The Gypsy Moon

by Gilbert, Morris

  © 2005 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7059-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover illustration by William Graff

  Cover design by Melinda Schumacher

  I would love to dedicate a book to every single one of you who have bought a Winslow novel. Since I can’t do that, let me mention a few of you who have been so supportive of the series:

  —To Betty Southworth of Warner Springs, California

  —And to Jack and Shirley Werst of Wapakoneta, Ohio

  —To a special friend, Gerald Squires of Yreka, California

  —To Maryan Wolfe, my good friend from Covina, California

  —Mike Hollingshead of Malvern, Arkansas—can’t think of a better man!

  —And here’s to you, Ivy Iorio of Niagara Falls, New York

  —To Anne Lahti, who keeps me supplied with the best jam in the world!

  —And to Horace and Betty McKenzie of Monroe, North Carolina, my very good friends.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  May 1925-November 1938

  1. A Dark Prediction

  2. A Summer Interlude

  3. Dr. Winslow

  4. A Change of Direction

  5. A Fancy Affair

  6. The Danger of Power

  PART TWO

  May-August 1940

  7. “The Lights Are Going Out”

  8. Operation Jonah

  9. An Emergency Case

  10. An Unusual Picnic

  11. The Prisoner

  12. “Grow Old Along With Me”

  PART THREE

  August 1940

  13. The Execution

  14. “I’m No Angel”

  15. A Turn of the Screw

  16. A Midnight Caller

  17. No More Worries

  18. Jesus Is the Friend of Sinners

  PART FOUR

  August-October 1940

  19. The Fugitives

  20. “I Was Born for This!”

  21. On the Road

  22. Plans Go Wrong

  23. Outboards and Inboards

  24. A Question of Love

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Dark Prediction

  Gabrielle slipped down into the tub until she was completely submerged in the warm, soapy water. She lifted her legs toward the ceiling and pointed her toes while singing, “Tea for two and two for tea, just me for you and you for me . . .”

  Gabby didn’t have the best voice in the world, but it was strong, and she knew all the lyrics to every popular song coming over the radio. This particular one had been the smash hit of 1924 both in America and in England, and now a year later it was still a favorite. Gabby loved to sing, and one of the keen regrets of her life was that she did not have a good enough voice to sing on the stage or in films. As she relaxed in the soapy water, soaking up the heat and looking up at her polished toes pointed at the ceiling, she thought of the time when her mother had gently broken the news that she would never be a professional singer. She had been twelve years old, and it had broken her heart for at least a week.

  Sitting up abruptly and splashing the water to rinse off the soap, Gabby pulled the plug and stepped out onto the bath mat. Grabbing a fluffy white towel, she rubbed herself vigorously, then tossed the towel over a rack. Quickly, she slipped into a chenille robe that had once been a deep royal blue but now was faded to an anemic lavender. Leaving the bathroom, she scurried down the short hall and went into her bedroom and peered out the window.

  “Good! It’s not going to rain anymore.” The first week of June had been particularly wet for southern England, and she had been afraid that a downpour such as they’d had the previous evening would spoil her date with Greg. But the skies were clear, and there was no sign of anything but fine weather. From where she stood, she could catch a glimpse of the English Channel. She was intensely sensitive to natural beauty, and for some time she drank in the sight of the rough waves, the occasional boat going by, and the branches blowing in the breeze.

  Turning, she moved to the rosewood table that had belonged to her grandmother. She selected a record from a tall stack and wound up the gramophone. Each year her mother made a trip to America, her home, and she always returned with all the latest records. Gabby sang along as she decided what to wear. “It had to be you, it had to be you. I wandered around and finally found the somebody who could make me be true. . . .”

  She looked through her underwear drawer, tossing a flattening brassiere to the side with a snort of disgust. “Silliest thing I ever heard of! Women ought to look like women,” she muttered. The last few years had produced some strange garments in women’s dress. Women were now supposedly freed from their “bondage,” but for some reason this meant they had to look like men. They had cut their hair short and disguised their feminine shapes as much as possible. Gabby pulled out the camiknickers she had bought only the week before, the latest fashion in underwear. The one-piece garment combined a camisole top with attached knickers. Gabby stared at herself in the full-length mirror. “It looks stupid, but it’s what everybody is wearing,” she murmured.

  She put on a white pleated skirt and a soft green loose-fitting jumper with a low neckline. She draped an emerald green scarf around her neck, pulled on her beige stockings, and slipped into a pair of dark green low-heeled shoes. Moving closer to the mirror, she studied her face critically. As usual, she was not overly impressed, but she did have nice eyes—large, almond-shaped, and a warm brown that appeared almost golden at times. Her mother used to tell her, “The eyes are the windows of the soul; people can see right through to your soul, Gabby.” She surveyed her straight nose and broad forehead and shook her head with disgust. But she brightened up at how her hair looked. She liked her abundant curls and the rich chocolate color with a trace of auburn that glowed in the sun. Her friends were always complaining about their thin or straight hair, but she had no complaints with hers.

