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.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

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.

Read more

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.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

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.

Read more

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.

←Previous Episode | Story Index

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.

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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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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

When the Sea Was Still is a historical serial 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 serial 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.

Act 1

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.

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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The Sea Remembers

Nora

June 1914
Onboard the Olympic

Nora woke early the next morning after a restless night. The nightmare had come again—always the same, always dreadful. She was back on the ship, walking through the corridors as water surged around her ankles. The floor slanted beneath her feet. She could barely breathe; thick air was all around her. Above, she heard the scrape of chairs sliding across the deck and the thud of panicked footsteps. Up ahead, she saw her father, reaching out his hand. “Nora!” he shouted. She tried to run, tried to reach him, but the sea came faster, dragging her down. The screams faded. Then—silence. The same terrible silence that always jarred her awake.

She lay still for a moment, heart pounding. At first, she wasn’t sure where she was. She drew in a deep breath, then another, until the movement of the ship pulled her back to the present. With no porthole, the room was utterly dark. She switched on the light and reached for her pendant watch to check the time.

Nora sat for a while on the edge of the bed, listening to the groan of the timbers as the ship rolled through the swells. She wasn’t sure if the movement or the noise was more unsettling. To steady herself, she thought of her father and the business he had built. Slowly, she felt her courage gather and she rose to dress. After pinning on her diamond bar pin, she collected her sketchbook. It was time to face her first day back at sea.

The first-class lounge was nearly empty at that early hour. Only two other passengers were in the room—a gentleman reading his paper by the fireplace, and a young woman absorbed in her book at a corner table. Morning light streamed through the tall windows that looked out over the sheltered promenade.

Nora hesitated just inside the doorway. She had come intending to refine the design for a brooch she’d been sketching for days, but the sight of the room caught her unprepared. The ornate coffered ceilings, the oak paneled walls, the brocade chairs sitting on thick carpet—everything was almost identical to the lounge aboard the Titanic. For a moment she thought of turning back, but where could she go? Everywhere she turned, the ship confronted her with reminders of that ill-fated voyage.

But it hadn’t begun that way. The first four days aboard the Titanic had been brimming with spectacle. The dining saloon had been alive with music and conversation, the tables set with more courses than she could count—oysters, consommé, roast duck, puddings crowned in cream. The service had been impeccable. It had started as a grand passage across the sea, filled with optimism.

Nora shook her head slightly, unwilling to let her thoughts drift any farther toward what followed. Instead, she turned to a happy memory, her first voyage across the Atlantic with her father.

She had been eighteen when he took her on the Grand Tour to Paris, London, and Oslo. It was an early summer crossing, much like this one, and she had hardly slept for the excitement of it. But her father, ever the teacher, had made sure to weave in lessons among the sightseeing. That trip had given her the first true glimpse into the world of Osterly & Co., not merely as the founder’s daughter but as a future successor.

She remembered his lively lessons on design and light. In Paris, he would guide her along the elegant Haussmann boulevards, pointing out how symmetry and proportion gave the buildings their grace. His excitement for the architecture was infectious. With each set of tall windows, ironwork balconies, and sculpted cornices, she’d found herself falling more in love with the Paris he saw.

She could still hear his voice from those days, warm with conviction. “You have an eye for detail, Nora,” he had told her once as they paused before a sunlit façade. “Not many do. Trust it, for it will take you far.”

Later, in the evenings, they would sit in quiet cafés discussing their favorite moments of the day. Lamplight glowed softly against the windows, while the murmur of French conversation drifted about them in a pleasant undertone. Her father would share a wry anecdote or tease her with affectionate good humor. She could not remember a happier time.

In a society that placed its expectations upon sons, her father had never treated her as if her place were merely ornamental. He had always seen her mind, her talent, and spoke often of her potential. He had believed in her.

That first crossing with her father had changed her. What had begun as an adventure became something deeper, the dawning realization that Osterly & Co. was not simply her father’s life’s work but would become her own. In the midst of their shared lessons and laughter, she had felt something awaken inside her, a growing confidence that she belonged in that world. Now she was on a ship again, crossing an ocean for him and the company that was now hers.

She sat for a long moment, lost in her memories, until the warmth of Paris and the sound of her father’s laughter receded like the tide. All that remained in their wake was the cool quiet of the lounge.

Nora reached for her sketchbook when she noticed a broad-shouldered man in an officer’s uniform approaching. He had a distinctive pair of mutton chops extending below his cap, framing his beardless face.

“Miss Osterly,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Nora rose instinctively. “Captain Haddock. Good morning.”

“Please,” he said. “Do take your seat.”

She sat back down, and he settled into the chair across from her.

“I came to pay my respects,” he said. “When I saw your name on our manifest, I recognized it at once. Your father and you sailed with me on the Oceanic some years ago. And I remember you were onboard Titanic. My condolences on the loss of your father.”

The words struck her. Of course he would have reviewed the passenger list. Of course he would know.

“That is very kind of you, Captain,” she replied. “Thank you.”

“Your father was a fine gentleman. I found him to be excellent company aboard my ship.”

“He is greatly missed, Captain,” Nora said.

“You are very brave to cross again,” he said. “Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “It’s not been easy.”

“Then if you’ll permit me, I’d like to offer a word of reassurance,” he said. “This ship is not what she was two years ago. The company took many lessons to heart after that night. Olympic is better for it.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “And may I enquire about the lifeboats?”

“Of course you may. I am happy to answer,” he said. “I can assure you that White Star Line took the matter of the lifeboats most seriously. The crew at Southampton would not sail until they had firm assurances on that point. Olympic now carries more than sufficient boats for every soul aboard, with room to spare.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “That’s… reassuring to hear.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Osterly. You are in safe hands aboard this ship. And it is my honor to carry you forward.”

With that, he rose and stepped away with a slight bow of his head.

Nora reached for her sketchbook, then paused. The captain’s words lingered in her mind. More than enough boats for every soul aboard.

She glanced around the first-class lounge and found the familiar routines to be a steadying comfort. A steward passed between the tables collecting abandoned teacups. A gentleman read the paper by the fireplace. Two ladies gossiped over tea at a corner table.

