Sweet Williams
Had a profoundly worried Fred not insisted on taking him on a stroll near the stationery shop, that next Saturday after tea, the encounter never would have happened.
Some form of divine intervention had barred Scrooge and his companions from the house of Countess Fairweather, despite continued invitations from the grand dam (the Fabrays were busy, another fundraiser required their attention, little Mary Fabray was sick at home). But the encounter had not left Scrooge's mind. He did not plan or plot or intrigue: his mind simply appeared resolved to linger upon the moment, reliving it once and again.
With such material causes for worry, the shadow upon Scrooge's soul had lifted considerably, but in a remarkably ironic turn of fate, it was his disposition now which became the cause for concern.
So, there Scrooge was, standing in wait of Fred outside a shop he'd refused to enter, watching passersby and hackneys, and the occasional enthusiastic child, amidst the snow-and-sludge. He craned his neck to follow a particularly fine hackney horse down the street, and his line of sight moved sideways to happen upon a slight figure, wrapped in a worn brown shawl, making her way out of a shop two doors down.
Belle.
Over fourty years I wondered after her, and suddenly I see her twice within the same month with no effort on my part whatsoever. If Jacob could but pause his wanderings for a moment, he'd surely be laughing uproariously at him.
Belle wound her way through the crowd walking against her with surprising agility, basket in hand. She'd emerged from the milliner's, so she was perhaps picking up something for her mistress.
Before reason caught up to them, Scrooge's feet had wound their way around the crowd, towards her.
"Miss Belle." Somehow, she heard him over the din of footsteps, hoof steps and people. She bowed, basket and boxes close to her chest.
"Ebenezer."