Host Writer: Book 1: The Archivist

Chapter 1

VESTIGES

Prestbury, England

John examined the grave markers that surrounded him, each capped silvery in the moon’s light. He found a granite marker wide enough to conceal his broad shoulders. He knelt in the damp grass behind the stone and waited for his assignment. His assignment was Zoe Edevane, a free spirited Oxford student who studied English and completely lacked the survival skills needed for the world she was about to be thrust into.

He had not relished the purpose of tonight’s mission. Zoe’s mother, Kathryn, had trained him and taught him about their world. Unfortunately, Kathryn had died before telling her daughter anything about the responsibilities of their family. It was now up to him.

He glanced at a nearby grave marker, the one he knew she came to find—no sign of her yet. Zoe and her captivating sea-blue eyes, framed by dark hair. The tresses cascaded in soft waves down her back to her small waist. She usually dressed in a sweater or a pullover, wearing her trousers tucked into expensive leather boots or simple wellies. She stood tall and slender giving the impression of delicacy. But the past month of monitoring her had dispelled that perception. A month had passed since Kathryn’s death and his assignment had changed from observing the mother and daughter, to only watching Zoe. He had shadowed her around the globe while she did activities at every stop she travelled. He discovered her to be extremely athletic, not delicate in the least. It had been difficult to keep up with her and at the same time not be discovered by her. She had run along the Great Wall of China, hiked through the Himalayas, rock-climbed, and raced rally cars at astonishing speeds throughout Europe—mainly solitary activities that tested her skill and endurance to its limits and kept her mind off the death of her mother.

And, to top that, she didn’t believe in the afterlife—imperative in the line of work he was to introduce her into. He didn’t know why Kathryn had kept her in the dark. Because Zoe wasn’t prepared, he ended up at the cemetery with a mission that would turn her life upside down.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. She had found the grave. It was a start.

I’d been to cemeteries before, but never after midnight, never alone, and never to fulfill someone’s dying wish. I’d seen both my parents buried. My dad died ten years ago when I was eleven, and last month my mum. But here I sat like a crazy person in the front seat of Mum’s old Bentley, adjacent to a sinister looking graveyard near Prestbury. Why had I decided to do this? I felt a combination of stupidity and mortification that I had actually come here, and I considered forgetting about it and driving home. I could be home in less than fifteen minutes and be sipping tea in less than thirty.

I rolled down my window to receive some air and stared into the night at the rows of granite headstones that looked like uneven dominoes scattered in the grass. Rows of ivy-covered reminders of the endless numbers of people we’d never see again. The English countryside, green and beautiful—and laden with cemeteries and churchyards that filled me with dread. My family grave plot lay on a hill by my home, which I had visited twice—once for my father’s burial and once for my mother’s. I didn’t see a reason to visit and despair over buried bodies. Photos of Mum and Dad were spread over walls and tables throughout my home—weren’t those enough reminders that they were gone?

The light from the moon’s orb peered through the trees to depict a leaf shadow dance on the front of my car. The sheer size of the forty-year-old car created a protective feeling; it enveloped me inside its black body that seemed to meld into the vacant car park. The smell of autumn’s rotting leaves blew through the window and mixed with the faint scent of my mother’s perfume that lingered in the orifices of the car.

The clock on the dashboard read half past one in the morning. My heart fluttered. I had thirty minutes to find the mysterious gravesite and needed to control my uneasiness and actually step out of the car. The longer I sat there the more my imagination ticked off scenes from recent horror movies I’d watched—scenes of masked villains holding butcher knives to the throats of lone females foolish enough to go to a cemetery in the dead of night.

I glanced at my manicured nails. They were chipped from yesterday’s rock-climbing adventure and smeared with black dust that had rubbed off the charcoal piece I held in my hand. I placed the charcoal on the dash, wiped my hands on my black trousers, and glanced outside. The wind blew leaves off the trees and created a swirling leaf-twister that arose from the ground with a rustling noise, twirled along the pavement, and disappeared behind a pine tree where the blustery sound dissipated. I removed a band from off my wrist and used it to put my hair in a ponytail that hung in a wavy mass to my waist. In a tree next to me an owl hooted from a branch and caused me to jump. I grabbed the handle and rolled up my window the rest of the way. With my task filling my mind, it had not occurred to me that I’d become this jittery.