At last, she opened the sketchbook to her brooch design. The ship creaked softly as it moved through the swells, gentler now than they had been when she woke. She traced a new curve into the design and gradually lost herself in the work.

That evening, dressed in their finest, Nora and Astrid made their way to the first-class dining saloon on D Deck. Nora had dressed with care in her favorite evening gown, a blue silk that had always made her feel more like herself.

The familiar staircase came into view. Nora slowed her step as they descended, her gloved hand sliding carefully along the wooden rail. She found herself admiring the craftsmanship of the gilded railings and carved oak despite herself.

As Nora and Astrid entered the dining room, a steward stepped forward to guide them to their assigned seats. They passed rows of tables dressed in crisp white linens, set with cut glass, and polished silver. Waiters moved quietly between them, carrying trays of wine and the evening’s delicacies.

The Harroways were already seated at one end of the table as Nora and Astrid approached. Josie Harroway looked up with a smile.

“Right on time, my dears,” she said warmly. “Dinner is half the pleasure of the voyage—everyone worth knowing is here.”

“As it always is,” Nora said, smiling.

Charles Harroway, impeccably tailored as always, nodded from his seat beside Josie, and raised his glass in acknowledgment.

Charles carried himself with the assurance of a man entirely at ease in his place in the world. Having built his fortune in textiles, he was as comfortable discussing the price of silk as he was the virtues of a fine port. Josie was his perfect complement—graceful, sociable, with a youthful spark that refused to dim.

Nora had long admired the Harroways. The couple was as much a fixture in Providence society as Osterly & Co. itself. Their friendship had helped her through the worst of the past two years, and now, aboard the ship, their company felt like a small piece of home.

Across the table sat a tall, lean man in his thirties dressed in a navy suit with a gold watch chain glinting at his waistcoat. Sitting next to him was a woman slightly younger, pale and composed, in a grey silk gown with a heavy garnet brooch at her throat. He stood as Nora and Astrid settled into their seats.

“Lionel Cartwright,” he said. “And this is my wife, Mrs. Marion Cartwright.” She offered a smile but said nothing.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Nora said.

Mrs. Harroway turned to him with interest. “And what line of business are you in, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Finance,” he replied. “Wall Street. I’m on my way to Paris to meet with clients.”

“And Mrs. Cartwright?” Mrs. Harroway asked. “Have you crossed before, or is this your first voyage?”

“I have crossed numerous times,” Mrs. Cartwright said. Her German accent was unmistakable. “My family is still in Berlin. I find I am always going one direction or the other across this ocean.”

“We met when I was in Berlin on business a few years ago. I’m afraid I quite swept her away from her family,” Lionel said.

“How charming. And does your family come often to America?” Mrs. Harroway asked.

“Not so often as I should like,” Mrs. Cartwright replied, lowering her eyes to her hands folded in her lap.

“Mrs. Cartwright’s family is in textiles, as it happens.” He said, reaching for his wine glass. “Though I confess Wall Street keeps me far busier than any loom.”

Astrid, who had little patience for talk of Wall Street, turned instead to Mrs. Harroway. “And how is Bridie getting on?”

“She has been a wonderful addition to our staff,” Mrs. Harroway replied. “Very capable and quick to learn.”

Just as Lionel set down his empty wine glass, a waiter appeared to refill it. “Remarkable service on these White Star Line ships,” he said. “I’ve crossed on several lines, but White Star remains the standard.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Harroway agreed. “Our own Bridie served with them before joining our household. She was a stewardess aboard the Olympic before being promoted to—” She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze shifting to Nora.

Nora set down her wine glass with careful fingers and gave Josie a small forgiving smile.

Astrid stepped in at once. “Competent staff is rather like good bookkeeping. You only notice it when it’s absent.”

Across the table, Mrs. Cartwright gave a timid smile. “We have been able to manage without staff.”

Astrid blinked in surprise. “Without staff?”

Mrs. Cartwright looked unsure of herself. Mr. Cartwright answered for her, “Yes. My wife and I prefer to do for ourselves. It keeps one grounded.”

Mrs. Harroway’s fork paused midair. “How very modern,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Cartwright replied, “but certainly economical. And rather freeing, I assure you.”

A mild discomfort rippled around the table.

“Well, times do change,” Nora said with a composed smile. “I dare say Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright may be ahead of us all.”

Lionel’s eyes met Nora’s across the table. “And you, Miss Osterly? Are you and Miss Lund visiting Europe on holiday? The summer season draws so many Americans across these days.”

Nora set her spoon down lightly, meeting his gaze with polite composure. “Not this time, Mr. Cartwright. We have family business to attend to.”

His expression grew curious. “And how modern of you, Miss Osterly. May I ask what business?”

“My family’s jewelry firm, Osterly & Co.”

That seemed to surprise him, though he masked it quickly. “Ah,” he said, recovering with a polished smile. “A woman traveling on business. Quite admirable.”

Before Nora could reply, Josie Harroway interjected. “Have you heard of Osterly & Co., Mrs. Cartwright? You look like a woman of fine taste.”

Mrs. Cartwright’s face lit with recognition. “Yes, indeed. I’ve always admired the designs. I remember seeing a feature in Town & Country several years ago. It was a beautiful Art Nouveau tiara worn at the Astor ball.”

Nora nodded. “That was one of ours, yes. My father was particularly proud of that one.”

For the rest of the meal, the conversation turned to stories of past holidays in Europe, the merits of various London hotels, and light speculation about the summer season. The ship’s quartet played a lilting waltz from the corner. The soft lighting of the dining saloon radiated warmth as gentle laughter drifted from the nearby tables. Nora found herself thinking how strange it was—this feeling of belonging and displacement at once. Yet for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility that peace might still be found at sea.

Back in her stateroom, Nora unpinned her hat and sat on the edge of the bed. It was impossible not to think about Titanic tonight. The dining saloon was too much like its twin to ignore. Her last dinner aboard Titanic had been so similar—good company, lovely music, and a sumptuous dinner. And both evenings ended with Nora settled beneath her covers with pleasant thoughts of the evening’s conversation replaying in her mind.

But that night had a very different ending.

