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 Surprise Invitation
Nora
21 July 1914
Paris
By the time Nora returned to the Crillon, the rain had settled into a steady downpour. But even its persistent drumming on the carriage roof wasn’t loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She had spent almost the entire ride going over the possible reasons Mr. Cartwright might want to call on Maison Moreau. Once back in her room, she looked for Astrid, keen to discuss what she had learned, but found the suite empty.
Left to ruminate on her own, Nora removed her hat and gloves and settled onto the settee near the windows. As she watched the rain streak the glass in uneven streams, she tried to find an innocent explanation for Mr. Cartwright’s visit to the atelier. Perhaps Lionel merely wished to purchase a gift for his wife. But why would Marion speak of one man’s difficulties leading to opportunities? Unless that was simply the explanation Lionel had given her to conceal the true purpose of his visit. Then why mention Maison Moreau to his wife at all? No, he had gone there for a different reason. She was certain of it.
Whatever business had taken Lionel Cartwright to the atelier, the meeting had occurred only days before Nora herself sat across from Étienne. He had been open with her about the house’s slowdown, yet he had said nothing of speaking with Mr. Cartwright. If Lionel’s visit concerned Maison Moreau’s financial difficulties, surely it was something she should have known.
But it was not only Étienne’s silence that troubled her. The questions about Mr. Cartwright’s motives had begun to multiply faster than she could answer them. Was he using her to get to Étienne or the other way around? And what had he actually proposed to Étienne? A loan, a partnership of his own, a purchase of Herr Kessler’s note?
A chill ran through her.
Outside, the rain continued to fall. Nora rose from the settee, too restless to remain seated. She had always assumed Mr. Cartwright’s interest in Osterly & Co. had begun only after they met aboard the Olympic. Now she was no longer certain.
Nora thought back to that first dinner of the crossing, when she had met Lionel Cartwright. She remembered her initial impression of him all too well. Everything about Mr. Cartwright had proclaimed his wealth, yet the watch chain was just a shade too bright, his insistence that White Star Line remained “the standard” just a bit too eager. She had marked him at once as a man who had made his own money and wanted the room to know it. To her, it had seemed a harmless vanity.
As she thought more about that dinner, she started to see it differently. When their conversation had turned to her reasons for coming to Paris, he had said, “I imagine assuming your father’s responsibilities has brought its share of complications.” She had murmured a noncommittal agreement, taking it for genuine sympathy at the time. Now she wondered whether he had been looking for vulnerability instead. Perhaps she had underestimated the ambitions of Lionel Cartwright.
She watched as the rain began to let up. The lines on the glass softened to scattered drops. She would find no answers through further speculation. She would have to ask Étienne himself the next time they met. In the meantime, she went to find Astrid.
Later that afternoon, Nora and Astrid took their customary stroll through the Tuileries before dinner. The rain had cleared and in its place was air as fresh as the Swiss mountain air Mrs. Harroway had always spoken so fondly of. Heavy drops still fell occasionally from the chestnut leaves overhead as they walked along the wet gravel path.
Astrid was in unusually good spirits. Nora had finally found her in one of the Crillon’s small salons, absorbed in Le Figaro. Madame Caillaux’s trial had begun the previous day, and Astrid had been so intent on reading the latest reports that she had gone downstairs without leaving Nora a note.
“And how did you find Mrs. Cartwright?” Astrid asked.
“Quite charming, actually. I enjoyed her company,” Nora said. “Though she did tell me something rather troubling.”
“And somehow I suspect Mr. Cartwright is involved.”
“You suspect correctly.” Nora stepped around a small puddle on the path.
She recounted what Mrs. Cartwright had told her, beginning with Mr. Cartwright’s visit to Maison Moreau. She explained that he seemed to know of the difficulties the jewelry house was facing and had implied to his wife that a man of means could take advantage of such distress. Astrid listened as they continued along the damp path, her expressive eyebrows saying more than any words could.
“But perhaps the most troubling part,” Nora continued, “was finding out that it was Mr. Cartwright who had encouraged her to write to me in the first place.”
“I very much doubt Mr. Cartwright was concerned with his wife’s social calendar,” Astrid said. “And Mrs. Cartwright had no idea that Maison Moreau was connected to Osterly & Co.?”
“None. She was mortified when I told her.”
“Then her invitation may have been innocent, even if her husband’s encouragement was not,” Astrid said.
“That is what troubles me.” Nora slowed as they approached a large pool of water that stretched nearly across the path. She gathered her skirt and stepped around its edge. “Lionel knew I had refused his interest in Osterly & Co. Why would he then go to our partner in Paris?”
“Perhaps your refusal only convinced him to look for another way in,” Astrid said, navigating around the puddle.
Nora looked at her. “That is my fear.”
Around them, the gardens continued to spring back to life as Parisians returned to their usual afternoon rhythm after the rain.
“What will you do?” Astrid asked.
“First, I must speak to Étienne,” Nora said. “There may be a simple explanation.”
Astrid nodded but did not look convinced.
As they continued along the path, Nora noticed a gentleman in a boater hat seated on a bench beneath the trees. He was speaking to the woman beside him, pointing to the open newspaper she held. As she looked to see what he was indicating, the brim of her large hat caught the newspaper and sent it fluttering to the ground. The gentleman immediately leaned over to pick it up.
Astrid looked at them with interest.
“I suppose you are wondering whether there is more news of Madame Caillaux,” Nora teased.
“Am I that obvious?” Astrid asked.
“There is no shame in following what all of Paris is obsessed with. Do fill me in on the morning news that pulled you away without leaving a note.”
Astrid gave her what passed for a sheepish look.
“The trial started yesterday,” she said. “The courtroom was overflowing with those who wanted to get a look at the woman who shot a man.”
