Together with their families
request the pleasure of your company as they are married
Saturday The twentieth of June Two thousand twenty‑seven
The Larkspur Estate House, garden & glasshouse
Chapter by chapter
I · the meeting
Elowen arrived late to a supper she nearly skipped. Theodore gave up his chair and spent the whole evening standing by the stove, arguing happily about whether soup counts as cooking. It does. He lost anyway, and asked to lose again the following Friday.
II · the years
Two cities, four apartments, one stubborn lemon tree that has survived every single move out of spite. Somewhere between the second kitchen and the third, “your place or mine” quietly became “home” — and neither of them can remember the exact day it happened.
III · the question
In the glasshouse, between the rosemary and the first of the rain, Theodore finally asked. Elowen said yes before he had finished the sentence — a family trait, apparently — and the ring nearly rolled under the potting bench. It was retrieved. Obviously.
“We are not marrying to begin something new. We are putting music to something that has been humming along for years.” E & T · from the invitation
The order of the day
One garden, one long golden evening. Here is exactly how the twentieth of June unfolds — so you can pace yourself accordingly.
Half past three
Arrive unhurried. Cold elderflower at the gate, warm welcomes beyond it, and the long walk up the lime avenue to find your seat in the walled garden.
Four o’clock
Under the old oak. Twenty minutes, two rings, one kiss. Unplugged, please — be with us, not your lens. Our photographer will catch everything, including you.
Five o’clock
Coupes on the lawn while the light does its best work of the year. Croquet for the competitive, deep shade for the sensible, and canapés circling relentlessly.
Half past six
Long tables under the vines, four courses from the estate kitchen — every single plate adjusted to the notes you leave in your RSVP. Speeches strictly rationed.
Half past eight
One carefully rehearsed waltz, then a ten‑piece band under instruction to keep the floor full until it simply isn’t. Your song requests go straight to the set list.
Midnight
Sparklers on the south steps, cars waiting on the gravel, and one last chorus sung entirely from memory. What happens at the after‑party stays at the after‑party.
The practical romance
Four o’clock in the walled garden, seated by ten to. Should the sky have other plans, the glasshouse stands ready twenty metres away — some argue it is even prettier in the rain.
Garden formal: silk, linen, colour warmly encouraged. Heels and lawns are ancient enemies — bring a second pair for dancing. You will be dancing.
Rooms are held at The Bell and at Ivy House, both a short walk from the estate gates. Mention Eversong when you book and they will look after you properly.
Cars run from the gravel court from midnight until the very last guest has gone. Nobody navigates the dark alone, and nobody drives who shouldn’t.
Grown‑ups this time, with love — one flower girl holds special dispensation and intends to abuse it. We’re happy to share trusted sitter recommendations.
Your presence is the entire point. If you insist — and some of you will — a note toward our first garden means more than anything that comes wrapped.
Asked & answered
Your invitation names every seat we’ve saved for you, and the RSVP form below will show exactly how many are yours. If circumstances change, write to us — we will always try.
Then it rains, and we move twenty metres into the glasshouse. The day proceeds entirely regardless of the weather’s opinion of it.
During the ceremony, no — we’d rather see your faces than your phones. From golden hour onward, shoot freely and generously, and share everything you catch.
Choose “something else” in the RSVP and tell our kitchen exactly what to look out for. They have handled everything from severe allergies to devout pickiness, and have yet to be defeated.
By the first of May, please. After that we begin promising exact numbers to caterers, florists, and one extremely exacting cellar master.
save us a dance
Tell us yours by the first of May — the kitchen, the cellar, and two spectacularly organised mothers will thank you for it.
Reply now — it takes a minuteKindly reply
No stamps, no lost envelopes, no deciphering handwriting at midnight. Tell us who’s coming and how to feed you brilliantly — it reaches us the moment you press send.
Tell us your name and whether you’ll be with us.
Name each guest and their dining preference — the kitchen reads every note.
Request one song. The band takes these more seriously than you’d think.
Replies close on the first of May, two thousand twenty‑seven — and yes, you can change your answer any time before then.
with joy