Sunday, April 14, 1912

It had been a beautiful day. The sky was a bright blue, and the sea was as still as glass. After breakfast, Nora and her father had stood on the promenade deck gazing out at the vast ocean, the sunshine dancing across the water in asymmetrical flecks of light. Friends and acquaintances strolled by, exchanging cheerful greetings. On that morning, aboard the grandest ship at sea, it felt as though anything were possible.

As the day wore on, the temperature began to drop sharply. By evening it had become too cold to take their customary pre-dinner stroll on deck. Rather than don their fine furs and overcoats, they chose to remain indoors, joining the other first-class passengers who preferred comfort over the bracing cold.

Sunday night was a gala dinner, a glittering affair in the first-class dining saloon. It was the night on board the ship when both men and women alike dressed in the finest of their finest. The gentlemen wore dinner suits, crisp white shirts, and gleaming cufflinks. The ladies arrived in silk gowns meant to be admired and fine jewels, worth more than the cost of their first-class ticket.

Nora had found herself caught up in the spectacle of it all. Around her moved some of the wealthiest people in the world. Across the room, her gaze landed on Lady Duff Gordon, the celebrated fashion designer whose very gown she wore. Nora had chosen it in Paris after her father remarked that it reminded him of her mother. Lady Duff Gordon sparkled in her jewels, engaged in conversation with her husband. She looked entirely at ease, as though the evening had been arranged for her pleasure.

After the gala dinner, she and her father sat in the reception room with their friends from Providence, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Nora settled onto a velvet settee, sipping coffee and trading opinions with Mrs. Morris on the gowns worn that evening, while her father and Mr. Morris reminisced about the Parisian exhibitions. When the clock chimed ten, they exchanged cheerful goodnights and planned to meet for breakfast the next morning.

Nora had been drifting into sleep when a shuddering jolt stirred her awake. It was a strange, unsettling tremor, as though the great ship had scraped against something solid. It was odd, but not alarming. For a moment she lay still, listening, wondering whether she’d imagined it, until she realized the engines had shut off. She’d crossed the Atlantic multiple times, and never once had the engines gone silent.

She slipped from bed and pulled on her wrap. Passengers gathered in the corridor, a few still in slippers and nightgowns, murmuring with curiosity. Her stateroom was just across from her father’s. He had come out, his coat hastily thrown over his nightclothes, and joined her in the hall.

“Did you feel that?” he asked.

She nodded.

Together they went up to the open deck. The night was colder than any on the crossing so far. The sky glittered with countless stars, too bright, too still above the black, glassy water.

Mr. and Mrs. Morris were already out on deck, huddled together for warmth among other curious first-class passengers.

“What is it?” her father asked Mr. Morris.

“They say we struck an iceberg,” Mr. Morris replied. “But it is nothing to worry about. They’ll right the ship and start the engines again soon.”

Nora glanced around at the passengers gathered along the rail. Seeing the lack of worry on their faces relaxed her. It almost felt as though they were all outside on a grand, midnight adventure.

Soon she noticed more stewards moving among the crowd, speaking to the passengers. Then one came their way and instructed everyone to return to their staterooms to fetch their life belts. “It’s just a precaution,” he said kindly. “We’ll be transferring to another vessel, but we’ll be back aboard Titanic for breakfast.”

Nora looked at her father for reassurance.

“It’s all right, dear,” he said. “Let’s go down and retrieve them.”

Back in her cabin, Nora struggled into the awkward, stiff life belt, her fingers shaking from the cold. When she emerged from her room, the mood had shifted. Stewards were hurrying from room to room, helping with life belts, and answering questions in strained voices.

Nora rejoined her father and they walked through the corridors, urgent whispers drifting around them. As they ascended the grand staircase, Captain Smith passed them going the other direction. His face was unreadable. A moment later, the sound of steam shrieking from the pipes near the funnels drowned out every attempt at conversation.

They reached the boat deck on the starboard side. A group of first-class passengers had already gathered. It was a strange mix of men in dressing gowns beside women in full evening attire, with others in an odd combination of both. The usual rules no longer seemed to apply.

Nora stood quietly by her father, shivering in the cold. She watched as passengers were directed toward the lifeboats. A couple was arguing softly about whether to get in the boat or remain aboard the ship. “Surely we are safer here!” she heard the woman insist.

Soon Nora and her father were directed to a lifeboat already being prepared for lowering.

“Go on, dear,” her father urged her.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked him.

“I’m going to run back down for warmer clothes,” he said. “You’ll be all right. I’ll join you soon.”

Nora nodded and watched him walk away.

First Officer Murdoch’s voice cut through the noise: “Come along, ladies!”

He ushered Nora and the other women toward Lifeboat No. 5. A small group had already formed near the rail. Nora recognized Mrs. Helen Newsom with the young tennis player and her parents. Beside them stood Mr. and Mrs. Kimball, whom she had met at the gala dinner earlier that night.

“Mr. Ismay,” Mrs. Kimball asked in a tight voice, “may our husbands come with us?”

Bruce Ismay had an urgency about him as he moved quickly along the row of boats to help load them. “I see no objection, madam. There is room.”

Nora’s heart thudded. She searched the deck for a glimpse of her father. Men were being permitted to board. If he returned in time, he could step in with her. She tried to wait, but the small crowd pushed her forward.

Third Officer Pitman helped her into the boat then called out. “Any more ladies?”

No one moved. A few shook their heads, still unwilling to believe the ship was in danger.

Officer Pitman climbed back out of the boat. Then Officer Murdoch’s voice rang sharply over the din. “Mr. Pitman, take command of that boat!”

Pitman obeyed at once, stepping down into the lifeboat.

Nora estimated thirty, perhaps forty people aboard. There were almost twice as many seats still empty. Surely, she thought, they would fill it if there were real danger. She took solace in that thought as she scanned the deck again for her father.

But the boat started to descend…and she didn’t see him.

She began to panic. He hadn’t returned in time. How would he find her? Her heart hammered, her pulse quickened. The boat was being lowered slowly into the water, first one side then the other, jerking back and forth. Suddenly there was a huge jolt as two men leapt into the boat. A woman cried out in pain as one of the men struck her. Before Nora could make sense of it all, the boat hit the water with a hard thud, splashing cold water on the boat’s occupants.

