Drums of Autumn

Mass Market Paperback | November 10, 1997

byDiana Gabaldon

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It began in Scotland, at an ancient stone circle.  There, a doorway, open to a select few, leads into the past--or the grave.  Claire Randall survived the extraordinary passage, not once buy twice.  Her first trip swept her into the arms of Jamie Fraser, an eighteenth-century Scot whose love for her became 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 frontier America.  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 stone circle 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...

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From the Publisher

It began in Scotland, at an ancient stone circle.  There, a doorway, open to a select few, leads into the past--or the grave.  Claire Randall survived the extraordinary passage, not once buy twice.  Her first trip swept her into the arms of Jamie Fraser, an eighteenth-century Scot whose love for her became legend--a tale of tragic pass...

Diana Gabaldon holds a master's degree in marine biology and a Ph.D. in ecology, and spent a dozen years as a university professor before turning to write fiction full-time. Her previous publishing history includes scholarly articles and comic book stories for Walt Disney, as well as the award-winning novels Outlander, Dragonfly in A...

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Format:Mass Market PaperbackDimensions:1088 pages, 6.9 × 4.21 × 1.75 inPublished:November 10, 1997Publisher:Doubleday Canada

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0770427758

ISBN - 13:9780770427757

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Read from the Book

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 than Brianna'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."

Editorial Reviews

"Drums of Autumn is Diana Gabaldon at her finest and most mesmerizing."
-Affaire de Coeur

"Passionate...remarkable--a mix of history, fantasy, romance and unabashedly ribald storytelling."
-Arizona Republic

"Wonderful...this is escapist historical fiction at its best."
-San Antonio Express-News