Mum’s lovely and kind face appeared in my thoughts. Her white-toothed smile, her wavy, dark hair and long-lashed eyes—picturing her face calmed me, somewhat, because I still felt anger towards her. Ignoring my anger and determined to discover the purpose behind her bidding, I grabbed my denim bag. It had a long strap interwoven from patches and strips of material dyed the neon shades of a sunset. Inside I carried my life—and a letter I found in Mum’s desk drawer during the last few minutes of her life. She had been very weak—too weak to talk.

I pulled a torch out of my bag. The weight of the metal shaft gave me assurance on my strange errand. With the torch lit, I grabbed her letter. Even during the weakness of her final day my mother hadn’t rested until she pointed her trembling hand towards her desk drawer where I found an envelope. Written across the front of the envelope in her lovely script handwriting was my sweet Zoe. I had cried when I saw it, as I thought she had written a personal note for me. I picked it up and turned back to her bedside to thank her, but her arm hung over the edge of her bed and the intensity in her eyes had disappeared. Instead they stared at nothing. I ran to her and touched her cheek. I climbed in bed beside her and wrapped my arms around her and cried, her warmth still radiating from her body, her precious letter crumpling in my hand. When I at last sat up, I tore open the envelope and cried more. Instead of reading an affectionate and memorable note of goodbye, I discovered it to be an absurd letter instructing me to make a grave rubbing. The letter was only a senseless dying wish, complete with the details of when and where along with the name on the gravestone, John Link. Enraged, and with my heart broken, I decided not to return to Oxford. I took a leave from university and moved back home. I kept myself busy with activities my mother disliked me doing, while I counted down the days to the next full moon.

I gazed out of the car’s window. I didn’t know what was more daft, her dying wish or my putting my life on hold in an attempt to fulfill it. I didn’t even know this John Link and with him being dead I wouldn’t know him now. I wondered at the need behind her wish. She had never mentioned him until I read his name written in the letter. Of course that could have been my fault, because for several years we had rarely spoken. I had seldom listened to her suggestions when she had been alive and it seemed a little late to be paying attention now. Besides, the entire letter appeared odd with its detail of not seeing John Link’s grave until the next full moon. This John Link was a complete mystery to me, but he had meant something to my mother and it had become my goal to find out why.

With renewed determination to find out the reason John Link had been so important to her, I took one more look at the blowing shadows, stuck the letter back in my bag, and opened the door of the old car, which didn’t squeak until I shut it. After glancing around to make sure the owl and the shadows hadn’t noticed the sound, I made a mental note to speak with Benny about the car’s maintenance.

I looped my bag over my head and under my arm before realizing the charcoal remained on the dash. I opened the door, grabbed the charcoal with a tissue, shoved it in my bag, and carefully shut the door—no squeaks. Relieved, I held my torch in front of me like a sword and took a step. As I stepped forwards a hedgehog scurried out from under the warmth of the car’s engine and brushed my shoe with its tiny spines. I jumped as it snorted and ran away.

A bit rattled, I headed to the pebble path where a border of ancient, gnarled trees framed both sides. The trees were large with uneven burls on their trunks and branches that appeared to reach out to me. The orange and amber leaves glistened with moisture in the light of the moon and the cool breeze. My torch saturated the narrow pathway with light while I tried not to think about the years of dead residents lining the path, their markers revealing their short life spans.

Mum had instructions written down in her letter that said to park in the northernmost section of the cemetery. From there I was to count twenty trees along the right side of the path. In between the trees the headstones caught my light and cast shadows over the locations of bodies buried through the ages. I had to remind myself that there was nothing here to be afraid of. At tree number fourteen my reliable torch flickered and went dark. I froze in place and tapped the metal shaft with my palm—nothing. I listened to the silence and waited for my eyes to adjust to the moon’s light before I rummaged in my bag to find my phone. But it sat back in the car all cozy on the passenger seat. An owl hooted, a breeze rustled the leaves, and then absolute stillness—as it should be for this place. I shrugged at the craziness of it all and took a deep breath.

When the silhouette of the tree trunks became visible again, I counted off six more burl crusted trees and turned right, which meant venturing off the path. Determined, I stepped onto the grass and into the zone of death to search for the row of headstones that would have fig leaves carved into the sides of the stone. The only thing written about the carved fig leaves was to find them and count. So far Mum’s instructions had been clear, but finding the carvings would be difficult with only the moon as my light source.

