Publisher's Weekly Review
Gabaldon has few rivals in writing excitingand heftyhistorical 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 Fraserputting 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 lifeor, rather, rich and moral livesunder 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. Major ad/promo; Literary Guild and Doubleday Book Club featured alternates; author tour. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Library Journal Review
Fourth in a series (e.g., Outlander, LJ 7/91), with at least two more titles planned, this novel continues Gabaldon's successful time travel/romance saga. Set mostly in the years 1767-1770 but with some scenes in the "present" (the late 1960s), this fantasy features 20th-century Englishwoman Claire and her 18th-century Scottish husband, Jamie, who struggle to set up a home in the wilds of the American South. Their grown daughter, Brianna, comes from the present to seek her parents and is followed by her would-be lover, Roger. In a work that will be eagerly sought by readers of her previous novels, Gabaldon continues to explore the themes of love, marriage, and family through time. Though reading the entire series would be best, first-time readers can generally follow with a minimum of confusion. Sites on the World Wide Web already have chapters and discussion areas for this book, so be prepared. Gabaldon truly delivers.-Rebecca Sturm Kelm, Northern Kentucky Univ. Lib., Highland Heights (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
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." From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpted from Drums of Autumn by Diana Gabaldon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