As the seamen rowed the lifeboat farther from the ship, Nora tried in vain to look back at the mighty Titanic, desperately wanting to lay eyes on her father. Each stroke carried her farther from him.

Flares went up in the air, lighting up the dark night.

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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A Father’s Gift

Anders

1908
Providence and Paris

On Nora’s eighteenth birthday, Anders sat in his workshop waiting for his daughter to arrive for their usual after-school sketching time. As he waited, he sketched a wedding ring design for a young Providence couple. He had known the bride’s family for years and worked carefully to refine the delicate pattern of ivy that would wind its way along the band.

His pencil scratched against the parchment in quick, deliberate strokes, the same rhythmic sound that had fascinated Nora as a three-year-old. Back then, she would scramble onto his workbench, eager to help. She loved opening the black doctor’s bag he carried home from Europe, marveling at the velvet packets of gemstones tucked inside. She would soon lose interest and beg him for a spare sheet of paper, sketching colorful jewels surrounded by flowers and stars.

What started as play became the foundation of her education in the family business. As the years went on, her sketches grew more refined and she never tired of sitting beside him, pencil in hand, lost in her own creations.

The sound of footsteps in the hall drew him from his reverie. Nora appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, looking suddenly so much taller than she should be.

“Good afternoon, Father,” she said, as she stepped inside.

“Hello, little one.” The nickname slipped out before he could stop it.

She rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. “I’m eighteen today, Father.”

He reached beneath a folded cloth on his bench and lifted a slender velvet case.

“Happy Birthday, my dear. I have something for you.”

Nora took the case from him at once and opened it. Her eyes lit up when she saw what was inside.

“A diamond bar pin,” she said, studying it. “The setting is exquisite.”

“It belonged to your mother,” Anders said. “I had the setting restored for you. She would have wanted you to have it today.”

“Oh, Papa.”

Nora touched the pin, tracing a small circle around the diamonds before lifting it for a closer look.

“Will you help me fasten it, Father?” she asked.

Anders pinned it to the collar of her blouse with careful, steady fingers. He stepped back and looked at her—his daughter, eighteen years old, wearing her mother’s pin—and said nothing for a moment.

“It suits you,” he said finally.

She smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing about your cravat, Father. Though I wouldn’t have chosen that particular shade of grey.”

Anders looked down at his cravat and laughed despite himself.

Now that Nora was eighteen, it was his duty—and his joy—to teach her the trade that had given him his place in the world. She was no longer merely sketching at his side, but was growing into a young woman with an eye for beauty and a mind eager to understand the craft. If she were to inherit his life’s work one day, she needed to see the world outside of Providence.

That was why he had planned her eighteenth-birthday trip so carefully. Their journey would begin with the Grand Tour of Europe, more pleasure than business, but Anders saw it as her first real education beyond his workshop. He wanted her to see the ateliers, the museums, the architecture—not only the art of design, but the world that inspired it.

Before Nora could settle at her place at the workbench, Anders held out an envelope.

“There’s something else,” he said.

She took it from him, turning it over once before opening it. Inside was a folded itinerary. She read it in silence—and then read it again.

“Paris,” she said. “Oslo. London.”

She looked up at him. “Father. Is this my Grand Tour?”

He nodded. “Yes, little one. We depart in June.”

She gave him a light hug, the itinerary still in her hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Anders replied. “We’ll see the places that shaped the finest design houses in the world. Together, we will make something more of it than mere sightseeing.”

Their Grand Tour of Europe had begun in London, arriving after a calm week aboard the Adriatic—Nora’s first transatlantic crossing. She had been eager to set sail and took to the sea with remarkable ease. Each evening, they strolled the promenade deck before dinner, speaking of the day’s happenings and the latest shipboard gossip. It had been a week of unhurried ease, and there was nowhere he would rather have been, his daughter by his side.

Their time in London had been brisk and lively. Most mornings were spent visiting the jeweler’s shops along Bond Street, where Nora had lingered longest over the delicate enamel work in the windows of a small atelier near Piccadilly. Afternoons carried them through Kensington or into the galleries of the British Museum.

After London came Oslo, Anders’s birthplace, where Nora had been thrilled to meet distant cousins. They walked the narrow streets together, admiring the carved wooden eaves and painted doorways of his boyhood. One afternoon he took her to the small jewelry shop where he had first apprenticed—the house where Osterly & Co. had truly begun, though he hadn’t known it then.

It was there he told her how Astrid had come into their lives. She had been the shop’s secretary when Anders arrived as a young apprentice, known for her sharp wit and precise head for detail. When he later wrote to offer her a position at his new firm in Providence, she had crossed the Atlantic without hesitation.

“She was indispensable from the first day,” he told Nora. “I’d have not managed the accounts, nor half the orders, without her. She has given so much to this work, and to our family.”

But it was Paris that captured Nora’s heart. From the moment they entered the city, she marveled at its elegance. She loved the charm of its streets, the corner cafes, and the way every doorway seemed a masterpiece in carved limestone. They were staying at the Ritz on the Place Vendôme, among Paris’s finest jewelry houses, where Anders had planned to begin their first day.

The next morning, he stepped outside with Nora and into the gentle bustle of the square. Carriages moved at an unhurried pace across the wide stones. They crossed the square hand in hand, the symmetry of the facades rising around them, and slowed as they neared number 26, the Boucheron boutique.

“This,” Anders said, “is where you begin to understand what Paris does differently.”

“Then I hope Paris intends to impress me,” Nora said lightly.

Anders laughed at his daughter’s mettle and led her into the boutique.

Inside, light poured through the tall windows, glowing off glass and metal. An impeccably dressed attendant recognized Anders at once.

“Monsieur Osterly,” he said, “a pleasure to welcome you back. And this must be your daughter.”

“It is. I wanted her to see the finest jewelry house in Paris.”

“Then you have come to the right place, monsieur. If you would allow me.” He led them upstairs to the Hôtel de Nocé, to a comfortably furnished sitting room.

Nora hesitated at the threshold.

“Come,” Anders said gently.

He watched Nora take in the room. She had gone quiet in the way she did when something demanded her full attention. An assistant appeared with refreshments.

“It feels nothing like a shop,” she said, accepting a cup of tea.

“That is precisely the intention,” Anders said. “Boucheron understood that his clients were buying more than jewelry. Treat them as friends, and they never go elsewhere.”

