You are reading my weekly serial When the Sea Was Still.
When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.
The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.
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A Disturbing Revelation
Nora
11 July–21 July 1914
Paris
The day after her meeting at Maison Moreau, Nora rose to find the morning already quite warm. She opened the tall windows to let in the fresh air. The chestnut trees below stirred in the summer breeze. She sat down at the writing desk, planning to catch up on her correspondence, but she did not reach for her pen yet. Her mind was still at Maison Moreau.
Seeing Étienne again after more than two years had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She had sometimes wondered what it might be like, particularly after his letter arrived in April. Yet nothing had prepared her for how quickly the years between them seemed to disappear. For those first few minutes at the atelier, she had almost felt like the person she used to be.
But Maison Moreau had reminded her just as quickly of everything that had changed. She had entered the atelier for the first time as the head of Osterly & Co. and sat with Étienne and Geneviève discussing debts and accounts her father should have been there to discuss himself. It had felt strangely unreal to hear herself saying the words he should have spoken and making decisions that once were his.
Life had seemed so much simpler the last time she had been there. She had been twenty-two then, with her father beside her and a future that still seemed entirely her own. She had even entertained thoughts of making a life in Paris. Then they had sailed for home aboard Titanic, and the future she had imagined disappeared along with her father. She no longer had the choices she once had. Any ideas of romance had given way to her duty to her father’s legacy. Until now, she had accepted it without question.
She dismissed further thoughts of what might have been or what still might be and focused her attention on the correspondence waiting for her. On top of the pile was a note from Mrs. Cartwright, who wrote that she and Lionel were now settled at the Hôtel du Louvre. She hoped Nora would join her there for coffee one morning so that they might continue their acquaintance away from the bustle of the Olympic. Nora was pleased by the invitation. Despite Astrid’s limited patience with the Cartwrights, Nora had enjoyed Mrs. Cartwright’s company during the crossing and was curious to see her again. She wrote to confirm that she would be delighted to come.
Next on her list was a letter to Mrs. Harroway. Nora had thought of her frequently since they parted in England and had been eager to tell her of all that had happened since her arrival in Paris.
Nora had grown closer to Mrs. Harroway in the difficult months after her father’s death, when the older woman had called regularly at the Providence house. She had always been a welcome source of encouragement, never treating Nora as though grief had made her fragile. Instead of offering endless sympathy like so many others had, she came with cheerful conversation and amusing stories that made them both laugh. Ever since, Nora had looked forward to sharing news with her friend.
Dear Mrs. Harroway,
I hope this letter finds you and Mr. Harroway enjoying the clear mountain air of Geneva and that you are sleeping as soundly as you always claimed. Astrid and I arrived in Paris without incident and have taken rooms at the Hôtel de Crillon, which is every bit as lovely as Clara promised.
The past week has been occupied with Osterly & Co.’s business in Paris. I am making what progress I can. Yesterday I visited Maison Moreau and saw Étienne and Geneviève for the first time since losing Father. Seeing them again brought back many fond memories.
I am relieved to tell you that I have located my mother’s engagement ring. You’ll recall that I did not find it among her jewelry. I shall receive it back once the matter is resolved on the first of August. It is a great comfort to know it will soon be safely home with me.
I have thought often of our crossing aboard the Olympic and of your kindness to me during those first uncertain days. Your friendship has meant more than I believe I ever properly expressed.
I hope Geneva is proving every bit as delightful as you imagined. I can almost picture you strolling beside the lake with Mr. Harroway.
Please give him my warmest regards. Astrid sends hers as well.
Yours ever,
Nora
She folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope and warmed a stick of red wax at the small candle on the desk, letting three drops fall across the flap. Then she pressed the Osterly & Co. crest into the wax and held the seal a moment. The impression came away clean. Her father’s crest looked up at her from the envelope. She set the sealed letter on the desk and rose to dress for breakfast.
The days that followed passed slowly in the heat of the Paris summer. Nora took her coffee and croissants each morning in the hotel’s dining room, while Astrid had her tea and toast. When the weather allowed, they walked in the Tuileries for exercise before dinner.
They spent one hot afternoon at the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa, safely returned only months earlier. A crowd had gathered around the small portrait, studying every detail with fascination.
“I fail to see what everyone finds so remarkable about it,” Astrid said, craning her neck to get a glimpse of it.
Nora glanced at the people surrounding them. “Perhaps it is not the woman in the painting they have come to see, but the painting that disappeared.”
“Then being stolen has done wonders for her reputation,” Astrid replied.
When at last some of the visitors parted, Nora stood awhile before the painting, glad to see her back where she belonged. Shortly after the theft, her father had taken her to see the empty space where the masterpiece should have hung. She remembered how lonely it had looked.
For more than two years, no one had known where the portrait was. It had finally been recovered the previous December, when the thief attempted to sell it to an art dealer in Florence. Now it hung once more in its rightful place, surrounded by more admirers than ever.
Tuesday of that week had given them a welcome reprieve from the heat, so Nora decided to walk rather than take a carriage to meet Mrs. Cartwright for coffee. Astrid stayed behind, claiming that she only cared to have “small doses” of the Cartwrights.
Allowing ample time to enjoy the sights, Nora stepped out of the Crillon and made her way east. As she strolled along the Seine, the river’s unhurried pace matched her own. Overhead, low clouds had gathered, dark with the promise of rain.
