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“You know I haven’t the faintest idea, he’s always been closer to his father than my sister,” Cressida’s got her own suspicions, but she’s spent enough time on the peripherals of her sister’s family and the various power plays of this world. Cress reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Blue’s fingers then takes a drag. It doesn’t count as smoking if you share it. “Frankly I’m surprised Charles hasn’t pushed hard for him to marry – heirs and what not.”

“Charlotte has always been the bolder one, I’m impressed Daphne’s standing up for herself,” a very measured, mature response from the cool aunt – she wants to know more about Daphne’s date as well. She takes a sip of her wine, tucking a strand of dark red hair behind her ear. “No, no – don’t apologize, you’re entirely right; has to be some sort of lingering side effect of growing up in this house, I’m a saint really for getting Eden and Jacob out of there.”

“My dearest darling Blue, you are so American sometimes. The Kardashians is only entertaining because they allow themselves to be dramatic and messy in public. We British are far more reserved and keep all the mess behind closed double doors. God, my first husband, Eden’s father – he was lovely, but his mother, god she was something. The things she used to say about me, particularly after he passed. I think they were related to the royal family, Eden might be in the line of succession somewhere near the tail end.” She smirks, its probably something she should look into, particularly if she's considering telling Eden the truth about her father. And in the off chance of some major disaster striking the Royal Family. "Enough about my sister's family - how have you been? How's your brother doing?"

When? 22:34p

Where? Theodosia's Garden, somewhere away from the rest of the guests.

Who? @thc-boltcr

What a lovely surprise it was to find Cressida in attendance at the Summer Soiree this evening. Was it really a surprise though? Subtle shock and excitement had taken over the brunette when she had bumped into Cressida. It was only after the hugs and kisses did Blue remember. During the afternoon by the poolside, Eden had mentioned that her mother would be joining them at the Estate. That damn memory of Blue's had always been spotty at best, throw in a couple afternoon cosmos, it was pretty much useless.

Cressida and Blue had excused themselves from rest of the guests and find somewhere more private. It was part of their ritual, what the two former sister in laws did when they reunited. Drink wine, talk shit, and share a smoke.

"Your nephew," the clear disdain in her voice meant Blue could only be talking about Hector. "And the girl with the pretty eyes... what's her name? Lila? Layla?" Blue shook her head. It wasn't important. "Whatever her name is.... seemed like they were having a pretty intense conversation over by the terrace earlier. Lovers' quarrel, maybe?" Playfully, Blue wiggled her eyebrows, before she erupted into laughter. "Seriously, is he shagging her?" she asked, pulling out her best british accent in honor of the specific word. "I hope so. Maybe regular sex would make him less of a prick."

"Don't even get me started on queen bee and the bookworm," Blue continued, using the nicknames she dubbed for the Eversley twins. "I heard that they haven't spoken in months because of that girl that Daphne brought with her. I guess Charlotte couldn't handle not being the most important blonde in her sister's life, huh?" Again, tickled by her own words, Blue laughed.

"Sorry, sorry, I know they're your sister's kids, but you have to admit how entertaining they are. All of them. They gotta take the Kardashians off of Hulu and replace it with the Eversleys." Blue took a drag of the cigarette before passing it to Cressida. "Now that's a show that will bring in ratings," she continued as she blew out the smoke.

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Of course he’s here, he’s always here, quietly tending to the land that loves him even if the people don’t. She’s asked him to leave – a few summers after her marriage to Wolfe imploded and Eden went off to college, her career sunsetting but hanging on long enough for one last triumphant season in Paris. Cressida begs Anderson to join her in that haunted house where she spent so many happy years, but he just smiles in that way of his, the one that used to drive her mad, and says he’ll be there when she’s ready to slow down.

She’s not ready. Slowing down means admitting defeat, admitting age, and resigning to living in the shadow of her perfect sister once more. She did that once, back when she first loved him in the carefree ease of their teens. She loves him and lies to him for the next thirty-three years. Now here they are, Anderson’s still quiet and steadfast and wonderful and she’s all chaos and charm and coy smiles. He holds out his hand and of course she takes it. He says one dance and she thinks of those other times where she tells herself it's just once but always ends up back in his bed and lets him truly love her for a few stolen days.