Anders set his worn doctor’s bag on the table beside him—the same black bag he had carried on every European trip, its compartments holding the gems and stones he selected with such care.

The attendant appeared with several pieces arranged upright on a velvet board, each positioned as it would be worn. He set them before Nora without comment and stepped back.

She leaned forward to get a better look.

“You can hardly see the metalwork at all,” she said.” “The diamonds look as though they’re floating.”

The attendant smiled. “Platinum allows for work as fine as lace, Mademoiselle.”

Nora reached toward the brooch—a cluster of ivy leaves in platinum and enamel—and lifted it carefully, turning it toward the light.

“Boucheron draws from nature,” Anders said. “Ivy, ferns, fuchsia. He calls it untamed. Yet look at the precision.”

“The untamed parts are what make the precision matter,” she said, still studying the brooch. “Without one, you wouldn’t notice the other.”

Anders said nothing. He simply looked at her.

The attendant returned with a tray of additional pieces. He caught Anders’ eye. “She has a jeweler’s eye, Monsieur Osterly.”

Anders looked at his daughter, still bent over the velvet board, and knew it to be true. But it was not only Nora’s eye he found himself studying. He turned the ivy brooch over once more in his mind—the platinum work so fine it nearly vanished. Providence had no shortage of skilled hands, but this kind of vision, this willingness to let nature loose on a velvet board and still call it refined—that, he did not yet have. He filed the thought away, certain he would have use for it before long.

During their second week in Paris, Anders and Nora crossed to the 8^th arrondissement to visit their friend Clara Wentworth at the Hôtel de Crillon. Anders had long admired the role Clara had come to play in Nora’s life, offering a kind of guidance and perspective that only a woman could provide. He knew her influence had helped shape Nora’s confidence in ways he could not have provided on his own.

For years, Clara had divided her time between America and Europe, returning each summer to Paris. She spoke often of the city’s devotion to art and had claimed it was her true home. When she chose to settle there permanently the year before, Anders had not been surprised.

Her decision to live abroad on her own had caused a stir among their conservative Providence social circle. Her divorce, discreetly granted two years earlier, might have unsettled another woman’s standing. Clara, however, remained respected, her reputation untouched by gossip.

Now, Clara devoted herself entirely to her work, spending her days writing travel and art essays. Paris, with its tolerance for unconventional lives, had embraced her at once.

Their carriage drew up next to the wide stone façade of the Hôtel de Crillon, and a uniformed doorman stepped forward to open the carriage door. Inside the grand hotel, the marble floors sparkled beneath the soaring ceilings. Anders gave Clara’s name to the desk clerk, who summoned an attendant to escort them to her rooms.

They were led through the wide corridors and up an ornate staircase, before reaching Clara’s suite. Clara’s maid answered the door and led them to the sitting room where Clara was waiting. She rose from her chair and greeted them warmly, giving both Anders and Nora a kiss on the cheek.

“Anders! Nora!” she said. “It is delightful to see you both.”

“You look well,” Anders said. “Paris suits you.”

“Thank you,” Clara replied. “I do feel at home here.”

Nora stepped back and looked at her with frank admiration. “Clara, you look wonderful. Is that a Worth gown?”

Clara laughed. “It is. One cannot live on the Place de la Concorde and resist the couturiers for long.”

Nora smiled. “You’re so very Parisian now.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, my dear. And speaking of being very Parisian, you must let me take you out properly,” Clara said. “I’ve secured three excellent seats at the Opéra.”

“Boris Godunov,” Nora said. “Clara, you are extraordinary.”

“I’ve read it’s the season’s great performance,” Anders said.

“Yes,” Clara said. “And I confess—I wanted Nora to see it. The music, the stagecraft, the whole spectacle. It will be most impressive.”

“Father, we cannot possibly decline,” Nora said.

Anders chuckled. “If Clara insists, it would be ungracious to refuse.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have the details sent to the Ritz. You need only arrive on time and allow me to do the rest,”

The following Saturday, Anders waited in the sitting room of their suite at the Ritz while Nora dressed. He had grown used to waiting for her—at the workbench, at the foot of the stairs, on countless mornings when she’d fussed over her hair.

When she came out, he found himself, for a moment, without words. She wore deep blue silk, her mother’s pin fastened at her collar, her hair swept up in a new French style. She looked, all at once, very much eighteen, and not at all like the girl who used to color by his side.

“Well?” she asked, turning in a circle. “Will this do for the Opéra, Father?”

“Yes, it will do very well indeed,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Shall we go, my dear?”

“Yes, Father. I confess I have been humming the overture all afternoon, though I haven’t the faintest notion how it actually sounds.”

Anders chuckled as he followed her out the door.

Later that night, they sat together at a table at Café de la Paix, their senses still vibrating from a performance that had left them all enraptured. The audience had been a spectacle in its own right. Women were adorned in their finest diamond tiaras and velvet opera capes, holding pearl-handled opera glasses. The gentlemen looked equally elegant dressed in black tailcoats and stiff white collars. Murmurs of recognition rippled through the house each time a French countess or wealthy aristocrat was spotted arriving late. More than once, Anders had caught Nora’s gaze drifting from the stage to the opera boxes around them.

Now, at the café across the square, they celebrated the evening with champagne. Waiters in white jackets moved briskly between tables crowded with patrons in their evening dress, seemingly engaged in the same animated discussion of the performance. A waiter arrived at their table with a chilled bottle of champagne, pouring out three glasses for them.

Clara took a sip, then set her glass down with a satisfied sigh.

“Well,” she said, “that was worth every minute of anticipation. Diaghilev has outdone himself.”

Around them, the dining room hummed with energy, spirited conversations in both French and English mingling with laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve felt so alive in a theater before,” Nora said. “My heart was pounding through the whole coronation. I could hardly sit still.”

Anders smiled at his daughter. He could not remember the last time he had seen her so radiant.

“The scale of it is what struck me. When that chorus flooded the stage, it felt as though half of Russia had marched right into the theater,” he said. “Paris does not do these things halfway. It was unlike anything we see at home.”

Nora nodded and took a sip of her champagne.

“The costumes alone were remarkable,” she said.

