Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Standing Stone on the Moor"
- DK Marley
- Jul 3
- 5 min read
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
Genre: Historical Romance
The Standing Stone on the Moor
by Allie Cresswell
Blurb:
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?
Buy Links:
Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/b5P5pG
Author’s Website: www.allie-Cresswell.com
Author Bio:
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/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/alliecresswell
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/allienovelist/
Amazon Author Page: https://amzn.to/3GAaPXw
Book Excerpt:
Two rooms opened from the large general office, separated from it by a glazed partition. One, considerably the smaller, was the office allocated to Herbert. Inside it, a clerk busied himself with correspondence and filing, having ascertained by a brief glance that Herbert was absent.
The other room was occupied by Mr Somersall himself when he was in attendance at the colliery, which was by no means every day since he had other mines as well as interests in Whitby docks, and must frequently be in York or even Leeds for the pursuance of his other mercantile affairs. The office door was always kept closed and a blind pulled down over the window to hide the activity of the colliery owner from view. So, whether he worked diligently reading reports, writing letters, perusing accounts and directing affairs until the sweat stood out on his brow and the fervour of his application rendered him into a blur of industry, no one knew. Likewise, if he spent his days with his feet upon the fender, a cigar between his lips and a romantic novel in his hand, no one knew that either.
On this morning, however, no visual confirmation was required to know what passed within. The glazing of the partition absolutely quivered and quaked with the sound of Mr Somersall’s voice as he dressed down some poor underling in a deep, gruff and altogether unmusical voice, like the barking of some rough dog half strangled by a chain. His accent was broad and unashamedly Yorkshire, his language unadorned by any nicety of expression, being plain, matter-of-fact and unarguable. Unarguable in one respect, in that his lengthy soliloquies allowed for no interruption or reply; he spoke indefatigably, loudly, on and on without taking breath. Unarguable also in that he spoke in statements, in declarations, in pronouncements and decrees that asserted his own indisputable authority on all matters. Nobody was better informed, more thoroughly master, had looked into and acquainted themselves to better effect than he had—he contended. Even when he was factually incorrect—as he not infrequently was—any suggestion to that effect was proved by a misapplication of mathematics, an invention of statistics, an on-the-spot conjuring of new laws of physics, the rearrangement or even the creation of historical facts, to be erroneous.
All the men in the outer office shifted uneasily as Mr Somersall’s rant continued, for they all knew that once commenced his ire was unlikely to be satisfied with the hors d'oeuvre of a single victim but would seek richer meat, and none wished to become the hapless entrée. One of the clerks left the office altogether, carrying a bundle of documents to some unspecified location. The remaining clerks spread out a file of correspondence and pored over it with exaggerated concentration.
Mr Somersall’s diatribe sawed relentlessly on. Another five minutes, then five more ticked by on the clock.
The colliery manager made a show of consulting his pocket watch before hurriedly shrugging his coat on and walking purposefully from the room as though late for an important appointment, and the man of business was quick to follow his example when, at last, Mr Somersall’s invective seemed on the point of conclusion. The man of business succeeded in exiting the office just as Mr Somersall’s door opened and what remained of his interlocutor limped out.
It was the colliery foreman. He was white-gilled, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. One hand clenched his hat so tightly that it was a thing unrecognisable; his hand, even through its deeply ingrained grime, was white and bloodless. He reached out the other hand—trembling as though palsied—to close the door of Mr Somersall’s office and began to navigate his way between the desks, faltering here and there, dizzied and dazed by the eviscerating interview he had just endured. Stephen threw him a look loaded with sympathy and crossed the room to open the outer door, stooping as the foreman passed to murmur that he should drink some coffee and eat breakfast to restore himself before returning to the pit.
The two remaining clerks shrank even closer to their task, but it was Stephen’s name that Mr Somersall shouted from his office, so loudly that the finely-wrought instruments on Stephen’s desk shook.
‘Mr Milton!’
Stephen sighed and pulled on his coat before crossing the office and entering the sanctum of his employer.
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Thank you so much for hosting Allie Cresswell today, with an enticing excerpt from her evocative tale, The Standing Stone on the Moor. Take care, Cathie xo The Coffee Pot Book Club