The quay was already in motion. Nora paused to watch a fisherman in a weathered straw hat cast his line into the current. For several minutes, his float only bobbed on the water. Then it disappeared beneath the surface. The fisherman lifted his rod in one smooth motion. On the end of his line was a small silver fish. He unhooked it and slipped it into the wicker basket at his feet. He baited the hook once more and cast it back into the Seine. Nora watched a little longer before moving on, walking against the river’s current.
She continued at an easy pace before stopping again, this time at the Pont Royal, one of the many Paris landmarks that had been there for centuries. The bridge had spanned the Seine since the reign of Louis XIV. She watched a barge glide through one of the bridge’s stone arches as a small tugboat passed through the arch beside it in the opposite direction. The sky was still holding its threat of rain but hadn’t yet made good on it.
Soon Nora turned off the quay and crossed the final yards to the Hôtel du Louvre. When compared to the understated grandeur of the Crillon, the lobby bordered on ostentatious, gilt and marble vying for attention at every turn. A concierge guided her to a small salon where she found Mrs. Cartwright already seated.
“Miss Osterly.” Mrs. Cartwright rose to greet her, her smile genuine but a little uncertain, as it so often was. “How very good of you to come.”
“I was pleased to receive your note,” Nora said, taking the chair across from her. “I trust you and Mr. Cartwright are comfortably settled?”
“As comfortably as one can be in a hotel, I suppose. Though I confess I have grown rather fond of the view of the Palais-Royal from our rooms,” Mrs. Cartwright said.
“That sounds lovely,” Nora said. “And have you shopped for your gowns yet? You spoke of ordering new ones once you reached Paris.”
“I went two days ago and ordered the loveliest afternoon gown.” The familiar subject appeared to put Mrs. Cartwright more at ease.
“I must know, were you faithful to Worth, or did your mother sway you over to Paquin?” Nora asked.
Mrs. Cartwright laughed, high and melodic. “I had intended to remain faithful to Worth, but my mother did manage to convince me to visit Paquin as well. I have an appointment there tomorrow.”
“Then you may yet be persuaded toward the newer fashions,” Nora said, smiling.
“Perhaps, although Miss Lund would no doubt caution me against any skirt narrow enough to make me walk like a penguin.”
Nora laughed at the memory. “Astrid has never allowed fashion to interfere with her opinions.”
“I imagine not.” Mrs. Cartwright’s smile lit up her face. “It’s lovely talking with you, Miss Osterly. I’m very glad Lionel encouraged me to write to you.”
This struck Nora as a bit odd. She had assumed Mrs. Cartwright had invited her of her own accord. Then she remembered Lionel’s rather controlling manner aboard the Olympic and found herself less surprised. She decided to change the subject.
“I imagine it has been a strange summer for you,” Nora said. “Being so far from your family, with everything so uncertain at home.”
Mrs. Cartwright looked down at her coffee. “Yes. Though Lionel says I mustn’t trouble myself over it.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want you to worry,” Nora said. “Has his business kept him occupied? I do hope he’s made time to show you the city.”
“He has hardly been present at all. Meetings from morning until evening. I begin to think he enjoys Paris rather more for the business than for me.” Mrs. Cartwright looked away, as though she’d not meant to say so much.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Nora said, keeping her tone light. “It’s hard to imagine what sort of meetings could keep him so occupied.”
“It’s the usual sort, I should think. He was rather pleased with himself after calling on a jeweler the other day. Moreau, I believe it was called,” Mrs. Cartwright said, entirely unaware of what she had said.
Nora’s hand tightened around her cup.
“He does love finding a business no one else has thought to look at,” Mrs. Cartwright continued. “He says that is where the real opportunities lie, in the places everyone else has overlooked.”
“Maison Moreau?” she asked, as evenly as she could manage.
“I believe that was it. He hasn’t said a great deal about it, only that the proprietor was a gentleman of real talent, rather wasted on account of the difficulties this season. Lionel does so love a difficulty. He says that is when a man with capital can be of the most use.” She glanced at Nora and caught her expression. “Do you know the house?”
“I do,” Nora said. “It is my family’s partner in Paris.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Cartwright’s cheerfulness dimmed. “I hadn’t realized. Lionel didn’t say—that is, I don’t believe he knows. He would have mentioned it, surely, if he’d known.”
“Surely,” Nora said, though she was no longer sure of anything Lionel Cartwright would or wouldn’t think to mention.
“I’ve said something I oughtn’t, haven’t I?” Mrs. Cartwright’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “Lionel is always telling me I speak too freely about his affairs.”
“You’ve said nothing out of turn,” Nora said. “I’m very glad to know of it.”
Mrs. Cartwright did not look entirely reassured, but she let the subject go. The conversation found its way to the weather and whether the rain would hold off until Nora had made it back to the Crillon. Beneath the polite half hour that followed, Nora answered questions that needed answering as one thought turned over and over. Whatever business had brought Lionel Cartwright to Maison Moreau’s door, Étienne had kept it from her entirely.
She took her leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Stepping outside, she saw that the sky had finally made good on its threat. The rain had begun to fall in fat, scattered drops. She opted for a carriage to take her back to the Crillon.
The Theft That Made the Mona Lisa Famous
Welcome to this week’s bonus material! In Episode 12, Nora returns to the Louvre, where she sees the Mona Lisa for the first time since the famous painting was returned to Paris. But the story of its disappearance is almost as fascinating as the painting itself. The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911, setting off an international mystery that lasted more than two years—and helped transform Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait into the cultural icon we know today.
