a/n: This fic takes place over the course of eight days, from Monday 19th April, 1926 to the next Tuesday. This first chapter is a little more angsty than the rest.

Apologies to Flannery O'Connor—I borrowed from the title of her short story "The Life you Save May Be Your Own."

Monday, 19th April, 1926

"It's still strange, looking back. They didn't know what to make of me." Tom Branson stared unseeing as memories swirled. "But their beloved youngest daughter was suddenly gone, and even if the only thing they saw in my favour was that I'd fathered their first grandchild, they knew Sybil had loved me, and … somehow, we muddled through to where we are now." He shook his head, grinning faintly, as if even now he didn't quite believe it, and drank a long draught from his pint glass.

Tom looked across the small pub table and focused fully on Henry Talbot, his brother in law and new business partner. Henry had been uncharacteristically quiet as Tom wandered down memory lane, and he simply crinkled his eyes in a silent smile of support as Tom regarded him.

"That's the short version, anyway. I've got to be heading to Downton. Mary and I have a meeting with a man about some sheep." He grinned broadly this time, comfortable in his own skin, and raised his glass, tilting it towards Henry.

"I've got to get going too, back to the shop," said Henry, taking several mouthfuls in quick succession to finish off his shepherd's pie. "But—" He held up his hand asking Tom to wait until he could speak properly.

Tom waited patiently. He was a fast eater and was accustomed to his brother-in-law's ways by now.

Before long Henry was done and he raised his beer with a flourish, nodding for Tom to follow suit. "Let us toast, just one more time," his blue eyes bright with delight. Tom joined in, "To Talbot and Branson Motors' first sale!"

Setting down his now empty glass, Tom stood up decisively. "Alright, I'm off. See you at dinner."

Henry nodded, drinking the last of his beer as he watched Tom walk out the back door. The Rose & Crown pub was around the corner from their business and both gave onto a service alley at the rear, where Tom and Henry parked their own cars.

Henry stood up, stacking their plates and taking them with the empty glasses to the end of the bar. As he bid farewell to the landlord, he was surprised to see Tom coming back in, a question on his face and a puppy in his arms.

"Mr Botham, d'you know anything about this little chap? He was curled up in a sunny corner of your yard."

"Only the one? There's two more around somewhere, and their mother …" Botham frowned, shaking his head. "I haven't seen their mother for a couple of days."

As Tom stroked the puppy's head, the landlord continued, "She's a stray, my cellar man has been feeding her scraps." He smiled ruefully. "We all have really, for months, and she gave birth to them in our storage shed out the back there. It's no place for them to live, but my wife won't have them in the flat upstairs." He explained, "Mrs Botham got bitten by a dog when she was a young'un, scarred for life, and can't abide being near dogs. I understand, I do, but Lassie's such a sweetie, wouldn't hurt a—"

"Lassie?" asked Henry, as the puppy extended his neck out so Henry could better scratch beneath his chin.

Botham shrugged. "We had to call her something. She's a black lab mixed with something else, more slender than a true Labrador, with just a touch of white on her right front paw. That pup," He pointed at the furry bundle in Tom's arms, "is her spitting image." He sighed. "I fear she's been hit by one of those maniacs who think they're racing car drivers," he paused, looking uncertainly at Henry. "Begging your pardon, sir—"

Henry interrupted, waving the man's concern away. "No, I know exactly what you mean. Forty miles an hour in these city streets is madness."

Botham continued, "I haven't found her … ah … seen any sign of her … but she may have dragged herself, injured, into another yard, another alley."

And died. He didn't say it, but they were all thinking it.

Henry looked at Tom.

Botham sighed again. "And the pups are missing her. They're weaned, so they're not starving, but I don't know what to do. I can't keep them here."

Tom looked at Henry.

Suddenly Henry sprang into action. "We have to find the other two. Mr Botham, do you have a box we could use? They can't have gone far, can they?"

Botham replied, "No, they don't usually venture out into the alley. They're likely hiding amongst the empty crates."

§ § § § § § § § §

A short while later, Henry was attempting to brush off his trousers and realizing they needed more attention than his bare hands could provide. He'd had to stretch out flat on the grimy cobblestones, reaching carefully in and around the slats of the empty wooden bottle crates to retrieve the puppies. As he rolled down his shirt sleeves and re-buttoned the cuffs, he watched Tom crouching over a sturdy carton that used to hold whisky bottles. Botham had donated an old towel for padding, and the puppies were now cuddled safely together.

Henry strolled over to peer into the carton and Tom stood up, looking quizzically at him. "So, do you have a plan beyond putting them all in a comfy box?"

Henry laughed, tossing back his head. "You're the practical one, Tom, what do you suggest?"

"Well, I'll take them back with me and, I suppose, find a temporary home for them." Tom raised his eyebrows, adding, "After all, we're real second hand car dealers now, how hard can it be?"

"That's the spirit!" While Tom climbed into the driver's seat, Henry picked up the precious cargo and gently settled the carton on the passenger side. He made sure to latch the door then patted it for good measure.

§ § § § § § § § §

After meeting with Mr Robson at Willow Tree Farm to find out how the lambing was going, Tom drove Mary back to the big house. He dropped her off at the front door, then drove around the back to the garages. From there he went in the back door, into the servants' domain. Formerly his world too.

