settling on hers, and smiled.

“Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Osterly,” he said, bowing his head. “It is an honor to welcome you at last. I am pleased that you like my atelier.”

Anders watched as Étienne lifted Nora’s gloved hand to his lips. A faint blush rose to her cheeks.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” She held his gaze a beat longer than necessary before turning to look at the nearest display case.

For the past three years, Anders had been searching for a Parisian atelier worthy of partnership, a house whose artistry matched his own. A collaboration would benefit them both. He would gain the elegance and refinement of Parisian design for his jewels, and his partner would gain access to the flourishing American market.

It wasn’t until he stepped into Maison Moreau for the first time that he knew he’d found the collaborator he had been seeking. Their work was exquisite, bold yet balanced, precisely the sort of artistry he had long hoped to bring to Providence.

“Nora,” Anders said. “Étienne and I have been in discussion for some time about a collaboration between Osterly & Co. and Maison Moreau.”

“A collaboration,” she said. “And what does Maison Moreau gain from Osterly & Co.?”

“All in good time,” Anders said. “First, Étienne has agreed to show you the workshop. I thought you would enjoy watching the craftsmen at work.”

Étienne smiled at Nora. “Would you like to see the workrooms, Mademoiselle Osterly? I think you will find them most instructive.”

“I would like that very much,” Nora said, her tone softening.

Étienne led them through a narrow corridor and into the workrooms beyond. The warm air carried the faint smell of heated metal. Along the benches, artisans bent over their work, tiny flames flickering blue beneath crucibles. The three of them paused near the doorway, watching in silence as the craftsmen worked in steady strokes over the half-finished pieces before them.

Nora’s eye moved along the far wall where the plaster bore a faint line just below the window ledge. “The plaster there,” she said, nodding toward it. “It looks newer than the rest.”

Étienne turned to look. “You have a remarkable eye, Mademoiselle Osterly. Most people would not notice that.”

“Most people are not jewelers,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “They are not.” He held her gaze for a moment before turning to the wall. “The great flood of last year. The Seine rose nearly to our windowsills. The workrooms were underwater for the better part of a week.”

“How devastating,” Anders said.

“It was,” Étienne said. “We lost several pieces. The benches had to be replaced, the tools dried and cleaned, and the plaster throughout was redone.” He glanced around the room before continuing. “But we restored everything we could.”

“And the business?” Anders asked.

“We are recovering,” Étienne said. “I could not have managed it without my sister. Geneviève kept the atelier running while I oversaw the repairs. She has a remarkable head for the business side of things.”

Nora looked again at the waterline on the wall. “You rebuilt beautifully,” she said. “It would take a careful eye to see what it cost you.”

“Merci, mademoiselle,” he said, and gave her a small smile.

Anders watched his daughter. She had always noticed what others overlooked.

Near the far wall, a fair-haired young man sat beneath the window, carefully securing a row of tiny sapphires into a delicate gold setting. As they approached, he looked up and set aside his tools.

“Henri Lefèvre,” Étienne said. “My closest friend and the finest goldsmith in the atelier.”

Henri wiped his hands on a cloth before offering a polite nod. “Monsieur Osterly. Mademoiselle Osterly.”

“Henri and I studied together at École Boulle,” Étienne said. “I design impossible things, and Henri somehow manages to make them real.”

“Someone must rescue Monsieur Moreau from his own ambitions,” Henri replied.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,” Nora said. “Your work is exquisite.”

“Have you ever tried setting a stone yourself, Mademoiselle?” Étienne asked. “It requires a steady hand, but I believe you will enjoy it.”

“Then I should like to try, Monsieur Moreau,” Nora said, smiling.

Étienne returned her smile, then reached for a tiny sapphire and placed it on a square of setter’s wax. “First, we gently position the stone. Let the wax hold it.” He handed Nora a small pair of tweezers. “Now, you try.”

Nora leaned in, brow furrowed. She lifted a second stone, trying to hold it steady. It slipped from the tweezers, bouncing off the bench and vanishing onto the floor.

Nora straightened and gave a soft laugh. “That proved more difficult than I expected.”

“It still happens to me from time to time,” he said, then crouched down, scanning the floor.

“I don’t find that particularly comforting,” she replied.

Étienne laughed. He searched the floor some more, then lifted a crate to one side. “There is our runaway sapphire.”

He cleaned the stone with a cloth. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

This time he stood closer to Nora. “Slowly,” he said, guiding her hand gently. “Let the stone settle into its place. Yes, just like that.”

