Drums of Autumn (Outlander Series #4) by Diana Gabaldon

From the Publisher

In this breathtaking novel—rich in history and adventure—The New York Times bestselling author Diana Gabaldon continues the story of Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser that began with the now-classic novel Outlander and continued in Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager. Once again spanning continents and centuries, Diana Gabaldon has created a work of sheer passion and brilliance....

It began at an ancient Scottish stone circle. There, a doorway, open to a select few, leads into the past—or the grave. Dr. Claire Randall survived the extraordinary passage, not once but twice.

Her first trip swept her into the arms of Jamie Fraser, an eighteenth-century Scot whose love for her became a legend—a tale of tragic passion that ended with her return to the present to bear his child. Her second journey, two decades later, brought them together again in the American colonies. But Claire had left someone behind in the twentieth century—their daughter, Brianna....

Now Brianna has made a disturbing discovery that sends her to the circle of stones and a terrifying leap into the unknown. In search of her mother and the father she has never met, she is risking her own future to try to change history ... and to save their lives. But as Brianna plunges into an uncharted wilderness, a heartbreaking encounter may strand her forever in the past ... or root her in the place she should be, where her heart and soul belong....

Publishers Weekly

Gabaldon has few rivals in writing exciting-and hefty-historical romances. The fourth in a series of linked sagas (Outlander; Dragonfly in Amber; Voyager), her new epic has a delicious premise. Claire Randall, the post-WWII bride of historian Frank Randall, steps through a skew in the Scottish stone circle Craigh na Dun and lands in Revolutionary America and the arms of Highlander Jamie Fraser-putting a new spin on the notion of a two-timing woman. Bold and bawdy, but a believing Catholic, Claire struggles to live a rich and moral life-or, rather, rich and moral lives-under these extraordinary circumstances. Claire's adventures in 18th-century Charleston alternate with equally engaging chapters devoted to her 20th-century daughter, Brianna. Raised as Frank Randall's child, Bree discovers that Jamie Fraser is her real sire. She takes off on a harrowing, confrontational quest through time and space with her suitor, Roger Wakefield, in hot pursuit. Gabaldon's range is impressive, whether she's evoking the rawness of colonial America, the cozy clutter of a modern Scottish parsonage, the lusts of the body or the yearnings of the spirit. Her legion of fans will love diving into this ocean of romance.

Kirkus Reviews

A convoluted, long-winded tome from Gabaldon (Voyager, 1994, etc.), who brings back the Scottish rebel Jamie Fraser and Claire, a time-traveler from the 20th century and the love of his life, as they face the late 18th century with characteristic aplomb.

This time out, Jamie and Claire arrive in the US from Great Britain and are joined by Jamie's teenage nephew Ian. Although vividly drawn and well-developed, all three characters quickly become tangential; from the very first scene, set in Charleston in 1767, it is clear that the focus is to be not on them but on the "hot button" issues of the time: British/American tension, slavery, Indians, and impending war. There's a secondary storyline as well, which takes place in the late 20th century and involves Jamie and Claire's college-student daughter Brianna and her desperate attempts to find love in her present-day life while simultaneously striving to rejoin her mother—and Jamie, the father she has never known—in the past. Roger Wakefield, a Scottish student who helped Claire travel back in time in the previous books, is the object of Brianna's affection now; the fact that he knows about Brianna's parents' unusual situation allows him both to win her heart for eternity and also help her rejoin her loved ones, in very unusual fashion. Conflict between Claire's past and present lives is omnipresent; at various times she's forced to perform surgery (she was a doctor in 20th-century England), explain TV, and reminisce about life with the husband she had in modern times, pre- Jamie.

Ghost story, historical novel, fantasy, stock romance? In her attempt to be all things to all people, Gabaldon has created a 900- page monster with far too many components. Only for the author's most rabid fans.

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Table of Contents

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The second portrait hung on the landing of the stairs, looking thoroughly out of place. From below Brianna could see the ornate gilded frame, its heavy carving quite at odds with the solid, battered comfort of the house's other furnishings. It reminded her of pictures in museums; this homely setting seemed incongruous.

As she followed Jenny onto the landing the glare of light from the window disappeared, leaving the painting's surface flat and clear before her.

She gasped, and felt the hair rise on her forearms, under the linen of her shirt.

"It's remarkable, aye?" Jenny looked from the painting to Brianna and back again, her own features marked with something between pride and awe.

"Remarkable!" Brianna agreed, swallowing.

"Ye see why we kent ye at once," her aunt went on, laying a loving hand against the carved frame.

"Yes. Yes, I can see that."

"It will be my mother, aye? Your grandmother, Ellen MacKenzie."

"Yes," Brianna said. "I know." Dust motes stirred up by their footsteps whirled lazily through the afternoon light from the window. Brianna felt rather as though she was whirling with them, no longer anchored to reality.

Two hundred years from now, she had—I will? she thought wildly—stood in front of this portrait in the National Portrait Gallery, furiously denying the truth that it showed.

Ellen MacKenzie looked out at her now as she had then; long-necked and regal, slanted eyes showing a humor that did not quite touch the tender mouth. It wasn't a mirror image, by any means; Ellen's forehead was high, narrower thanBrianna's, and the chin was round, not pointed, her whole face somewhat softer and less bold in its features.

But the resemblance was there, and pronounced enough to be startling; the wide cheekbones and lush red hair were the same. And around her neck was the string of pearls, gold roundels bright in the soft spring sun.

"Who painted it?" Brianna said at last, though she didn't need to hear the answer. The tag by the painting in the museum had given the artist as "Unknown." But having seen the portrait of the two little boys below, Brianna knew, all right. This picture was less skilled, an earlier effort—but the same hand had painted that hair and skin.

"My mother herself," Jenny was saying, her voice filled with a wistful pride. "She'd a great hand for drawing and painting. I often wished I had the gift."

Brianna felt her fingers curl unconsciously, the illusion of the brush between them momentarily so vivid she could have sworn she felt smooth wood.

That's where, she thought, with a small shiver, and heard an almost audible click! of recognition as a tiny piece of her past dropped into place. That's where I got it.

Frank Randall had joked that he couldn't draw a straight line; Claire that she drew nothing else. But Brianna had the gift of line and curve, of light and shadow—and now she had the source of the gift, as well.

What else? she thought suddenly. What else did she have that had once belonged to the woman in the picture, to the boy with the stubborn tilt to his head?

"Ned Gowan brought me this from Leoch," Jenny said, touching the frame with a certain reverence. "He saved it, when the English battered down the castle, after the Rising." She smiled faintly. "He's a great one for family, Ned is. He's a Lowlander from Edinburgh, wi' no kin of his own, but he's taken the MacKenzies for his clan—even now the clan's no more."

"No more?" Brianna blurted. "They're all dead?" The horror in her voice made Jenny glance at her, surprised.

"Och, no. I didna mean that, lass. But Leoch's gone," she added, in a softer tone. "And the last chiefs with it—Colum and his brother Dougal ... they died for the Stuarts."

She had known that, of course; Claire had told her. What was surprising was the sudden rush of an unexpected grief; regret for these strangers of her newfound blood. With an effort, she swallowed the thickening in her throat and turned to follow Jenny up the stairs.

"Was Leoch a great castle?" she asked. Her aunt paused, hand on the banister.

"I dinna ken," she said. Jenny glanced back at Ellen's picture, something like regret in her eyes.

"I never saw it—and now it's gone."