I worried about the time. The letter had been very specific about getting the rubbing at two o’clock. I shook my head at myself. I considered myself mental following every step of her instructions right down to the preposterous time.

Another owl hooted, maybe it was the same owl following me. I turned towards the sound and noticed a fig leaf larger than my hand, carved at eye level into the side of the marble headstone next to me. Smart owl. I calculated the direction the headstone faced and counted along the line of sixteen headstones with the carved fig leaves. The sixteenth was short; I found it when my knee slammed into the stone. Hobbling around the grave in pain I debated whether or not to curse. Best not to defile the hallowed ground with my cursing. Better to grab the charcoal and paper from my bag, and get the rubbing.

The moon hid behind a cloud and without my torch I couldn’t verify that the inscription read John Link. A glance at my illuminated watch said I had a couple of minutes. The cloud drifted by until the moon’s light shone on the marker and lit up the inscription—John Link—with no dates or other clues to give more information. Other than his name the marble stone was smooth. I felt my anger rekindle.

Before leaving for the cemetery I had searched John Link on the Internet, both alive and dead. My search came up with a hedge fund manager in Iowa, a photographer in South Africa, an offer for a subscription to an ancestor-search site, and a billion-and-a-half other hits for John and Link. No luck there. No clues here. He had probably been Mum’s lover and the reason she had often left me, with no explanation, in the middle of the night. Anger and curiosity had outweighed common sense and here I wandered, alone.

After removing the charcoal and a piece of parchment paper from my bag, and at precisely two in the morning, I crouched down and pressed the parchment against the cold stone bearing John Link’s name. I looked skywards and said, Here’s for you, Mother.

I held the charcoal and made one stroke across the paper when a deep shout broke the calm night air. The suddenness of the sound caused my arm to jerk sideways. Losing my balance, I toppled and fell onto the dewy grass. The shout had been close, a man’s voice with an accent—maybe Russian. Another cry pierced the air and I clamored behind John Link’s small headstone and curled myself into as little a ball as possible to keep myself from being seen. Unable to see anyone around me I feared the whites of my eyes might spotlight my location. A fearful moan wavered in my throat and I covered my mouth to stop my trembling from turning verbal.

I ventured a peek between the headstones and saw the soft light of a lantern held by a man. The light illuminated an ivy-covered gazebo with a distance of fifteen to twenty meters away from me. At least two men stood next to the gazebo. Between the grave markers, I could barely see them walking about. I remained still, grateful my torch light had gone out and afraid of calling attention to myself if I moved.

A male voice with an English clip to his words yelled, I’ve tried everything.

I didn’t understand the response, but it came from a different person.

It will not work, said a man, who sounded Russian or Northern European. His voice was gritty and harsh. No, he said, followed by a slap to someone’s face, and then two more strikes, along with weak pleas and whimpering that came from the person being struck.

If I moved away from my position by the marker I’d put myself in danger. I could sit there and listen to the horror by the gazebo, or if I stayed low and knelt down I might at least complete Mum’s wish so I never had to come back again. This obsessive compulsion to get this rubbing just might get me killed. I peered between the lines of markers to where the men stood. Their backs were turned towards me and they looked extremely busy punching their victim. I took advantage of that and moved into a kneeling position, held up the charcoal and paper to the stone, and then caught sight of something that stopped me. Intense fear migrated through me. I shivered, not daring to move.

A light flickered next to John Link’s grave—so fleeting I didn’t know for sure what I saw. The light lifted from the ground and grew in intensity. It was not a torch. A torch doesn’t wear shimmering garments. The translucent fabric swirled and brushed the tops of the grass. A jolt of panic froze me in place with charcoal and paper held in mid-air. My panic prevented me from looking up to see what or who the swirling material covered. In the moment I blinked—it vanished. My mouth formed into a scream. Zoe. No. My scream caught in my chest as someone grabbed the shoulder strap of my purse, crossed it over my mouth to stifle my scream, and rolled me behind a tall grave marker. Before I could give a muffled yell, a masculine voice whispered in my ear, Quiet, or it’ll be the end of us both.

I wriggled to get free, trying to look beyond the blackness around me.

Zoe, stop struggling. You know me, we’ve had several English Lit classes together.

I continued to try and remove my hands, which were caught by his.

My name’s John, he whispered. I’m not going to hurt you.