Anders watched as Nora steadied herself. The tweezers hovered over the wax for a moment before she lowered them. The sapphire touched the wax and stayed this time. She looked at it for a moment. Then she looked at Étienne and smiled.

“You have a natural touch, Mademoiselle,” he said.

“Then perhaps there is hope for me yet,” Nora said, smiling at Étienne.

Anders had never seen Nora smile quite like that before.

In the weeks that followed, their time in Paris settled into a comfortable routine. Mornings were devoted to business—meetings with suppliers, the careful selection of fine stones, and a visit to Lalique that left Nora enchanted. Afternoons were spent calling on friends, visiting museums, and lingering in the fragrant Paris gardens.

One afternoon, Anders and Nora made their way through the Luxembourg Gardens, following the gravel paths between the rows of chestnut trees. The gardens were in full summer color, with beds of red roses, yellow dahlias, and white begonias arranged in geometric patterns. Nora walked beside him, holding her parasol to shade her from the summer sun.

“What draws you to a Paris collaboration, Father?” she asked after a while.

He smiled at the question. She had always been curious, seeking to understand rather than to challenge. It was one of the many reasons he trusted her with more than she realized.

“Paris leads the world in design,” he said. “If we want the company to become the finest it can be, we must stand with those who are shaping the future of the craft. Maison Moreau offers that.”

Nora was quiet for a moment. “And you believe it will make a great difference for Osterly & Co.?”

“Yes, I do,” he replied. “Not just what it will bring us now, but what it will mean in the years to come.”

He said nothing of the loan he had taken to secure this opportunity. The sum was significant, though manageable. It would take three years to repay. But Anders had done the calculations again and again, each time arriving at the same conclusion: the risk was worth it.

They walked on in silence for a moment, gravel crunching softly beneath their feet.

“And Étienne?” she asked. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes,” Anders said. “He is ambitious, but not reckless. Talented, but not prideful.”

“I liked his atelier,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like the work being done on the lily brooch.”

“That is what craft looks like when it is loved rather than merely practiced,” Anders said.

Nora took his hand as they turned back along the path.

Anders squeezed it. “One day, Osterly & Co. will be yours to guide. Until then, I will do what I can to strengthen it.”

As summer wore on, they found themselves at Clara’s more and more often. Anders never hesitated to accept her invitations to tea, and the most recent was no exception. The following afternoon, their carriage crossed the Pont Royal on the way to the elegant streets of the 7th arrondissement, where Clara had made her home.

Inside Clara’s townhouse, they sat in her drawing room, a perfect reflection of her impeccable taste. Two Barbizon landscapes in gilded frames hung above a white marble mantelpiece. A silk-covered settee and two fauteuils were arranged around a low table, with a Persian rug in faded pastels underfoot. The windows were open just enough to let in a light breeze from the private garden below.

A maid set the tea tray on the table and withdrew as quietly as she had come. Clara poured tea into three painted porcelain cups with easy grace. Then she set the teapot down and turned her attention to Anders and Nora.

“Now,” she said, passing the sugar to Nora, “have you heard what has happened at the Louvre this week?”

“Da Vinci’s portrait. It is the only thing anyone is talking about.” Nora spooned two lumps of sugar into her tea. “Imagine, stealing a painting from the Louvre. I confess I find myself more impressed than I should be.”

Anders laughed, shaking his head as he reached for a biscuit. “Some people believe it was an inside job. Others say foreign agents,” he said. “And now they are questioning artists.”

“Even Picasso,” Clara said.

Anders had heard the name Picasso before, one of the young radicals challenging the old artistic order. He could not imagine what a modern painter would want with a Renaissance portrait, but Paris had always been a city of contradictions. Boldness and folly often traveled side by side here.

“I’ve seen some of his paintings,” Nora said. “I’m still deciding what I think of them.”

“Apparently Picasso used to keep company with a man connected to stolen antiquities,” Clara said.

Nora set down her cup. “Whatever the truth, I do hope they recover the painting soon,” she said. “The Mona Lisa is one of Leonardo’s masterpieces.”

“I quite agree,” Clara said. “Paris does not like to be without its treasures.”

As the afternoon wore on, Anders found himself watching his daughter more than he listened to the conversation around him. Nora sat across from Clara, her cup forgotten in her hand. He had not told her about the loan. There was no need to trouble her with those details. She had already shouldered more loss than most girls her age. He wanted her future to rest on something steadier, something he had built and secured long before she ever needed to think of it.