“Of course,” fingers intertwine, and his hand finds her bare back. She’s not seen him since she’s been widowed (once more), and she wonders if he sees the sadness in her eyes. She wonders if he knows she searches for traces of him in everyone else she lets get close. “I’ve missed you,” she says, looking down as if the intensity in his eyes will pull too many truths from her. “I have so much to tell you, but this isn’t the place for it – will you, I mean – “ suddenly she’s seventeen again, working up the courage to drag him back to her bedroom.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting a warm, golden hue over the Whispering Vines vineyard, the annual Sunset Soiree was in full swing. The sprawling estate was alive with the soft murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the sweet strains of live music floating through the air. Anderson Hawthorne, the head groundskeeper of the estate, wandered through the picturesque setting, his attention drawn more by familiar faces than by the festivities.

He had noticed Cressida among the guests, her presence as captivating as ever, though time had marked her differently. Beside her was her daughter, Eden, a young woman who, to Anderson's knowledge, might not be aware of his past with her mother. His heart tugged with the weight of their history, making him reluctant to intrude upon their evening. He had always respected Cressida's new life, staying at a respectful distance while cherishing the fleeting moments when their paths crossed.

After a few whiskeys had given him the courage he needed, Anderson decided to take a chance. He approached the pair cautiously, his heart pounding with both excitement and apprehension. The vineyard’s serene ambiance made the moment feel almost dreamlike, the flickering candlelight and soft melodies creating a perfect backdrop.

As he neared Cressida, Anderson felt a surge of nostalgia and longing. He took a steadying breath, reminding himself that this was just a dance—an attempt to reconnect with a piece of his past. He adjusted his jacket, smoothing his hair as he drew closer.

When he reached her, Cressida's eyes met his, and for a brief, poignant moment, it felt as though time had folded in on itself. “Cressida,” he began, his voice steady despite the nerves beneath. His gaze was soft, almost shy, as he extended his hand towards her. “Would you do me the honor of a dance? Just one dance. If that’s alright with you.” @thc-boltcr

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cressida wilder attends the sunset soirée

edge of seventeen - stevie nicks || daughter - beyoncé || that's where i am - maggie rogers || francesca - hozier || you don't own me - lesley gore

[thc-boltcr]

Everything always has to be a goddamn production around here. Cressida arches a brow at the schedule of events – fireworks display that will surlily put Disneyland to shame and invoke the ire of several neighboring village councils. Charles does love to bully the locals. The music stops, and she laughs as Jacob steals the show, as usual. She raises her glass in a toast, then downs the rest of her champagne and swoops off to rescue him from the vultures.

“Nonsense, that would be far too obvious. I would avoid lingering at the top of staircases or leaning too far over balconies though,” she laughs conspiratorially, tucking her arm through the crook of her younger brother’s elbow. “Besides, you and I are the interesting side characters in this gothic family drama, necessary for witty commentary and comic relief when things get too tense.”

“As the person who basically raised you, I’m contractually obligated to give you a disapproving look at the question.” And she does, it’s quite convincing, before producing a slim cigarette and handing it over. “How are you? Other than paranoid, is there any news?”

Living at the estate was the last resort, but he couldn't help but recount the old times at the Eversley's home. He hated coming over though; he couldn't stand how old it was, Jacob swore it had to have ghosts in there. The constant walkthroughs of the vineyard with his father and Charles, listening to them nonstop yap about stupid grapes and taste and value.

The live band's final note broke him out of his thoughts. He did a slight jog with his wine in hand, snatching the mic from the stand with his other. Pulling his face into his award-winning smile, "How beautiful was that, huh?" he spoke smoothly into the microphone acknowledging the band. " I want to thank everybody for coming today. Give a hand to Charles and my lovely sister Ignes." The crowd harmoniously clapped for the couple.

" You know I'm not a huge talker," a lie," but I would like to give a toast to them for letting us stay at their home." Jacob coughed a nervous chuckle, rubbing his eyebrows with his knuckle, " You know, I thought they were bonkers for having all these people in their home. This could quickly become a board game of Who Dun It, you know?" He cleared his throat to continue, "So yeah, to Charles and Ignes! Salute!" Jacob exclaimed raising his glass in the air. He quickly ran off from the attention to the nearest person he could find.

