The Standing Stone on the Moor (The Talbot Saga) by Allie Cresswell
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Book details:
Book Title: The Standing Stone on the Moor
Series: Talbot Saga Book #3 (can be read as a standalone)
Author: Allie Cresswell
Publication Date: 20th June 2025
Publisher: Allie Cresswell Limited
Pages: 531
@alliecresswell @cathie.dunn1 @thecoffeepotbookclub
@allienovelist @thecoffeepotbookclub
Yorkshire, 1845.
Folklore whispers that they used to burn witches at the standing stone on the moor. When the wind is easterly, it wails a strange lament. History declares it was placed as a marker, visible for miles—a signpost for the lost, directing them towards home.
Forced from their homeland by the potato famine, a group of itinerant Irish refugees sets up camp by the stone. They are met with suspicion by the locals, branded as ‘thieves and ne’er-do-wells.’ Only Beth Harlish takes pity on them, and finds herself instantly attracted to Ruairi, their charismatic leader.
Beth is the steward of nearby manor Tall Chimneys—a thankless task as the owners never visit. An educated young woman, Beth feels restless, like she doesn’t belong. But somehow ‘home’—the old house, the moor and the standing stone—exerts an uncanny magnetism. Thus Ruairi’s great sacrifice—deserting his beloved Irish homestead to save his family—resonates strongly with her.
Could she leave her home to be with him? Will he even ask her to?
As she struggles with her feelings, things take a sinister turn. The peaceable village is threatened by shrouded men crossing the moor at night, smuggling contraband from the coast. Worse, the exotic dancing of a sultry-eyed Irishwoman has local men in a feverish grip. Their womenfolk begin to mutter about spells and witchcraft. And burning.
The Irish refugees must move on, and quickly. Will Beth choose an itinerant life with Ruairi? Or will the power of ‘home’ be too strong?
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Beth walked quickly along the drive as though, were she fast enough, she might glimpse the ghosts of her childhood. She passed around the north wing of the house to where a cobbled enclosure connected the kitchens to the stables, smoke house and other ancillary buildings, and there stopped abruptly.
A man stood by the water trough with his back to her. He was stripped to the waist; his grubby shirt hung from the pump handle. His shoulders were wide set and corded with sinew and muscle, the skin tanned. His back was long, tapering to the waist. He stood immobile, as though petrified by some enchantment, a carved statue that—impossibly—she had never noticed before. The voices she thought she’d heard were silenced. Beth dashed her arm across her eyes and shook her head to dispel the fancy because while surely the ghosts and visions she had invoked were only that—whims and daydreams—this was a solid, breathing, flesh-and-blood man.
Something about her action broke the spell. As though released, the man bent and submerged his head and upper torso in the cold water, coming up again gasping, scrubbing at his face, neck and body with a piece of soap before dousing himself again, shaking his head to dislodge the water from his thick, black hair.
Then a woman emerged from the kitchen door. Beth recognised her. It was Aoife, the Irish dancer, but dressed now in a sober skirt and modest blouse with a thick knitted wrap tied close across her body against the chill morning air. Her long, lustrous hair was bound back, tamed by a strip of material. She carried two mugs which added their steam to the vapour that still lingered, and beneath her arm was a bundle of linen.
Aoife saw Beth and stopped abruptly, slopping the tea over the sides of the mugs.
The man, following Aoife’s gaze, turned. Unwilling to look and yet absolutely unable to look away, Beth forced her eyes to his face. Dark brows over blue eyes. A strong nose and wide, passionate mouth. His jaw and chin were shadowed; he needed a shave. It was Ruairi Connolly, the leader of the Irish folk. Although they were the intruders, unaccountably present at Tall Chimneys having opened the gates and gained access to the kitchen—Beth could by no means explain this circumstance to herself—it was Beth who blushed, who felt as though she trespassed.
‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ she stammered, turning to leave.
The two interlopers looked at one another, some agreement passing between them. Aoife handed Ruairi the linen—a clean shirt—and Ruairi began to pull it on.
‘Oh, but Miss Harlish,’ said Aoife with tooth-jarring sweetness, placing the cups on the edge of the trough and coming across the cobbles, ‘it is we who must apologise. What must you think of us? And you’re as white as a sheet, as though you’d seen a ghost!’
She guided Beth towards an old mounting block and bid her sit on it. ‘I’ll fetch you tea. They say it’s good for shock. And then we’ll explain everything. Your brother—’
‘Frank is here?’ Beth got out.
‘Of course he is!’ Aoife laughed, musically but not very authentically. ‘You do not imagine we’d have the gall to make free without him?’
Allie has been writing fiction since she could hold a pencil. She has a BA and an MA in English Literature, specialising in the classics of the nineteenth century.
She has been a print-buyer, a pub landlady, a bookkeeper and the owner of a group of boutique holiday cottage but nowadays she writes full time.
She has two grownup children, five grandchildren and two cockapoos but just one husband, Tim. They live in the remote northwest of the UK.
The Standing Stone on the Moor is her sixteenth novel.
Author Links:
Website:https://www.allie-cresswell.com/
Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/allienovelist/
Amazon Author Page:https://amzn.to/3GAaPXw
Tour hosted by: The Coffee Pot Book Club
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