The Paris collaboration would ensure that. It would give Osterly & Co. the prestige and reach to sustain it for decades, and allow Nora to live a life worthy of her talents, without the pressure of managing the business. If something were to happen to him, she would not have to marry for security, nor remain in Providence out of necessity.

He had never been more certain of a decision.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

She survived the Titanic. Could she survive the memory?

Two years after the sinking of the Titanic, Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic aboard its nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, she must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.

When the Sea Was Still is a serialized historical novel about grief, legacy, and love in the last golden summer before the Great War. From the glittering decks of a luxury ocean liner to the elegant jewelry houses of Paris, Nora moves through the dazzling world of the Belle Époque, unaware that she is witnessing its final days.

Inspired by a True Story

Nora Osterly is fictional, but her story was inspired by the remarkable life of Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. After losing her father in the disaster, Helen helped run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton—a role that required her to cross the Atlantic again for business in Europe. In the summer of 1914, Helen found herself in Germany just as Europe plunged into the First World War.

Story Index

If you are already reading When the Sea Was Still, you can find your next episode below:

Act I begins with Nora Osterly boarding the Olympic, Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, for her first voyage across the Atlantic since the disaster. As she makes the crossing to Europe to save her father’s struggling jewelry business, memories of the voyage that changed her life begin to resurface.

1:1. The Ghost of Another Ship - Titanic survivor Nora Osterly boards the Olympic—sister ship to the one that killed her father—and finds herself forced to face the memories she left at sea two years ago.

1:2. A Father’s Gift - Anders Osterly gives his daughter a diamond pin, a Grand Tour of Europe, and her first real glimpse of the life—and the legacy—that will one day be hers.

1:3. The Sea Remembers - Aboard the Olympic, Nora finds the past impossible to forget. When the memories finally break through, she is back on the Titanic, seeing her father for the last time.

1:4. Maison Moreau - Anders and Nora sail on the Olympic’s maiden eastbound voyage. In Paris, Anders forges a partnership he believes will secure Nora’s future.

1:5. A Sorrow in the Air - Nora finally faces what has brought her across the Atlantic as well as the open promenade deck she has been avoiding. There she finds Bridie, another Titanic survivor who understands her sorrow.

1:6. Stormy Weather - As a storm gathers over the Atlantic, Nora begins to enjoy the glittering rituals of first-class life aboard the Olympic again at tea with Astrid, Mrs. Harroway, and Mrs. Cartwright.

1:7. Dinner in Nice - As Anders and Nora enjoy an evening in Nice with new friends, an invitation over dinner sets in motion a journey that will change their lives forever.

1:8. Arrival in Southampton - Nora’s voyage aboard the Olympic comes to an end, but she arrives in Southampton to disturbing news from Europe.

Act II begins with Episode 9. Nora has completed the voyage across the Atlantic and survived the memories it resurfaced. She has now arrived in Paris for the first time without her father in order to save the business he started before tragically dying in the sinking of the Titanic.

2:9. Return to Paris - Nora arrives in Paris for the first time without her father by her side, surrounded by memories of the past and uncertainty over what lies ahead.

2:10. Tea on the Rue de Varenne - An afternoon with Clara brings tales of North Africa, lively debate over Paris’s latest scandal, and the comfort of a friendship unchanged by two years apart.

2:11. An Unsettled Account - Nora returns to Maison Moreau, where the full weight of her father’s secret debt finally comes to light. As she confronts what was kept from her, her reunion with Étienne proves equally unsettling.

2:12. A Disturbing Revelation - After a leisurely walk along the Seine, Nora meets an old acquaintance for coffee and learns of a meeting that leaves her with troubling questions.

2:13. A Surprise Invitation - Nora receives a letter from Geneva that could alter her plans.

2:14. Answers from Étienne - Nora’s conversation with Étienne uncovers a hidden story from his past and the true significance of her father’s partnership with the atelier.

2:15. A Walk with Étienne - An afternoon walk through the Luxembourg Gardens draws Nora closer to Étienne as tensions across Europe rise.

2:16. A Change of Hands - As financial tensions deepen across Paris, Nora and Étienne find the line between business and romance increasingly difficult to navigate.

2:17. A Knock at the Door - As troubling headlines spread across Paris, Nora waits to learn what Mr. Cartwright intends.

2:18. Rumors of War - A reunion with Clara offers Nora a welcome respite from her search for gold.