"I'm pretty sure everyone is going kill me in my sleep now." He said rapidly, gritting though his teeth nervously running a hand through his hair, "Do you have a smoke?"

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The estate feels the same as it did when she was 17 and visiting her perfect older sister in a picture-perfect marriage – haunted and hallowed. Cressida’s older now, well aware of the reality behind the manicured Eversley façade and so deeply acquainted with her own ghosts that the prospect of any such hauntings here is laughable. There’s a freedom in being twice widowed and no longer appearing to care about one’s reputation.

“Very late last night or quite early this morning, depending on who’s asking,” Cressida smiles at the conductor of such controlled chaos. “I cannot possibly be of any use, Chef, surly you know that by now.” It's said with such affectionate familiarity, the kind only someone like Cressida could get away with. She glances at the nearest passing cooler and perfectly manicured eyebrows arch incredulously. “What in God’s name is my sister doing with this many lobsters? How many people are they planning to entertain this week?”

setting: near the front entrance, where workers are wheeling in polystyrene cooler boxes at kaz's command.

It's chaotic. It's busy. It'd almost be militant if it wasn't for the ancient boom box blasting Boney M. in the background.

Hands are being waves in various directions as Kaz yells out instructions to the kitchen staff. It's a normal early morning for guests of the estate who've spent a summer at Whispering Lane, and an especially exciting for those who are a fan of seafood.

"And when did you get back?!" Enthusiasm is eccenturated with his strong Scottish accent. Whether a new or old face, whether Kaz saw them last night or ten years ago, he greets everyone all the same. "Give us a hand, why don't ya?"

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( kate walsh. cis woman. she/her. ) - let me introduce you to a member of the eversley family, cressida wilder is the matriarch’s youngest sister. they are fifty-one and are known as the bolter to the family because they are excellent fun, flighty, and unreliable when you get to know them, you think about the prima’s final bow; enough ex husbands to be scandalous, but not so many as to be utterly disowned but they’re still an eversley, nonetheless.

( this is quite long, tw for death & illness )

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Cressida Elizabeth Wilder, nee Arnoult

Nickname:  Cress, Red, Essie

Birthday: February 13, 1973

Place of Birth: Findlay Estate, somewhere fancy, England

Places Lived Since: London, Paris, St. Petersburg, Vienna, Amsterdam, New York, Los Angeles, Geneva

Current Residence: London

Notable Family Members: Eden Montague ( daughter ); Lord Edward Montague ( deceased, first husband ); Jacob Findlay ( younger brother, raised ); Ignes Eversley ( older sister ); Wolfe Madison ( second husband, divorced ); Blue Navarro ( ex-sister in law, sees as a sister ); Christian Wilder ( third / longest / favorite husband, deceased )

PHYSICAL:

Faceclaim: Kate Walsh

Height: 5’8

Build: slim

Hair Color: dark red  

Eye Color: grey

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: always wearing rings, both ears pierced, a few tiny hidden tattoos

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: twisting her rings, talking with her hands, running when things get messy 

PERSONALITY:

Occupation: former world-renowned prima ballerina, occasional guest choreographer at the Royal Ballet

Languages Spoken: English, French, Russian, German

Positive Traits: outgoing, charming, emotive, devoted, meticulous

Negative Traits: obsessive, flighty, avoidant, manipulative, selfish 

Likes: good champagne, the first row of the balcony, clever banter, first editions, the second act of Giselle, live orchestras, New York in the winter and Paris in the spring

Dislikes: the entire concept of Dance Moms ( tv show ), Los Angeles,  brutalist architecture, driving, lazy choreographers, the cecchetti method, feeling trapped

Aesthetic: the hubris of such divine wealth and privilege; this house is not haunted – you are; the inherent masochism of ballet; physical intimacy like a drug – the prima always needs her audience; your daughter’s laughter carried across the breeze – watching desperately as she makes her own mistakes; collecting favors and lovers and fighting to hold your own; just enough ex-husbands to be scandalous but not so many as to be utterly disowned; the prima takes her final bow

HISTORY:

Ignes is the perfect, gracious daughter; Cressida always has one foot out the door and the other on the stage. She loves her older sister, truly does, but Cress knows they were never meant for the same thing. She’s a natural, a prodigy some say – and nearly fucking blew it by getting knocked up at 18 by the help. The Arnoult Patriarch would not allow this kind of shame brought upon the family – so Cressida gets a wealthy, titled, older husband and the Royal Ballet gets a generous donation to take her back once the child is born.