  She stepped back from the mirror and admired her trim figure with satisfaction but sighed, wishing she were shorter than five-seven. She had always admired diminutive women like her best friend, Helen Stempson, who was only five feet tall. More than once her mother had told her to straighten up and be what God made her to be.

  Gabby picked up her cloche hat and pulled it down over her hair. She personally thought cloche hats looked stupid, but everyone wore them, and this one had seemed to her the best of a bad lot. After examining her complete outfit from every angle in the mirror, she put her hat back on the bed and sat down at her desk.

  She removed a small red leather book from the back of the bottom drawer and opened it to the marker. Grabbing a pen, she wrote:

  So, this is my first grown-up date. I have a new outfit, and Daddy and Mum say I can stay out until eleven. They wanted me to come back by ten, but I argued them ou
t of it.

  Gabby hesitated for a moment, chewing on her lower lip, before beginning again. Unconsciously her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth, a childhood habit she had never shaken.

  Greg Farnsworth isn’t the most handsome boy I know, but he’s not hideous either. At least he’s tall and got rid of his pimples this year. I wonder if he’ll try to kiss me when he brings me home—and I wonder if I’ll let him.

  “Gabby, are you ready?”

  Gabby quickly slammed her journal shut and shoved it into the drawer. “Come in, Mum.”

  Her mother poked her head into the room.

  Gabby stood up and struck a pose. “Do you like my outfit?” she asked eagerly. “Do you think Greg will like it?”

  “I think he’ll love it.” Josephine Winslow, at the age of thirty-two, looked like she was in her twenties. She was a tall woman with green eyes and reddish hair and a strong, attractive square face. She had married Lance Winslow after the death of Gabby’s mother and for a time had wondered if she could fill the role of mother as well as wife. Despite her doubts, everything had turned out successfully. Although there were times when Gabby mentioned her birth mother, Noelle Winslow, she and Josephine had grown very close. Josephine had met Gabby’s father during the Great War, when she was a journalist from New York and he was a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps.

  Now Josephine kept up her career and did a great deal of traveling, though England had become her first love. She had only distant relatives in the States and found her greatest pleasure was in being at their home in Hastings on the southeastern coast of England.

  “If he doesn’t like it, he would have to be blind and a moron,” Jo said with a smile. “Turn around and let me see.” Gabby turned, arms extended. “I can’t believe this is the gawky, long-legged creature that kept bringing frogs into the house just a year ago, it seems.”

  “Oh, Mum, it’s been longer than that!” Gabby protested.

  “Well, as long as you don’t start collecting snakes, I suppose I can bear it.” Jo shook her head as she looked at the walls, which were completely covered with specimens, including butterflies in glass-covered frames, birds’ eggs in frames with small sections—each bearing a tiny egg with a label underneath it—and flowers that had been dried and mounted. “We won’t ever have to worry about decorating a house. You’ve got enough specimens to fill Windsor Castle.”

  Gabby giggled. “I guess I have, haven’t I? Look at what I did this morning. Come over here.”

  Jo went over to the table, which was cluttered with books and a microscope. At Gabby’s insistence she looked down into the scope. “I can never see anything in here,” she protested.

  “Yes, you can. Just look and concentrate.”

  Jo Winslow obediently peered into the lens. “I see it, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s a butterfly wing. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Jo straightened up. “Yes, it is. But I think I’d rather see the whole butterfly than just a microscopic section of it.” She walked to the window and looked out at the sea for a moment. Then she turned and said, “I want us to have a mother and daughter talk.”

  “Oh, Mum, please not now!”

  “No kissing,” Jo said firmly.

  Gabby tightened her lips. She was an obedient girl and had given her stepmother and father little trouble. As a matter of fact, she was so caught up with her science studies and collections that she had given little thought to boys until this year. She had been a rather gawky adolescent just a short time ago, but a single year had wrought as much difference in her as one saw in a caterpillar and a butterfly. The angular, bony edges had been replaced with graceful curves. Her skin had cleared up and now possessed a pleasing silkiness about it. She had inherited her French mother’s figure along with her father’s strength and bone structure, which combined to make her an attractive young woman.

  “No kissing,” Jo repeated.

  “Just one, Mum? Please!”

  Suddenly Jo laughed. “I was only teasing, Gabby. You’re fifteen years old, and you have a smart head on your shoulders. You have more sense than I do, actually. I’d hate for you to know what a flibbertigibbet I was when I was your age.”

  “What’s a flibbertigibbet? Is that an American word?”

  “Yes, it’s American for fool—which I was when I was fifteen. I was quite boy crazy.”

  Gabby came over and put her arm around her stepmother’s waist. “I can’t believe that. You’re the smartest woman I know.”

