Chap­ter XVI — The Sub­sti­tu­tion sets the stage for a qui­et yet emo­tion­al­ly charged episode, where gen­uine admi­ra­tion and emo­tion­al manip­u­la­tion inter­sect. The events unfold in sub­tle ges­tures, restrained con­ver­sa­tions, and the inner reflec­tions that speak loud­er than words. Agnes finds her­self at the inter­sec­tion of hope and dis­ap­point­ment, nav­i­gat­ing feel­ings that she must care­ful­ly guard while observ­ing oth­ers wield emo­tion as strat­e­gy.

It is a drea­ry April after­noon when Agnes joins Ros­alie for church, the only mem­ber of the Mur­ray fam­i­ly inclined to attend. Church, for Agnes, becomes more than a spir­i­tu­al ritual—it’s one of the few spaces where she feels momen­tar­i­ly seen. In Mr. Weston’s pres­ence, her soli­tude feels soft­ened. She does­n’t inter­pret her feel­ings as self­ish or improp­er, instead view­ing them as a rev­er­ence for good­ness. Her admi­ra­tion becomes a form of wor­ship, not unlike the lessons she draws from Scrip­ture. It is through this lens that she for­gives her­self for feel­ing drawn to him.

After the ser­vice, Ros­alie quick­ly takes con­trol of the moment, ask­ing Mr. West­on to vis­it a sick vil­lager. Her request appears thought­ful, yet Agnes sens­es an ulte­ri­or motive. Ros­alie frames her con­cern for the poor as vir­tu­ous, but Agnes sees it as a per­for­mance. Still, Agnes can­not help but admire Mr. Weston’s gen­tle respons­es. When he offers her his umbrel­la, she declines, more from mod­esty than prac­ti­cal­i­ty. The moment feels small but car­ries weight, as Agnes won­ders if this qui­et ges­ture might reflect some­thing deep­er. In hind­sight, she regrets the refusal.

Rosalie’s demeanor shifts once they part ways with Mr. West­on. Her irri­ta­tion spills out under the guise of teas­ing, thin­ly veiled jeal­ousy lurk­ing beneath her words. She mocks Agnes’s use of the umbrel­la, then sud­den­ly announces her intent to pur­sue Mr. Weston’s atten­tion. Her casu­al con­fes­sion is any­thing but harmless—it cuts into Agnes, who can do noth­ing but lis­ten. Though deeply hurt, she remains silent, unwill­ing to stoop to Rosalie’s lev­el or betray her own emo­tions. She wish­es, not for con­fronta­tion, but that Mr. West­on could some­how see Ros­alie’s true inten­tions. It is a wish born from help­less­ness.

The next morn­ing, Ros­alie pro­pos­es a walk with her sis­ter, a move that Agnes sus­pects is part of a larg­er plan to encounter Mr. West­on. Her sus­pi­cion isn’t unfound­ed, as Ros­alie thrives on atten­tion and com­pe­ti­tion. This moment rein­forces how dif­fer­ent­ly the two women approach affection—Rosalie turns it into a game, while Agnes regards it as sacred. Their con­trast­ing val­ues couldn’t be more clear. Agnes feels invis­i­ble beside Rosalie’s bright and cal­cu­lat­ed charm. Still, she holds fast to her prin­ci­ples, even if it means suf­fer­ing in silence.

Mr. West­on con­tin­ues to embody calm reli­a­bil­i­ty. His kind­ness is con­sis­tent, unshowy, and nev­er self-serv­ing. Unlike oth­ers, he does not play roles to win affec­tion. Agnes appre­ci­ates these traits, see­ing in him a rare exam­ple of authen­tic­i­ty. Her thoughts dwell on their brief inter­ac­tions, replay­ing each word and ges­ture for signs of shared feel­ing. But uncer­tain­ty per­sists. Her posi­tion as a gov­erness com­pli­cates every­thing, mak­ing even the thought of romance feel out of reach.

Agnes’s restraint becomes her qui­et strength. She choos­es dig­ni­ty over con­fronta­tion, integri­ty over impul­sive emo­tion. Her silence isn’t weakness—it’s a deci­sion to val­ue real affec­tion over super­fi­cial praise. Yet the emo­tion­al toll is evi­dent. She car­ries her feel­ings with grace, but not with­out cost. The loss of oppor­tu­ni­ties to express her­self leaves her long­ing, not just for love, but for free­dom to feel with­out restric­tion. Her love, though unspo­ken, is sin­cere and endur­ing.

Rosalie’s behav­ior, by con­trast, reveals how atten­tion can be weaponized. Her charm is per­for­ma­tive, her inten­tions fleet­ing. She flirts not from feel­ing, but from a desire to con­quer and impress. To her, admi­ra­tion is cur­ren­cy. She seeks val­i­da­tion through con­quest, not con­nec­tion. The dif­fer­ence between her and Agnes lies not in oppor­tu­ni­ty, but in how each woman under­stands value—one chas­es admi­ra­tion, the oth­er yearns for mean­ing.

This chap­ter qui­et­ly exam­ines the emo­tion­al labor of main­tain­ing com­po­sure amid unfair­ness. It reflects the social lim­i­ta­tions placed on women, espe­cial­ly those like Agnes, whose sta­tus offers lit­tle room to act on per­son­al desires. Love, for her, becomes a pri­vate world—nurtured in thought, expressed only in kind­ness, and pro­tect­ed from ridicule. She does not expect grand out­comes, but hopes that her hon­esty will be seen, even if only by one per­son. The chap­ter clos­es not with res­o­lu­tion, but with con­tin­ued long­ing, draw­ing read­ers deep­er into Agnes’s inter­nal world.