My first thought: that’s what all the criminals say. I kicked my feet, aiming for his shin. I kicked something that felt like muscle and bone, probably a knee.

Ugh, he said.

I must have hurt him. Through clenched teeth, he whispered, If the men by the pavilion hear us, they’ll kill us both.

I held still.

He said, Please…look at me. You’ll recognize me.

My captor’s face was inches from my own, too close to see his face clear enough to recognize him. Did he say he went to university with me? He had the same dark hair and lean muscular build of a student I had noticed in class last term. But I wasn’t sure and had never heard his name. He could be here with those beating the man by the pavilion. There was a slight loosening of his hold on my hands. As soon as I noticed I pulled my right arm free, but he was too quick and gripped my arm.

Do you want to die?

I stopped squirming and shook my head, my mind in a turbulent whirlwind of trying to digest the events happening around me. The men by the pavilion, a being that wore shimmering fabric, and this guy—busy cemetery. John seemed to be the safest alternative if I indeed knew him.

A nice-looking bloke, who blended into the night with his black hair, black-leather jacket and navy denims, scooted in front of me. The fingers on his left hand gripped my purse strap that held me fast. I thought about trying to escape right then, but his smile grew visible in the waning moonlight and made me pause.

Don’t you recognize me?

My purse strap still covered my mouth, catching my drool, but I nodded and voiced a soft moan. I recognized him from Oxford. He was the bonnie lad that a classmate had tried to find out about. She had tried to talk to him once. She said he had rounded the corner in front of her and disappeared. Now he appears out of nowhere? Mysterious.

Near the pavilion, a man continued to plead for his life.

John whispered in my ear, When I uncover your mouth, stay quiet. If those blokes hear us we’re dead.

I nodded. He was definitely the safest alternative to the men doing the torturing by the gazebo. John shook my purse strap—with a tug it unwound—releasing me as his hostage. Able to move again, I glanced around to see if any signs of that strange light remained. I saw nothing but granite markers and gnarled trees. Disappointed, I grabbed the saliva-soaked strap and put it over my shoulder. John set a finger to his mouth, signaling me to be quiet and tipped his head towards the car park.

Holding up the charcoal and parchment, with desperation I whispered, I need to finish this rubbing. It’s for my mum. He shook his head, took my arm and pulled me off the ground and towards the path. I saw he had a noticeable limp.

But… I pulled back from him. His hand gripped my arm tighter. Disheartened, I put the charcoal and paper back in my bag and sauntered along beside him, his hand still gripping my arm.

When we arrived at my car, he grabbed the keys from my hand and began to climb into the driver’s seat. I grasped his arm in protest and asked, What about your car? At the same time several gunshots barked through the trees. I jumped in alarm. He raised his eyebrows at me. Sufficiently motivated, I put the thoughts of the apparition and the rubbing into the back of my mind, ran to the passenger-side door, and scrambled inside.

Without giving him any directions, he weaved the car through the narrow country lanes to Brightly Manor, the home I grew up in and now stayed. The car purred while we waited for the heavy iron gate to swing open and allow entrance to the property. I hadn’t said a word since hearing the gunshots. My mouth was dry and my body trembled.

How do you know where I live? My voice sounded weak. I felt safe enough, with one scream the staff would come running. A cook, several housekeepers, a gardener, and their families all lived on site.

His eyes turned my way and in a reassuring voice he said, We’ll get inside and make you something to calm your nerves. I think you’re in a bit of shock.

I nodded. The glowing fabric, the man being beaten, the gunshots and this guy coming out of nowhere—of course I was in shock. What’s your last name?

Link. John Link.

The grave said John Link. Confused, I asked, Can you show me your ID?

He put the car in park and pulled a burgundy coloured passport out of his jacket pocket. That’s convenient, I said.

He smiled. I figured you’d ask.

Sure enough, the British passport had his photo and name. How can you also be a John Link?

A distant relative.

This sounded reasonable, but didn’t explain everything. But you knew him? You can tell me about him? He remained quiet and studied my face. Irritated, I said, It can’t be a coincidence that your name is the same as the one on that grave.

He paused, and then said again, Let’s get you inside.

The shock and the frustration made me feel faint. What had my mum got me involved in? I didn’t want to pass out next to this strange guy and decided to delay my questioning until we were safe inside my home.

