Shortly after Anne Taft arrived at the Magnolia Arms, an advice column — “Dear Mrs. Pontefract”— appeared in the Dennisonville Chronicle. Because there were no Pontefracts in town— “Mrs.” or otherwise—the feature, which became an overnight success, was the cause of endless speculation.

On the morning the column first appeared, retirees and night shift workers, drinking coffee before daybreak at Newman’s Restaurant, debated how to say, “Pontefract.”

“Bert,” Tom Shaw said, turning on his stool at the counter, “how do you say that name?”

“Just like it looks,” Bert Crumm said. “Pahn-tuh-frakt.”

“What in the Sam Hill kind of name is that?” Tom demanded.

“British,” Bert replied, with a wry smile.

Bert worked at the Chronicle and had been assigned to Newman’s that morning—undercover—to gauge reader response.   

Meanwhile, Gibby Snow, also a Chronicle employee, was over at Warby’s, Muriel Muldoon’s restaurant, the eating place refined diners preferred. Conversation there was quieter and more subdued. Instead of calling across the room, Norma Crawford, a self-employed seamstress, slipped over to Gibby’s table and stood quietly till he looked up.

“’Morning, Miss Norma,” Gibby said, blueberry scone in hand.

“Gibby,” she said, twisting the napkin she had brought with her, “who’s this Mrs. Pon-tuh—Pon-tee—how do you say it?”

“Pontefract,” Gibby repeated deliberately. “I looked it up. It’s a town in England…in Yorkshire…they make licorice.”

“Is this Mrs. Pon…te…fract…a candymaker, too?” she asked slowly for accuracy.

“No, ma’am,” Gibby said. “At least I don’t think so. She hasn‘t said anything about licorice in any of her letters.”

“Letters?”

“They come to the office by courier or sometimes by mail.”

“Hmm,” Norma said. “Thanks, Gibby.” She took a step, paused, and turned back. “You think I could write to her? I’ve…my friend…has been having a problem with her …son-in-law.”

“That’s what she’s there for,” Gibby said, winking.

His editor, Barnaby Luther, would be pleased with this report of reader engagement.

A new feature had not been introduced into the Chronicle for as long as anyone could remember. Locals read the paper out of habit or loyalty, finding the obituaries of interest, as well as engagement announcements, and updates on the Mustangs, the high school football team. The comics and crossword puzzle were also favorites, but an advice column was a groundbreaking idea. Beyond that, when it was later discovered “Dear Mrs. Pontefract” was not syndicated, but solely a feature of the Chronicle, the revelation only added to the column’s mystique. Letters asking for advice would soon begin trickling…then pouring into the office.

So, everyone was left to wonder who this Mrs. Pontefract was, and why, of all the newspapers in the country, she had chosen to write for the Chronicle.

And why had the column begun to appear only weeks after Anne Taft moved to town, then again—come to think of it—only weeks after Nettie Burkin moved to town, and Rooney Twichell, for that matter.

Actually, anybody could be Mrs. Pontefract…even someone who had lived in Dennisonville for years.