The Greatest Showman #1503 - Change the Tune

Renly did not refuse Henry's invitation. There was no need to. Such invitations were a standard part of upper-class etiquette. Politely rejecting them would be interpreted as either inferiority or arrogance—either way, it would be seen as unnecessary. It wasn't a big deal; it was merely a matter of courtesy.

However, Renly ultimately didn't take up Henry's offer for a ride.

Not long after, Philip Demba arrived at the VIP lounge to personally pick up Renly.

Henry had seemingly expected this outcome. Before leaving, he nodded toward Philip with a smile. "Please give my regards to the Baron," he said, then turned to Renly. "If you're done with London, you're welcome to visit. But I can already hear Matthew protesting that I haven't entertained you properly."

Henry left, and Philip, along with Haight, exchanged nods and greetings. Then, Philip turned to Renly and said in his usual, measured tone, "Master Renly, you should have informed me in advance."

"But you came anyway," Renly responded with a smile. "Arthur told you, right?"

"No, it was the reporter," Philip replied, to Renly's surprise. "The moment you boarded the plane at JFK, we received word here."

"Ah, the internet age," Renly joked. He then changed the subject. "I'm a bit tired. Are there any drinks in the car?"

"Yes," Philip replied succinctly, his gaze warm. Philip had always shown a certain fondness for Renly, as if he were still the child he had known so many years ago. Even as an adult, Renly still clung to the simple pleasures—milk and biscuits in the car, a habit that had never faded.

As they walked out of the lounge, Renly asked, "How are Hayes and Maya doing?"

Hayes, Philip's son, was 39 and worked in a financial investment bank. Maya, his daughter, was 34 and managed a middle-level position at an advertising company.

"They're both well. Not long ago, Maya saw the show at the Almeida Theater and sent me pictures," Philip replied, though he rarely spoke much.

Philip had always been one to keep his words brief, understanding the needs of his employer. But Renly, who had grown up under his care, was different. George didn't ask about Hayes or Maya, nor did he usually show interest. But Renly always did.

Philip knew that the Hall family was changing, step by step, largely due to Renly's influence.

The shift wasn't immediate—it was more of a quiet, subtle transformation. The upper crust of British society was still the same in many ways. After the Earl of Oxford's private party two months ago, things seemed to return to normal. The nobles of London carried on as if nothing had happened, maintaining an air of composure and stability. But if one looked closer, they would feel an undercurrent of change—slow, imperceptible, but undeniable.

It wasn't just the Hall family that was changing. The entire aristocracy was adjusting to the times, albeit in a much quieter, more controlled manner. The British nobility had long been overshadowed by the tide of progress, and while they still held onto traditions, there was a subtle shift occurring.

Princess Beatrice, a prime example, was the seventh in line to the throne. Yet she had to work and integrate into society just like anyone else. Her public appearances at fashion events or film cameos showed that the lines between royalty and ordinary citizens were increasingly blurred.

The times were changing, and with it, the old systems. Some traditions would endure, others would fall away. But at the heart of it, the shift was undeniable.

Renly was a part of that transformation. While not a unique case in history, he had arrived at the right time, in the right place, and had the right influence to make a difference. He was a product of the modern era—an era where talent, not inheritance, determined one's worth.

His rise was a testament to the fact that genius transcended class, status, and wealth. Whether one was a noble or a commoner didn't matter—what mattered was the work, the belief in oneself, and the drive to push forward. Renly proved this with every performance, every decision, and every moment of his career.

The success of Egot solidified his place in history—not just as an actor, but as a cultural force. His influence spread through both professional circles and the public, sparking conversations, changing attitudes, and expanding the boundaries of what was possible.

It was no longer just about the art. It was about the freedom to create, the equality to stand on the same stage, and the opportunity to break free from societal constraints. Renly had become a symbol of that change.

The quiet reverberations of that change spread through the social networks of London's elite. His name was no longer a topic of whispering or gossip. It was discussed openly, acknowledged by even the highest echelons of society. People didn't just tolerate his success—they respected it, appreciated it, and admired it.

The shift was so subtle that many didn't even notice it at first. But it was happening.

As for George and Elizabeth Hall, their influence had begun to wane. Invitations to their events were becoming less frequent, and those who did invite them often did so out of obligation rather than genuine affection. It wasn't a scandal—there were no accusations or public outbursts—but there was a noticeable shift. The Hall family was gradually being forgotten by the core of London's aristocracy.

In the old days, the Hall family's name had been associated with power and status. Now, however, it seemed that the aristocratic title meant little in comparison to Renly's achievements. In fact, when invitations were extended, the Hall family was no longer the focus. The invitations were now addressed to "His Excellency Arthur Hall" or "Miss Alf Hall"—with Renly's name looming large over their legacy.

No one dared speak of it openly, but it was clear that London's high society had tacitly agreed on something: the Hall family was no longer synonymous with nobility. It was now synonymous with Renly Hall.

The old ways were being quietly pushed aside, replaced by a new order. The aristocracy might still hold on to their titles and pride, but their reign was slipping. The changes were subtle, but they were real.

And as for George and Elizabeth? They continued with their lives as though nothing had changed. But in their silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of the shifting tide.

The bell had tolled. But this time, it wasn't George and Elizabeth ringing it—it was Renly Hall, whose name had become synonymous with the future, with change, and with the power of artistic expression.