He put the car back in gear, entered the gateway, and followed the stone driveway past the helipad, past the pond, circled around the pool house, and chose a covered parking spot closest to the back kitchen door. He pulled the car in and turned off the engine. Fifteen minutes later we sat in the lounge where I sipped a cup of tea, which tasted like John had added something extra. The liquid burned my throat, but calmed my shaking hands and legs.

I studied the guy pacing the room. He looked to be late twenties in age with an agile physique. His perceptive, green eyes were lined with dark lashes. He had a straight nose and an air of aristocracy. He picked up a photo of my parents—the last one taken before my father died. Expressions of sadness, pain, and anger crossed John’s face while he held the photo. He placed the photo back on the table, almost reverently. The picture next to it held my mum and a group of friends she had known most of her life, which she affectionately referred to as the Blue Bloods. But only one of them had attended her funeral—a beautiful and lanky, black woman whom I called Aunt Phoebe.

John pointed to the photo, Did any of them come to your mother’s funeral?

I stared at him in surprise. Just Aunt Phoebe.

His head turned, rather quick, to look at me. I too had been amazed by the lack of respect Mum’s friends had shown by their no-show.

I watched him. His speech and mannerisms implied he came from money. I tried to make sense of Mum’s dying wish in relation to his presence at the graveyard, but my mind was too foggy to connect anything. How do you know my mum?

John walked to the sofa and sat next to me. His chest rose, taking a deep breath. She left me with a heavy charge, a family obligation customary for parents to reveal. His eyebrows creased together and he wrung his hands.

What…? I asked. Financial obligations? They would be better discussed with my brother—maybe at a more reasonable hour.

Finances? No, this isn’t about finances. He paused before he continued. And your brother, Shaw, this can’t ever be discussed with him.

Shaw? Why? I grew agitated.

He can’t know.

Maybe he already knows.

I looked into that already and he can never know. Annoyance marred his face.

I stood up and glared down at him. No knowledge of what? You need to speak less cryptic, because without knowing what this is about I won’t agree to not tell my brother. He’s all the family I have left.

He stood up. The frustration left his face and he smiled. Before I’m able to speak less cryptic to you, you need to give me your word, make a covenant with me. I need to know you’ll never tell anyone, including Shaw, the information I tell you. His eyes pleaded with mine.

Covenant? I asked, thinking, what was this, 1000 BC? Other than a bloke who saved my life and was in my English class, I don’t know who you are or why you were at the cemetery, and what you have to do with my mother.

John took my cup and put it down on the side table. He then took both my hands in his. His hands were calloused and icy cold. His smile vanished and the seriousness in his eyes connected with mine like a steel hook. All you need to know is that I was a friend of your mum’s and sent by her to keep you safe, and for Shaw’s safety and your own, you must promise you’ll never tell him, or anyone else, anything I’m about to tell you.

The night had been long. From a man getting shot, to the mysterious and shimmering fabric, to this dark-haired stranger telling me to trust him about an ominous secret I couldn’t tell anyone, including my brother, all culminating with the inability to fulfill Mum’s wish—I had had enough. I pulled my hands away and stepped back.

No. If it’s not safe for Shaw to know, it’s not safe for me to know. All I wanted was to find out about the man in that grave and why Mum’s last message to me involved getting that rubbing. But if my dead parents were involved in something crazy like a cult, I don’t want to know about it. I pointed to the door. You had better leave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but instead he looked at the floor. I almost felt bad for him.

John, thanks for saving me from a mugging at the graveyard, but you need to leave. I turned around and picked up my mobile phone from the table. I’m going to ring the police and report the shooting.

Don’t do that, he said, rather loudly.

Why not? Surprised by his reaction I held my phone ready to dial.

No one need know you were there. It’s dangerous.

But I’m a witness.

He breathed in deeply. I’ll handle it. No one should ever know you were there tonight. No one.

Maybe it was his green eyes and handsome face that caused me to not question his behavior. Or maybe I was too tired to think clearly, but I found myself agreeing with him. Fine, I said, I won’t say anything. Though I’d probably regret it tomorrow.

He smiled again, softening the intensity in his eyes. He walked towards the door and grabbed his black leather jacket on the way. At the door he stopped to slip his arms into the jacket. Will you be back at university this term? he asked.

No, I said. I withdrew and took a leave. I need to stay here until Shaw comes to help with the estate and that could be weeks away. As an afterthought, I added, But I won’t say anything to him.