“I’m told Diaghilev scoured half of Russia for those costumes—real peasant dress, genuine embroidery,” Clara said. “Paris has never seen anything so authentically Russian.”

“And the gold coronation robes were extraordinary,” Nora replied. “Though I confess, I spent half the second act watching the boxes instead of the stage.”

Clara laughed. “I noticed you weren’t alone in that.”

“How can one resist, when every countess in the house comes in determined to be seen?” Nora asked. “But my mind is still on those bells. I don’t think I shall ever forget the way they set the entire theater vibrating.”

“They added the bells especially for Paris. Diaghilev wanted a grander spectacle than the composer intended.” Clara turned to Anders. “And what did you think of Chaliapin as Boris?”

“He was magnificent,” Anders said. “I don’t know how a single man fills a house like that on the strength of his voice alone. I was moved nearly to tears.”

A waiter appeared at their table to refill their glasses, then withdrew as quietly as he’d come.

“The bells, the costumes, Chaliapin himself. There is such intention behind every detail,” Nora said.

Anders looked across the table at Nora. It pleased him that she was starting to see the world as a designer.

“Spoken like a true jeweler’s daughter,” he said.

“A jeweler’s daughter, yes,” Nora said, meeting her father’s gaze. “Though I think Paris is beginning to leave her mark on me.”

“You speak as though you are beginning to fall for Paris,” Clara said.

“This city is certainly easy to love,” Nora replied.

“That is why one comes to Paris, my dear. To fall in love in ways one never imagined,” Clara said, twirling the stem of her glass.

Anders lifted his glass. “To Paris,” he said.

“And to the grand performances she gives us,” Nora added.

“To both,” Clara said.

Their champagne coupes chimed together, echoing softly in the grand dining room.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

Welcome to a special look behind the curtain. While these bonus deep dives are typically a perk for paid subscribers, this week’s edition is free for everyone. Enjoy the historical treasures of Nora’s world below.

Paris in 1908 was at the height of the Belle Époque period—a remarkable era of optimism, economic prosperity, and artistic innovation. As I researched Nora’s first visit to Paris, I found myself with a wealth of riches when it came to fascinating historical events and settings.

Ultimately, I chose the opera for a period set piece because it was the undisputed crown jewel of the spring and summer season—a glittering stage that fit naturally into Clara Wentworth’s affluent world. This was no ordinary night out; the 1908 Paris premiere of Boris Godunov was a towering cultural phenomenon. Featuring the legendary Russian bass Feodor Chaliapin in the title role, the production left audiences breathless with its lavish costumes, monumental sets, and a raw, thunderous vocal performance that redefined Parisian theater.

The summer of 1908 also witnessed Wilbur Wright’s historic flight demonstrations in France. At the time, aviation was a groundbreaking new technology advancing rapidly on both sides of the Atlantic. Wilbur flew his biplane near Le Mans in front of enormous crowds, while his brother Orville performed simultaneous flight demonstrations back in Washington, D.C. French aviators Henri Farman and Léon Delagrange had long been skeptical of the brothers' claims, but witnessing Wilbur effortlessly trace figure-eights in the sky silenced their doubts. His stunning performances became one of the most celebrated events in France that year.

Here are a few other interesting facts I uncovered while researching Paris in 1908 that nearly found their way into this episode:

• Composer Claude Debussy was at the peak of his musical career. His dreamlike compositions changed the rules of traditional harmony, capturing the innovative spirit of Belle Époque Paris. Today, he is widely credited as a founder of modern classical music.

• Construction on Line 4 of the Paris Métro was in full swing. This massive engineering feat embodied the era’s economic prosperity and technological advancement, marking the first subway line to dig entirely beneath the waters of the Seine.

• Sculptor Auguste Rodin, creator of The Thinker, was dominating the Parisian art scene. In 1908, he moved his studio into the magnificent Hôtel Biron (now the Musée Rodin), cementing his status as a living legend amidst the city’s artistic renaissance.

Half the magic of crafting historical fiction lies in the curation—knowing which fascinating details will drive the story forward and which ones are best kept as hidden treasures. While I couldn't squeeze the underground Métro or Rodin's studio into this week's chapter without distracting from Nora's journey, sharing these unearthed gems with you is exactly why I love putting together this bonus material.

Which of these historical backdrops would you have loved to see Nora cross paths with—the ethereal music world, the flights of Wilbur Wright, the underground engineering marvels, or Rodin’s sculpture studio? Let me know in the comments below!

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.

The Ghost of Another Ship

Nora

June 1914
New York City

Nora Osterly stood on Pier 59, terrified of the ship looming before her. The Olympic’s imposing black hull rose above the dock, her white decks, and red funnels like the ghost of another ship that had once carried the same grandeur.

She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves.

It was nearly identical to the Titanic. Nora scanned the ship until her eyes fell on the lifeboats hanging from their davits. She had not seen a lifeboat in two years. Her instinct was to turn and flee.

She forced herself to look away.

Nora had sailed on the Olympic three years ago, traveling with her father on their annual business trip to Paris. The ship had been hailed by the press as the largest and grandest afloat. She remembered seeing her for the first time. Nothing had prepared her for the sheer scale of it, the sense that something so vast could actually float.

Strolling the Olympic’s promenade deck with her father each morning, they had playfully argued over which White Star Line ship offered the best service. She had always been partial to the Adriatic, but her father insisted that nothing could compare to the Olympic.

Gazing at the Olympic now, she didn’t know how she was going to board without her father by her side. To stop the tears that threatened, she looked around the bustling pier. Breathing in the sea air, thick with the smell of coal smoke, steadied her. She heard the cry of seagulls mingling with the clang of the trolley bells.

Standing beside Nora, Astrid Lund was engaged in conversation with Josie and Charles Harroway, three familiar faces in a sea of strangers. Astrid, neat as always in her tailored traveling suit, gestured crisply as she spoke, while Mrs. Harroway listened with enthusiasm.

“You are awfully quiet, Nora. Are you all right?” Astrid asked, pausing mid-conversation.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Nora said.

“My dear, you are looking rather pale. Are you quite certain you are well?” Mrs. Harroway asked.