Eden is perfect, her own little paradise in a beautiful little girl. Cress never even considers giving her away, not when this child is the first person who might love her without any conditions. The best that can be said about Lord Edward Montague is that he gives her child legitimacy and his name and gives Cressida the freedom to be herself. She’s the darling of the ballet, a rising star – Eden grows up backstage and in studios, adored by all who meet her. Edward has his affairs and Cressida has hers – but he loves that baby as if she were his own. He dies from a fall from his horse when Eden is two, leaving his estate and titles to her and Cressida.

Eden is three when Cressida’s father shows up at their London home with his own five-year-old son in tow. Jacob’s mother, his second wife, passed and the man is too old and too set in his ways to raise yet another child. He likely expects Cressida to say no, and then he will move on to the more reasonable option of Ignes, but Cressida looks at her littlest brother and feels his grief and his fear and says yes without a second thought.

The next decade or so she graces stages across Europe, with two small children in tow. St. Petersburg in the chaos of the late 90s – oil barons and oligarchs falling under her spell and at her feet, but Eden and Jacob always come first, and she keeps the men wanting and chasing but always out of reach. A few years in Paris, and the lightly haunted house she still owns is full of happy laughter and bright playful children. Then they give New York a try.

She laughs when Wolfe Madison introduces himself to her at some gala event or another. She’s heard the name – actor, producer, Hollywood royalty in town working on his directorial debut – a gritty action movie in which he also stars. He falls, and who can blame him? She’s all legs and dark red hair – a tragic past with a dead husband, raising her half-brother alongside her daughter, and he’s cast her as his perfect wife. Beautiful and charming, but with just enough damage that men like this find alluring. Cressida says yes to marrying him, but no to Los Angeles – so they stay in New York (begrudgingly on his part ).

Maybe she actually loves him, or maybe it's the thrill of feeling like she’s found someone who can keep up with her. She moves to LA after a year, and Jacob gets into acting, nepotism and those dashing good looks and posh British charm taking him far. Eden goes to university – and suddenly Cressida finds herself utterly alone, at a third-rate ballet company in a city that worships the screen, married to a man who isn’t interesting enough to have as nasty a temper as he does. The best thing to come from this is Cressida’s relationship with Wolfe’s younger sister Blue, who she loves as if she were her own sister. The marriage ends in a flurry of shouting matches, tabloid headlines, and photographs of Wolfe’s face between the tits of a twenty-two-year-old stripper in Vegas.

Cressida moves back to Paris, it's where she’s always been happiest, and finishes her career with the Paris Opera Ballet. Here she meets Christian Wilder, a musician and composer with sad eyes and a gentle heart. They marry on a whim, on holiday in Normandy in some tiny medieval church officiated by an aging priest. It's perfect. In Paris they live in that haunted house, making peace with the ghosts. Cressida still teaches and choreographs for the ballet, and Christian writes her soaring concertos and silly little jingles and she loves them all.

The diagnosis is not entirely unexpected, but his health declines rapidly afterwards. He is at peace with his fate, but Cressida fights – she’s always the first one to run, how dare he leave before her? He laughs softly as she tells him this, demands that he stay – then makes her promise to follow the instructions he’s left regarding the music at his funeral. Cressida buries her heart with him in that grave, to a perfectly curated score. She keeps his last name, and still wears the ruby he gave her.

Now she’s in London, patron of the Royal Ballet and guiding the next generation of talent. But Ignes’s husband’s health is failing, and the vultures are circling the family. So off she goes - out of loyalty to her sister, the desire to see Eden and Jacob, and because these things are always so amusing to watch.  

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Long live that look on your face...

Private Practice 06x06: 'Apron Strings.'