He nodded, "I’ll give you some time to think about the fact that your mum wanted me to talk to you."

I’ll think about it and maybe I’ll be back at that grave next month. But don’t get your hopes up.

My hopes are already up. Cheerio. He smiled and walked outside.

I closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a second before I threw the door back open and stepped outside. How was he going to get wherever he needed to go? The Bentley remained where he parked it. I glanced around the moonlit courtyard—empty. I listened to the silence of the night and realized I had no way of contacting this mysterious John Link with his cold hands and sudden appearances and disappearances.

I pulled the door shut and noticed a smudge of charcoal residue on the back of my hand. My finger wiped at the blackness as I thought about John’s appearance after the rubbing and after the bright light. Had he appeared because of the rubbing? Was he a spirit? A dismissive, high-pitched laugh sprang from my throat. What about the shimmering fabric that floated above the ground? The laugh stopped and I shook my head to try and clear my thoughts—I didn’t believe in that rubbish. I believed death was final, the end, bon voyage, the time your body was waylaid by earth, buried as a reminder for the living to live more meaningful lives. I pictured the windy hilltop near my home with a granite marker that announced my parents were gone forever and I was alone. Moisture bubbled in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I did have Shaw, my elder brother by a decade, who lived in South Africa and rarely came home, even for a holiday. So, basically, I was alone—alone with my internal ghosts. I wiped the tears from my face. My body needed sleep. It had just gone half past four in the morning and my thoughts sounded a bit hysterical as they bounced around inside my skull. I turned around and wandered to my room. I determined that if John wasn’t a spirit he’d have a long walk to his destination.

Chapter 2

BRIGHTLY MANOR

When Kathryn had become too sick to continue training John, and with only one week left to complete his mission, Zoe had arrived home. She had been everywhere he needed to be, hovering alongside her mother’s deathbed, pacing through the halls, wandering about on the grounds. Why she didn’t take a drive in one of their fancy Bentleys and get off the property long enough for him to complete his task had perturbed him. Zoe was the one person who could destroy their years of work.

Because of his stint at Oxford to keep an eye on her, John’s assignment would have come to a halt with a simple eye-to-eye glance between them at her home. Seeing him in class and then at home she would have recognized him and thought he was some sort of stalker. Her arrival had certainly complicated his mission. By the time Zoe had arrived, her mother was no longer in any condition to talk to her.

With her mother dead and buried and Zoe not returning to university, it had rendered him unable to investigate and search their property freely. Zoe had created an impossible situation for him to find what he needed in order to complete his assignment. When his superiors had reevaluated his mission they decided for him not only to observe Zoe, but also to get to know her enough to regain full access to Brightly Manor. He had chosen the time to introduce her to the basics behind her legacy when she went to find John Link’s grave. He thought he had chosen the most suitable place to teach her. That had been a bit dodgy; they could have both been killed. To further complicate matters his gut told him she thought he was a spirit. Blimey. He didn’t know if that idea would further delay his mission or do the opposite. Either way, he had one month left to convince her.

The morning after rescuing her he woke up late. He felt like a certified stalker sleeping in the woods outside her home, but it was necessary to keep her safe. He had slept in a comfortable grassy spot he found situated next to a gurgling spring. The spring ran through the wilderness area outside the perimeter of the tended gardens near her house. Angry with himself for waking up late, he brushed the leaves out of his hair and rushed to get into position on the grounds closer to her home, hoping she hadn’t left the property yet.

The country house was positioned near the center of the family land that spread over sloping knolls, golden wheat fields, and tree-covered wilderness that still included more than 500 hectares. The Edevane family and their descendants had lived here since 1175. The residence had started as a gatehouse and a hall built from wood, with a keep to observe the surrounding lands. After a fire destroyed the hall, they rebuilt using only stone from the surrounding countryside and added ramparts and battlements to create a formidable fortress with a keep tall enough to watch over the vast distances. The original crenels and merlons of the battlements still adorned the roofline across the manor and the cloistered section in front of the main doorway.

Their wealth grew, and so did the house to include additional cloisters and floor to ceiling paned windows with views of the ponds and manicured shrubs and gardens. In the gardens assorted plants and flowers grew. They included red and yellow roses, yellow honeysuckle and bright dahlias, fresh herbs and vibrant green and blue evergreens. In the last 250 years they added a three-tiered decorative fountain on each corner of the court at the rear of the manor with statues of knights and