The early evening kitchen bustle was in full swing, but as he'd hoped, the housekeeper was in her room. Mrs Carson, as he insisted on addressing her. He didn't see why the others seemed to find her name change so hard to handle. With an eye to her approaching retirement, she was gradually training up Miss Baxter, but Mrs Carson was still in charge for now. He'd been trying to get her to call him Tom, with only limited success thus far.

The housekeeper looked up from her accounts ledger when Tom knocked on her partly open door. Her eyes brightened, in fact her whole face lit up, at the sight of him shouldering the door open, clutching a whisky carton close to his chest. The young man had a special place in her heart. "Mr Bran—" she stopped, finger in the air, and corrected herself. "Tom," she emphasized. "What's all this then? You're not going into the liquor trade now, as well as cars, are you?" The smile evident in her voice, she continued, "you need to talk to Mr Barrow, not me, if you're trying to flog some whisky."

"No, not at all. I'm not 'flogging', as you say, anything. I'm here, as usual, for your wise counsel."

"You flatterer," she bantered. "You take the Irishman out of Ireland, but you canna tek the blarney out of the Irishman." Somehow, these days when she talked with Tom Branson, her Scottish accent always became a wee bit thicker.

He bent down, putting the whisky carton on the floor, then straightened up and stood back, giving Elsie a clear view of the contents. She leaned forward, hands on her thighs, then rose and hurried over to crouch beside the box. "Oh, the poor wee dears!" She looked up at Tom. "Where are they from?" For all she knew, they could have been abandoned somewhere on the estate. Whether the person responsible was ignorant or intentionally cruel, the end result was often the same.

"Our local, in York. They're strays, really. The people at the pub have been looking out for them, except now their mother's gone missing and the landlord can't keep them."

"Oh, the poor wee dears." Mrs Carson knew she was repeating herself, but she'd had a soft spot for puppies ever since growing up on the croft in Argyll. Her father, a stern and taciturn Scot, always tried to keep his daughters from coddling the sheepdogs and their pups—"they're not house pets, they have to work for their living" was a common refrain of his—but she'd seen him sneaking them table scraps and fondling their velvety ears. She'd inherited the warm heart for animals her father had striven to hide, however she was a lot less reluctant than he to show her true colors. Tom Branson knew her nature. It was not by chance he had brought the puppies to Mrs Carson.

Tom knew he had her on the hook, and it was time to start reeling her in. That sounded more calculated than it really was: he had tried other places before coming back to the big house, but felt secure in the knowledge that if they didn't pan out, Mrs Carson would not fail him. No matter what fate threw at her, she always managed to find solutions.

"I thought Mr Robson at Willow Tree would be able to take them on, but he's had a ewe die giving birth and three sets of triplets born as well as several pairs of twins, so they have their hands full caring for all those tiny lambs." Mrs Carson understood, he could see. "In fact I'm going back after dinner to help him out. His wife is away looking after her sick mother and his labourer broke his leg last week. Anyway, then I thought of Mr Mason. Although he's a pig specialist, he has a heart as soft as a Scottish summer day is long." Maybe the blarney was working a little overtime, but Tom didn't feel he was exaggerating—at least not much.

Mrs Carson decided not to tease him and simply nodded, saying, "I have no doubt he would care for them well, and gladly, but he's off with Mrs Patmore, visiting her sister." Mrs Carson had a distinct feeling the cook and the pig farmer would come back from that visit engaged to be married; she had read the signs and knew that Mr Mason, unlike her husband, was a man of action. Love him dearly though she did, Elsie was sure there were glaciers that moved faster than Charlie Carson had in his personal life.

Tom put his hands into his trouser pockets and waited while Mrs Carson worked through the options.

"Well, they can't stay in the house. Only the family's animals are permitted." Quite apart from that rule, she didn't relish the prospect of leaving unhousetrained pups overnight in her room. And with all the comings and goings downstairs during the long working day, they would likely get underfoot, which simply would not do.

"What about the tack room in the stables? That can be secured so they'll be safe." Elsie looked up, hopeful she'd solved the immediate problem.

"Good idea, but it's in the midst of being repaired and repainted after the incident with Spirit, so it's not usable." Spirit was Lady Mary's horse. He had decided he didn't want to have his shoes replaced, and kicked out violently to make the point. Fortunately he'd hit the fairly flimsy wall of the tack room rather than the farrier, and equally fortunately Spirit hadn't injured himself.

"Ah, yes … And the laundry's not possible. I can't bring myself to go in there until the drains are fixed, so we can't put these wee ones in there." They were having to send out the washing to a woman in the village until the plumbing was put to rights; something in the pipes was making the laundry room smell like a fetid swamp.

Mrs Carson thought some more, then looked up at Tom. The glint in her eye told him she'd settled on a satisfactory solution.

TBC

a/n: This is set in late April 1926, because it had to be spring. I'd like to think, however, it wouldn't have taken several months for Talbot and Branson Motors to make their first sale.

As you see, Tom Branson and I like to call Elsie by her married name, but some people will still call her "Mrs Hughes" in the fic, because, well, they do.

Never fear, Carson fans! He features majorly in the next chapter.