“Yes. I hadn’t remembered how very much the Olympic resembles… you know. But I assure you, I shall be fine.” Nora smiled in an attempt to prove it.

Charles Harroway, dignified in his silk top hat, rested his gloved hand over hers.

“You are very brave, dear,” he said.

Nora had known Josie Harroway and her husband, Charles, since childhood. They often attended the same social functions in Providence as Nora and her father. At sixty, Mr. Harroway was still active in his textile business, but he never missed a summer holiday with his wife.

Their housemaid, Bridie, stood just behind them, quietly taking it all in. She gave Nora an encouraging smile.

The boarding queue moved forward as porters hurried past with passengers’ trunks. Together, they ascended the wide first-class gangway toward the open doorway on D-Deck. A small crowd lingered below, waving and calling their farewells. Nora’s gloved hand gripped the rail as they walked toward the ship’s great black hull.

They reached the top of the gangway and stepped aboard through the first-class entrance. Nora paused at the threshold, the familiar oak-paneled walls and blue-green carpets of the reception room closing in around her. Astrid’s hand on her shoulder kept her from faltering. The soft voices of well-dressed passengers in tailored suits and elegant hats surrounded them.

“I never tire of the fresh smell of polished wood,” Mrs. Harroway said as she stepped inside. “Everything is spotless on these ships. I feel so well taken care of.”

“Indeed, my dear.” Mr. Harroway replied as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

A steward in a crisp uniform and white gloves greeted the Harroways before checking their names against the ship manifest.

“Mr. and Mrs. Harroway,” he announced smoothly, “and Miss Bridie O’Sullivan.”

A second cabin steward appeared at once to accompany the Harroways to their suite on B Deck.

“Will we see you on deck for the sailing?” Mrs. Harroway asked.

“I’m afraid not. I have some business to attend to,” Nora said.

Mrs. Harroway studied her for a moment, then smiled warmly.

“Very well, dear. We shall see you at dinner,” she said, before following the steward to her cabin with Mr. Harroway.

After being escorted to their staterooms by their own steward, Nora and Astrid retreated to their cabins to rest before luncheon. The walk down to C Deck had unsettled Nora. The cheeriness of the white-painted wood paneling contrasted with the dark memories the corridors elicited. It was like stepping back in time—to a place she had never wanted to return to.

Inside her stateroom, the cabin steward offered to unpack for Nora, but she declined, preferring to attend to it herself. After he withdrew, Nora looked at her surroundings and took a deep breath.

The neatly appointed room, decorated in the Empire style, was smaller than the ones she stayed in when she used to sail with her father. White-paneled walls trimmed in gold surrounded the elegant furnishings. On the desk sat a large arrangement of flowers with a note from Clara.

My dear Nora,

Wishing you a safe and gentle passage. I know this journey will not be an easy one, but I trust in your strength more than you may at this time.

I shall be thinking of you and look forward to seeing you soon in Paris.

With all my affection,

Clara

Clara’s note gave her a small dose of courage just when she needed it most. She had never wanted to sail again. Yet here she was, back on a great ocean liner, because of a letter she received two months ago. A letter she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. She sat on the edge of the brass-railed bed and closed her eyes silently contemplating its contents.

When her thoughts refused to settle, she opened her eyes and rose to change into her luncheon outfit, a soft gray skirt with an ivory blouse trimmed in lace. She pinned up her auburn hair, then fastened the diamond bar pin her father had given her at the center of her collar, her slender fingers lingering on the cool gold for a moment longer than necessary. She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass, looking directly at her own blue-gray eyes willing herself to be strong.

The blast of the ship’s whistle sounded—deep and resonant, carrying through the walls of the cabin. Above her, she could imagine the scene unfolding on deck: passengers in their fine dresses and tailored suits, hats pinned neatly in place, waving embroidered handkerchiefs and calling out their goodbyes. The Harroways would be among them, no doubt, Mrs. Harroway waving with enthusiasm as the great ship was eased from the dock by a cluster of tugs, their whistles answering in farewell.

She could feel the engine’s vibrations deepen, and her stomach tightened as the ship gathered speed. Nora could hardly believe that she was on a steamer again, heading back across the Atlantic. She had no choice now but to trust the steel hull of the Olympic to keep her safely above the depths of the ocean.

She heard a soft knock on the door and rose to answer it.

Expecting Astrid, she was surprised to see Bridie standing in the doorway, looking somewhat nervous.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Osterly. I don’t mean to intrude, but I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“Thank you, Bridie. You’re truly kind.”

Bridie gave a small nod. “I know it’s not easy, steppin’ aboard again. So, if you need anything from me, anything at all, you’ve only to ask. Mrs. Harroway will understand.”

Nora was touched that Bridie would risk stepping beyond her station to check on her. She offered the young woman a grateful smile. “It means a great deal that you came,” she said.

As she glanced down, she noticed the corner of a book tucked into the pocket of Bridie’s apron. Its spine was worn, no doubt from countless readings.

“I never see you without a book,” Nora said. “What are you reading now?”

“Oh… just a bit of Miss Alcott,” Bridie replied. “Helps keep me company in the quiet hours.”

“A good story to pass the time suits you,” Nora said.

Bridie looked pleased. “Aye. Books keep the mind sharp, I always say.”

As Nora watched Bridie tuck her book back in her apron, she felt grateful for the quiet kinship between them.

Astrid appeared from her stateroom next door. “Are you ready for luncheon?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m ready,” Nora said. She gave Bridie a small wave goodbye.

As they made their way to the dining saloon, Astrid stopped to make a request with their steward, waving Nora on and promising to catch up. Nora continued down the corridor and turned at the corner, stopping in her tracks at the sight before her.

The Grand Staircase.

A sight so familiar it robbed her of breath.

She paused at the rail and held on for balance. She looked down at the sweeping staircase, its carved oak balustrades spanning the entirety of the impressive space. The intricate gilded wrought-iron railings sparkled in flecks of gold, perfectly accenting the richness of the oak panels. To her artistic eye, it was marvelous. But the memories it stirred quickly extinguished her instinct to admire it.

From where she stood, the staircase stretched down to D-Deck and rose up two levels to A-Deck, each landing repeating the same elegant geometry of oak and wrought-iron. Above the four decks, light cast down from the frosted-glass dome, illuminating the grand staircase in a crown of glory.