“Clara is no doubt sorry to be missing the spectacle of it,” Nora said.
“I’m surprised she would miss it,” Astrid replied. “She may be the only person in Paris more captivated by the affair than I am.”
“Clara has gone traveling again,” Nora said.
“Then I am no longer surprised. Where to this time?”
“She wrote to me of a motorcar trip through Spain shortly before she left,” Nora said. “I know no one else up for such an adventure.”
“Adventure is one word for it,” Astrid said, shaking her head slightly.
“She sounded quite delighted by the whole thing,” Nora said. “She intends to remain away for some time before returning to Paris.”
“After riding in her motorcar, I would not dare to take it across an entire country.”
Nora laughed.
As they made their way back toward the Crillon, the afternoon promenade was in full swing. Each group they passed was more elegantly dressed than the last. The fashionable hour had come upon them, and with it gentlemen strolling with silver-topped canes and groups of ladies more intent on being seen than on seeing.
By the time they arrived back at their hotel, the clouds had given way to blue sky, and little evidence remained of the morning rain. Inside, the dampness that had settled over them succumbed to the warmth of the lobby. Nora and Astrid stopped at the concierge’s desk to retrieve the room keys they had left before their walk. The clerk turned to the numbered pigeonholes behind the desk and returned with two keys. Along with Nora’s, he placed a letter on the counter.
“A letter arrived for you this afternoon, Mademoiselle.”
“Merci, monsieur,” Nora replied.
She tucked the envelope into her reticule, and she and Astrid continued through the lobby to the grand marble staircase.
“Who is the letter from?” Astrid asked as they climbed the stairs.
“It’s from Mrs. Harroway,” Nora said. “I shall be glad to hear how she is faring in Geneva.”
Once inside their suite, Astrid excused herself to dress for dinner. Before Nora herself began to get ready, she was anxious to hear of what news Mrs. Harroway had sent. She sat at the writing desk and drew the letter from her reticule.
My dear Nora,
Your letter reached us yesterday and I was so pleased to hear that you and Astrid are safely settled at the Crillon. Clara’s judgment in these matters is, as ever, beyond reproach. I can picture your rooms already and I daresay the view of the gardens is exactly what you needed after the crossing.
I am delighted that you have located your mother’s ring. I remember well how much she adored it. It is a comfort to know it will be where it belongs very soon.
Charles and I are having a wonderful stay here in Geneva. The air is as fine as I always promised you it would be, and I have slept more soundly this week than I have in months. Charles has taken up with a group of English gentlemen at the hotel who share his fondness for the newspapers, which spares me a great deal of comment on European affairs at breakfast. I count this among the season’s blessings.
Despite our enjoyment, we have grown cautious and have decided to cut our holiday short. We shall be heading home earlier than planned, and we have taken passage on the Philadelphia on the 8th of August. Do consider joining us, won’t you?
Please give my warm regards to Astrid.
Yours ever,
Josie Harroway
Nora lowered the letter to the desk and sat back in her chair. She was unprepared for such an invitation but not surprised by the Harroways’ desire to return home. Astrid had recently been hinting about an early departure as well.
By the eighth of August, her appointment at the bank would be concluded, and her mother’s ring would be safely back in her possession. Perhaps sailing home with the Harroways would be the sensible thing to do.
Although the invitation was tempting, Nora felt an unease that seemed to be pulling her to stay. Leaving Paris so soon felt premature. A copy of Le Figaro lay on the corner of the desk. The headline announcing the beginning of Madame Caillaux’s trial screamed out at her:
LE PROCÈS DE Mme CAILLAUX
Première audience
“The Trial of Madame Caillaux: First Hearing,” Nora translated.
Under the headline, in much smaller type, was news of the President of France’s visit to Russia. Nora pondered its significance. Each day the paper wrote of countries siding with one another while others seemed to be gearing for a fight. If all of Paris was more consumed with a murder trial, surely there was no cause for alarm.
The Art of the Promenade
During the Belle Époque, the Tuileries Garden was one of Paris’s most fashionable stages. By the summer of 1914, the promenade there had been a Parisian institution for generations. The wide gravel paths beneath the trees, laid out centuries earlier for royalty, had become the runway of Paris’s most fashionable residents and visitors.
The promenade was about more than getting from one place to another or enjoying a little fresh air. It was a social occasion—a chance to see who was out, observe the latest fashions, exchange greetings with acquaintances, and, perhaps most importantly, be seen yourself.
The Tuileries had long been one of Paris’s great stages for this ritual. As far back as the seventeenth century, fashion chroniclers came to the gardens to observe what fashionable women were wearing as they sat on benches or strolled along its paths. New styles spotted there eventually made their way into fashion publications. More than two centuries later, the connection between the Tuileries and Paris fashion remained.
Fashion was an important part of the spectacle. Well-dressed women appeared in carefully chosen afternoon clothes, their long skirts, fitted jackets, and elaborate hats reflecting the season’s latest styles. Men arrived in tailored suits and hats appropriate for the hour. Every element could serve as a signal of taste, means, and familiarity with what Paris considered current. To be underdressed in the Tuileries was its own kind of announcement, and Parisians of a certain class understood exactly how to read one another.
By 1914, the clothing moving through those gardens had already started to evolve away from the enormous skirts we often associate with nineteenth-century Paris. Women’s silhouettes had become narrower and more streamlined, although dressing for an afternoon promenade was still a far cry from today’s idea of throwing on a pair of sneakers and heading out for a walk. The Metropolitan Museum of Art even has a “promenade suit” dating from around 1914 and believed to be French, evidence that walking clothes were a category of fashion in their own right.
So when Nora and Astrid set off through the Tuileries, they are stepping into one of the city’s oldest social rituals, in a garden where Parisians had been watching one another—and watching what everyone was wearing—for centuries.