  “Well, I’m not fifteen any longer. Let’s go downstairs and let your father see how beautiful you are.”

  Gabby grabbed her cloche hat and asked, “What was your first date like, Mum?”

  “It wasn’t nearly as exciting as my first date with your father. Now, come along.”

  They walked down the stairs and turned left into the living area, a beautiful room with a low ceiling supported with exposed beams. The ceiling was so low that Lance Winslow often sported a red spot in the middle of his forehead when he forgot to duck. The house had been built in the 1600s, and it had been the delight of both Lance and Jo to work lovingly on it until it was filled with antiques and reflected a warm aura of hospitality.

  “Well, so this is the man-killer!” Lance Winslow came out of his chair and moved over to get a better look at his daughter. He was a tall man with an athletic figure, and at the age of thirty-eight, he still had most of the fast reactions he had had as a fighter pilot in the war. He was wearing a pair of baggy gray trousers and a dark blue shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. “Why, you look good enough to go to a horse race.”

  “Daddy,” she protested, “I look better than that!”

  “Yes, you do. In fact, you look so good I’m going to have to have a serious talk with Greg. I’m going to tell him to have you back by ten o’clock. If he objects, I’ll tell him I’ve got a forty-five and a shovel and that no one will miss him very much.”

  “Daddy, you can’t say that!”

  Lance laughed at her horrified expression, then came and put his arms around her. He gave her a hug and said, “No, I don’t suppose I will. But you look beautiful.” When he released her, a frown crossed his face. “It’s going to be hard to go away and leave you.”

  “Well, I’ve tried hard enough to go with you before, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  Jo spoke up. “It’s going to be a long, hard trip. I want us all to go to the States next year when we have plenty of time. This trip we have to make now is going to be nothing but tiresome travel and work.”

  Lance worked for an aircraft firm and was often sent on assignments to other countries for months at a time. Jo worked as a journalist wherever she hung her hat, but she was also writing a book about the new jazz music in America and wanted to do some research.

  “I wouldn’t care. You’d see,” Gabby said. She dreaded these times when her parents had to leave her alone. They usually tried to space their trips out so that one or the other of them would be home, but this time there was no possibility of that.

  “But, dear, you love to go to Holland and visit with your aunt Liza. You know you do,” Jo coaxed.

  “But it’s not the same as being with you.”

  “It will only be for two months. You had a wonderful time with your friend Betje when you were there last year. Why, you told us you had the best time of your life. And before you know it, we’ll be back.”

  Gabby quickly covered her disappointment. “I know, Mum,” she said. “I’ll miss you, but don’t worry about me. Betje and I will have a good time, and I always like staying with Uncle Dalton and Aunt Liza.”

  Liza was the only sister of Gabby’s father. She had married Dalton Burke, who had become a scientist of some reputation and taught at the university in Amsterdam. They had a beautiful house, which was very old, and Gabby did love spending time with them. She had been there three times, beginning when she was very young, and now knew quite a few people. Though it had been har
d at first, she had learned to speak Dutch passably well, thanks to her friend Betje.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t you worry about me. And, Dad, you go over and tell ’em how it’s done. Don’t let those Yanks give you any trouble!”

  Lance’s face registered his relief. He had been worried about leaving Gabby for two months, but Jo had convinced him there would be little fun for her on this grinding trip. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Your mum and I will work as hard as we can and try to get back early. We’ll pick you up and go to Paris for a holiday. How would that be?”

  “Really, Dad?”

  “Really.”

  Gabby squealed and threw her arms around her father’s neck. She squeezed him hard before releasing him. “That’ll be super! We’ll have the most fun ever. Why, Mum and I could go to all the stores and see the latest fashions. Maybe we can find ourselves some new outfits.”

  “We’ll see about that,” her father said, winking at her. “We’ll stop off and see your grandfather on the way. He gets lonely now. We don’t get to see him very often, but he thinks the world of you.” Noelle Winslow’s father was getting on in years and did delight in his half-English granddaughter.

  “That will be wonderful,” Jo said. “You know, if you ever become a doctor, he’ll take all the credit for it.”

  “Ever since I was a little girl, he’s been telling me I ought to be a doctor,” Gabby said. “But a better one than he is, he always says.”

  “I doubt if anybody is much better than your grandfather. But I know he misses your grandmother and gets lonely, so it would be nice to make that stop and spend some time with him.”

  At that moment a muffled roar filled the room, and Lance said, “If that’s your young man, it sounds like he’s driving a lorry, and a big one, instead of a car.”

  “He’s got his license and everything, Daddy,” Gabby said. “And he’s a very careful driver.”

  They waited for the knock on the door; then Jo opened it. “Hello, Greg. Come in.”

  Greg Farnsworth was a tall, lanky young man of seventeen. He was not filled out yet and was not handsome, but there was a homely charm about him. He was almost as tall as Lance and had to stoop carefully under the dark exposed beams.