At the center of it all was the clock. The great clock surrounded by a sea of oak, embedded in intricate paneling, and flanked by two carved figures, Honor and Glory. Nora walked down the first set of stairs to stand before it. As she gazed at the ticking timepiece, her heart tugged in her chest, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

Standing before the heart of the Olympic, its sibling now resting somewhere beneath the Atlantic, Nora could no longer keep her memories at bay. They surged up in full force, breaking through the walls she had so carefully built.

“Why not, Nora?” her father had said. “They are calling her the Queen of the Ocean. And we shall be on her maiden voyage!”

Nora had been thrilled. A few short days later, they sat in the first-class saloon of the SS Nomadic. As the tender carried them toward the Titanic, moored offshore, she remembered the feeling of being swept into the social event of the year, surrounded by the rich and famous figures she had only ever read about.

Nora took her seat beside her father, alive with excitement.

Her father leaned slightly toward her. “Look ahead, Nora.”

She followed his gaze—and gasped.

Across the saloon, Colonel John Jacob Astor sat with his young wife, Madeleine. Mrs. Astor wore a pale-blue plumed hat, her gloved hand resting elegantly on her husband’s arm. They looked serene, self-possessed… the very symbols of society and success.

Nora felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “They are even more impressive in person,” she whispered.

When the Nomadic moored alongside Titanic, they made their way onto the deck outside. The seagulls were flying high above, as if to get their own views of the grand ocean liner. A chill ran up Nora’s spine as they disembarked their tender boat.

The Titanic had been a floating palace, a marvel of ambition and engineering. The ship looked nearly identical to the Olympic, yet somehow more luxurious. Perhaps it was the sheer wealth on board. Perhaps it was the new Parisian Café staffed with French waiters. Or maybe it was the strawberries. Nora had been amazed at the fresh strawberries, served in mid-ocean, in April. It was unheard of.

She had felt almost giddy as they stepped aboard, caught between disbelief and delight. Seeing the grand staircase, the beating heart of the vessel, she was struck by its similarity to the Olympic, yet it had a personality all its own. Its opulence filled her with a rush of inspiration.

Beside her, her father had squeezed her hand, his eyes bright with joy. “What do you think of her, Nora?”

“She’s magnificent,” Nora said. “She looks so much like her sister.”

“But slightly larger, making her the largest ship in the world,” he said. “And just as safe.”

Standing next to her father, she felt that they were exactly where they belonged. She wanted to capture this moment forever, the feeling that she was stepping into history.

And for one brilliant, unforgettable moment, she believed nothing could ever go wrong.

Next Episode→ | Story Index

The Sister Ship’s Story

Welcome to this week’s bonus deep dive. Since this is our very first episode together, this one’s free for everyone—a small preview of what paid subscribers can expect each week going forward.

When I sat down to write Nora boarding the Olympic, I knew the ship itself needed to carry almost as much emotional weight as the story itself. The Olympic isn’t just any ship, she’s Titanic’s nearly identical sister.

When Nora boards the Olympic two years after losing her father, she’s not just facing the sea again, she’s stepping onto a ship that looks, sounds, and feels almost exactly like the one that killed him. Olympic and Titanic shared almost the same layout, down to the famous Grand Staircase, which means many of the areas Nora walks through are spaces she would have recognized instantly.

The two sister ships, Olympic and Titanic, were born in the shipyards of Belfast, built side by side in a world that believed deeply in progress, craftsmanship, and unshakable confidence. They represented the highest expression of early-twentieth-century ambition. One would sail for decades, beloved and reliable. The other would sail only once, becoming immortal in tragedy. Together, their intertwined stories remain among the most haunting and compelling chapters in maritime history.

Before Titanic became a legend, she was part of a vision. The White Star Line’s Olympic-class trio—Olympic, Titanic, and later Britannic—was conceived as an answer to the demands of a new era of transatlantic travel. The goal was not speed, but luxury and scale: ships so grand and comfortable that crossing the ocean would feel effortless. Harland & Wolff, under the design leadership of naval architect Thomas Andrews, translated that dream into steel, strength, and grace. In the Belfast shipyards, this vision took shape, one rivet at a time.

The Olympic was the first of the sisters to rise from the slipways of Belfast. Launched in 1911, she debuted as the largest and most luxurious ship at sea—a floating palace of polished oak, grand staircases, and sweeping promenade decks. For nearly a year before her younger sister ever set sail, Olympic was the one drawing crowds at every port. When she docked in New York on her maiden voyage, over 8,000 visitors came aboard to see her for themselves.

Titanic followed closely behind. Launched just ten months later, she incorporated subtle refinements: slightly larger dimensions, updated interiors, and enhanced passenger spaces. Her lines were elegant, her cabins opulent, and her public rooms unmatched in grandeur. On April 10, 1912, she set out on her maiden voyage with a sense of optimism and excitement. Five days later, she struck an iceberg in the North Atlantic, and by the early hours of April 15, she was gone. Her loss, and the 1,512 souls who perished with her, created shockwaves that reshaped maritime safety forever. Titanic became a story of heartbreak, courage, and profound human loss.

Olympic, meanwhile, lived an extraordinary life. During the First World War, she was requisitioned as a troopship and earned the nickname “Old Reliable.” Painted in dazzling camouflage, she carried thousands of soldiers across the Atlantic, survived multiple attacks, and famously rammed and sank a German U-boat in 1918. After the war, Olympic returned to commercial service and sailed for nearly twenty-five years. Where Titanic’s story ended almost as soon as it began, Olympic’s became one of endurance, courage, and quiet heroism.

Though built side by side, the trajectories of the sisters could not have been more different. Olympic’s life was defined by service and survival—through peace and war—while Titanic’s became a single night that changed the world.

While writing this chapter, it was important to me to give the Olympic her moment. History has a way of remembering tragedy more than triumph, and so it’s Titanic who lives on in our collective memory while Olympic has quietly faded into the background. But for almost one full year before her younger sister ever set sail, Olympic was the pride of the White Star Line, the ship everyone wanted to sail on.

What do you think—does Olympic deserve more recognition for her own remarkable story, or will she always live in her sister’s shadow? Let me know in the comments.