Name: Elizabeth (Eliza) Milton
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Time/Place of Origin: Manchester, England. 7th October, 1873.
Appearance:
Eliza's features are a little too severe to be considered pretty. She has none of the softness or roundness about her of the archetypal Angel of the House. Instead, her jaw is strong and slightly squared. Her nose is small and straight and complements her mouth which is neat and narrow with a slightly upturned Cupid's bow. Her grey-blue eyes are framed by dark, straight brows angled upwards at the ends closest to the bridge of her nose, lending her the air of thoughtfulness and tragedy of a classical statue.
In accordance with the fashion of the time, the waves of her dirty-blonde hair is pinned back, into a loose chignon, then left to fall down past her shoulders. Her navy-blue dress is simple and inexpensive with long, wide sleeves and a waist that is lightly fitted. Unlike most of her peers, she refuses to wear a tightly-laced corset over her slight figure.
Bio:
The eldest daughter of a middle-class Mancunian family, Eliza was brought up in an unconventional and rather bohemian manner. As her parents were not satisfied with the quality of schooling in their area, she was taught at home, by her mother, by whom she was encouraged to be steadfastly practical, and her father, a doctor, who inundated her with books and journals from a very early age.
Growing up surrounded by her father's politically-active friends and regularly shadowing her mother on her visits to the workhouses of Manchester in her capacity as a Poor Law Guardian, it was perhaps no suprise that Eliza became embroiled in the socialism that was blossoming in every corner of the city. Supported by her parents, when she came of age, she moved out of the family home and earned a living writing for the Women's Suffrage Journal, having joined the organisation it was a voice for; the Manchester Suffrage Committee.

Sample post:

The lamp posts on Lever Street were few and far between, casting little pools of soft orange light that gleamed off the rainwater which had collected between the cobbles and made the shadows deep and soot-black in contrast. Eliza hurried along the pavement, passing in and out of the light, clutching her hood to her head to protect her from the fine mist-like drizzle that soaked the air.

The street was not completely empty. The sound of laughter could be heard from open door of The Vulcan and a few patrons were spilling out onto the road. There was the sound of broken glass, another roar of laughter and the group began to stagger back down towards the canal, a couple at the rear hanging back as the man groped at the woman under her bustle. She screeched in mock-outrage and ran a few steps towards the others, pausing to beckon at her beau with a work-coarsened hand.

Eliza turned away and plunged a hand into the pocket of her dress, pulling out a heavy, tarnished key and unlocking the door to number twenty-seven.

"Elizabeth? Is that you?" rose a cracked, yellowing voice out of the depths of the cushion-smothered sitting room.

"Yes, Mrs Witherby..." Eliza called back, hurriedly ascending the creaking steps to the attic room.

"I don't know what sort of time you call this, love; I put the lamp on three hour ago. When I were a young lass like you, I din't go out after the sun had set o'er the chimney pots, not wi'out a man-"

Eliza shut the door over her landlady's ramblings and took a packet of matches from the draw of the battered pine desk in the corner, lighting the wick lamp that stood on the sideboard. The tiny room was suddenly filled with warm, fleshy light. It wasn't much; she couldn't afford much, afterall, but it was enough. A wardrobe built into the wall held her linen and the half-dozen dresses she owned. A rickety single bed covered by a patchwork quilt her mother had made stood against one wall and, against the other, under the window, was the most important thing in her tiny lodgings; her desk. It was strewn with papers and the wood that was visible was ink-stained and lightly etched with thousands of words imprinted through the paper that had rested on it. The windowsill was full of books and journals stacked haphazardly and in no particular order. Sitting at this desk, with the bustling street below her and her books in front of her, might have been Eliza's favourite place in the world. It was from this desk that she felt powerful.

Hanging her damp coat on the back of the door, she loosened her high-necked lace-trimmed blouse and sat down. Picking up her pen, she began to write.